Saturday, May 21, 2011


sitting in the Cellar jazz club smoking
pouring whiskey over lost words
four poets stare at their failures
realizing hell is what they create
waiting for his return

the last time we saw him
his long fingers lingered on the ivory
with sizzling chord progressions
knowing heaven was his creation
not some faded decaying rapture

rising from beneath the stage
with drums full of suspense
the cool jazz started to sizzle and bop
Fats Waller returned to celebrate
May 21, his birthday

the four poets watched from their whiskey conference
drunk enough to find their lost words
and create more hell
not to be be judged
celebrating his return


Laurie Kolp said...

Wayne~ I REALLY like this one... the imagery, ambience, powerful ending... the second stanza rocks! (And I love "whiskey conference")

Judie said...

Wayne, thanks for stopping by my blog and leaving a comment on my Saturday Centus.

Your poem is excellent. I can actually smell the place you write of. (That is one of my criteria, incidentally.)

Also, I love your paintings, particularly Foothills. Could I post it on my blog with a link back to your site?

kaykuala said...

I could feel I was there. In a stupor but alert enough among friends! Good piece!

Anonymous said...

Very vivid and therefore satisfying,


anthonynorth said...

You set a great scene here. Excellent.

Anonymous said...

Loved this mention of Fats Waller, one of my all-time favorite piano players and singers. That roll of his eyes, flirtatious and fun; his songs, ebullient and catchy. Fats lives on at every piano bar gig I ever play. Amy

Anonymous said...

Sizzling jazz is a wonderful word combination. The scene you set is evocative of another era. I enjoyed it very much.