Later

Recently returned from my PAD Tour,

surprised at how much we laughed,

how little we cried.

There was the spirit in Florida

the one always present, unusually kind.

and the heart in New York,

ever generous, truly kind.

The enthusiastic leggy traveler in Arizona,

prolific and genuinely kind.

Oh, and the colorful soul in the NYC area,

so supportive, so very kind.

There’s the Middlecreek mystic,

beautifully expressive, exotic and kind.

I enjoyed the love coming from Kansas City,

devoted, faithful and kind.

I smiled with the stories from Ontario, 

finely tuned and kind.

Can’t forget that cheerleader from O-Hi-O,

no greater friend could exist, no one more kind.

Of course, there’s the Brain from Buffalo,

creator, leader, truly one of a kind.

I am sure there’s a city or two I have missed,

a part of our body I forgot, but

I’m still feeling the warmth and kindness.

Please forgive an old man’s faulty memory.

I don’t remember all that we talked about.

Talking wasn’t the point, not really.

There was more being and having than doing going on.

I know that no one really says goodbye,

not even when I moved from town to  town, topic to topic,

doing my best to stay kind.

I think I scrawled about when I died for awhile,

on that hillside in the jungle, far from home.

No one’s ever heard the whole of that.

I know I did not tell them enough about

how I love what they do, who they are.

I don’t know if goodbye is important to say,

not like thank you, I love you, my life is better because of you,

those you better say before you can’t.

From a Distance

I sit and think,

oh, to be a child 

at the ocean.

Smells good.

Sounds good.

Feels good.

Is good.

I close my eyes,

realize,

I’m just a drop

in the sea of life.

Then I recall,

the infinite 

also includes me.

Then I remember

to laugh.

Regrets

Heaven forfend

that my classes would end,

because of Miss Reacher,

my peach of a teacher.

My parents desired 

that I be inspired

to learn musical notes,

though I had no votes.

Though no valedictorian 

on the piano accordion,

I stayed with Miss Reacher,

that peach of a teacher,

until she off and married,

and my squeeze box was buried,

and sports tapped my shoulder

until I grew older,

wishing in lessons I’d stayed,

that today I still played.

Favorite Jazz Artists

My Favorite Jazz Artists

Trumpet:

Doc Chatham
Roy Hargrove
Nicholas Payton
Jonah Jones
Wynton Marsalis
Roy Eldridge
Maynard Ferguson
Dizzy Gillespie
Louis Armstrong
Miles Davis

Saxophone:

Gerry Mulligan
Stanley Turrentine
Paul Desmond
Stan Getz
Cannonball Adderly
Ben Webster
John Coltrane
Charlie Parker
Coleman Hawkins
Sonny Rollins

Piano:

Cedar Walton
Ramsey Lewis
George Shearing
Errol Garner
Horace Silver
Dave Brubeck
Ahmad Jamal
Thelonius Monk
Art Tatum
Oscar Peterson

Drums:

Art Blakey
Max Roach
Gene Krupa
Buddy Rich
Elvin Jones
Joe Morello
Jack DeJohnette
Roy Haynes
Philly Joe Jones
Tony Williams

Guitar:

Joe Pass
Django Reinhardt
Larry Carlton
Charlie Byrd
Wes Montgomery
Larry Coryell
Kenny Burrell
George Benson
Stanley Jordan
John McLaughlin

Female Singers:

Dinah Washington
Carmen McRae
Sarah Vaughn
Ella Fitzgerald
Blossom Dearie
Billie Holiday
Etta James
Madeleine Peyroux
Dianne Reeves
Chris Connor
Julie London
Nina Simone
Nancy Wilson
Diane Schuur
Jo Stafford
Keely Smith
Cleo Laine
Susannah McCorkle
Edith Piaf
Lena Horne
Anita O’Day
Abbey Lincoln
Astrid Gilberto
Flora Purim
Cleo Laine
Jeri Southern

Calm

In his daily search

for calm, peace, ease,

even happiness,

he dresses himself as a poet,

a spinner of yarns,

a writer of maybe’s,

a frail human with hopes.

Some people think he’s witty,

but he knows that 

just comes from good reading.

A few friends know him as kind,

and that one he accepts as true,

failing sometimes in the attempt,

but always trying.

Forgetting the frequent failures,

he simply does his daily work,

lives his life,

tries to give good to the world.

Oh, and he keeps in touch.

People know that he’s keeping it a hundred.

His friends like that.

Is There A Poem In All Of This?

While I might share your tears,

thinking, man, 400 years,

I’m too white 

to have that right,

too racially illiterate

to thoughtfully consider it,

and even though I care,

I’m insufficiently aware,

not properly awoke,

so I must think before I spoke.

I know when this anger’s done,

when provocateurs have had their fun,

then powerful white men will say,

okay, they’ve had their day,

so let’s gather all the facts,

then they’ll still refuse to act.

I just don’t know what to say,

all I know to do is pray,

knowing I’ll still fall far short

of lending full support,

just placing one more candle

on my hopeful, loving mantel,

certain I won’t live long enough to say,

“Ah, equality’s found it’s day.”

Voice of Reason

I tell lots of stories, 

that’s for sure,

some gay, a few with worries,

all truthfully pure.

In the end, there is only one choice.

I write because I have a voice.

I write for the pure expression of life,

joys and fears and hopes, the dreams thereof,

the joy, the pain, the ease, the strife,

surely about agape love,

that golden voice from far above.

I write, inspired by the writing of others,

by Veterans, my sisters and brothers,

by the natural world in constant motion,

by speechless days at the ocean,

by the sun and the moon,

their setting and rising,

their own song, their tune,

sometimes surprising.

As age has flattened me,

as humility has claimed me,

I now write more of my Spiritual mission,

about oneness, unity and transition,

what some call God, unearthly cognition.

Not knowing what tomorrow will bring,

I will write about it, in my own voice,

allow my heart and soul to sing,

reminded there’s no other choice.