Poetry 3
The Jazz Player and Concubine
The audience cheered a smoky room
And lies are expected to be told
They came to leave the gloom
Here, even the shy became bold.
His sound created romantic rendezvous
No color, religion or cultural walls
Gentle faces is what they pursue
You can be tall, short, big or small.
He took a break and his guitar a rest
Outside, he sat with the air
Then suddenly, eyes put to the test
Unusal for him to ever stare.
A crushing beauty at force
And a body dipped in heaven's dew
For him, an untravelled coarse
He knew not what to do.
Closer, he saw sadness and despair
As she reached out for relief
Feelings that needed repair
A tender hug, an outlet for grief.
Inside, he left her behind the stage
He played for her all night
Misery starts at any age
This evening, jazz would be the invite.
Strumming, his guitar lit the minds
And the sax was backup for the mood
Lips wet and words unwind
Only the heart was rude.
A kiss, taxicab and a good-bye
Memories of jazz and a special man
A previous life, emotions trained to deny
Forever changed, forever a fan.
--PB Jones