Poetry:

Drops of Jazz

Discordent and laid back in reason
Across the room: attacks on strings clash
       with the obscene buzz from bloody cheeks
Two conductors set a tempo; one fights for sustain
But fire burns tempering a desperate movement
      Singing into wounds but once revealed
Tear into a harmony equaled only by a perfection in pain
The blue saxophone sits alone in a darkend corner of the stage
      It begs me to answer
But I will not be lulled
Closing my heart and opening my eyes
     This stage is empty, I am old and alone

                  Thomas A. McDonley (C) 2004