Saturday, February 26, 2011

HOLIDAY



HOLIDAY


celebrating her death every July 17


I write jazz poetry


improvising my words to her burned voice


beside her mournful burnt candle


soulful in her spoon and magic needle


under siege from another lost love


a mystery lady day seeking freedom


from the trees that bear no fruit


and the blood stains on the leaves


from the black bodies hanging from trees


singing her encore Strange Fruit


Billie Holiday

6 comments:

patteran said...

A neat threnody for the tragic Billie, Wayne.

Tumblewords: said...

Raw images add to the mourn of this poem that celebrates a truly memorable voice. Wonderful piece.

flaubert said...

Beautifully said Wayne. She certainly died
long before her time.

Cheers,
Pam

SandyCarlson said...

Beautiful, raw, gripping. Totally amazing.

Deb said...

Wow, Wayne. This is incredible. Full and rich, fragrant and ragged.

Strummed Words said...

Powerful images. A nice tribute to the Jazz Lady.