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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:
A neat threnody for the tragic Billie, Wayne.
Raw images add to the mourn of this poem that celebrates a truly memorable voice. Wonderful piece.
Beautifully said Wayne. She certainly died
long before her time.
Cheers,
Pam
Beautiful, raw, gripping. Totally amazing.
Wow, Wayne. This is incredible. Full and rich, fragrant and ragged.
Powerful images. A nice tribute to the Jazz Lady.
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