musicians

The Phoenix

Posted on by Amber S Morse

On the Phoenix we rose,
flying higher than the jazz
notes in June, with a steady
pour of those whiskey sours
at the ready, you and I were
back to the golden ages of
love after midnight, found
in the playful rhythms of a
trumpet and her sax; where
time for love had become a
luxury, yet the jazz kept on
swaying, and the drinks had
kept on pouring, falling into
repetitions of my heartbeat
singing against your chest –
we were flying higher than
the Phoenix, and we flew on.

Verses in April

Posted on by Amber S Morse

I crave poetry set inside
rhythms of jazz and blues,
where the beats lay golden,
scattered between riffs and
the subtleties of life, gently
soothing in the breaks and
limits deeply rooted in the
foundation set by a trumpet
and her sax; swaying in and
out of each storyline in verse
in a tantalizing flow of words,
serenaded by jazz, and love.

jazz.

Posted on by Amber S Morse

It was the way the sultry beat
would drop at a moment’s
notice, lingering in the air to
be absorbed by hearts and
minds – breaking the meters
with repetitions and silence;
it was the way you moved
once the songs began, with
an element of grace swiftly
unpracticed, raw, and inviting.
Our love was a lot like jazz,
unpredictable, yet shaken, all
the while smooth at the soul –
I miss the melodies played to
only a trumpet and her sax,
at a beat only lovers can know.

City

Posted on by Amber S Morse

it was jazz.
it was love.

on the streets, after dark,
and underneath the lights
of the city where the
stars were meant to shine,
but were hidden between

smog and smoke,
there was a note,
a key, a lyric,
and a voice.

there was love found
on this corner,
and there was compassion
in the music.

I heard him sing;
a raspy voice,
calloused hands
skillfully playing guitar,
with a mind
of dedication and more.

he called it jazz.

I didn’t think it was.
but I called it lovely, all the same.