The beauty of a red light
What is jazz music?
I don’t have a degree in music appreciation
And yet know enough not to call it pop.
Is it a saxophone speaking pleasantly?
The cymbals tapping vigorously
In constant rhythm?
Is it a black man sitting in a round hat
A glass of lemonade or beer by his side
Who is tired of talking
And sees that there remains much to talk about
But has seen the futility of his opinions
And has decided to throw in the towel
To his feelings,
Which take him to a land
Only the richest among us are capable of visiting
Not as tourists but as locals
Where the brooks gurgle pleasantly
In tune to the intermittent mooing of cows
And the air speaks of chords yet to be played.
Once I was on the subway
There a burdened young mother and her child
There were also the other people, some women and some men
that had somewhere to go to.
While the door opened
We all heard the jazz; the child danced in a manner
That was not at all childlike
In fact in reminded us of us in moments when we were not self conscious.
Some looked at the child; others nodded in tune to the band
While those of us who dreaded attracting attention to ourselves
Looked into their books and wished that the doors would remain open
For just a little more time.
What is jazz music?
I don’t have a degree in music appreciation
And yet know enough not to call it pop.
Is it a saxophone speaking pleasantly?
The cymbals tapping vigorously
In constant rhythm?
Is it a black man sitting in a round hat
A glass of lemonade or beer by his side
Who is tired of talking
And sees that there remains much to talk about
But has seen the futility of his opinions
And has decided to throw in the towel
To his feelings,
Which take him to a land
Only the richest among us are capable of visiting
Not as tourists but as locals
Where the brooks gurgle pleasantly
In tune to the intermittent mooing of cows
And the air speaks of chords yet to be played.
Once I was on the subway
There a burdened young mother and her child
There were also the other people, some women and some men
that had somewhere to go to.
While the door opened
We all heard the jazz; the child danced in a manner
That was not at all childlike
In fact in reminded us of us in moments when we were not self conscious.
Some looked at the child; others nodded in tune to the band
While those of us who dreaded attracting attention to ourselves
Looked into their books and wished that the doors would remain open
For just a little more time.
<$BlogDateHeaderDate$>
