Jazz; A Poem

 

Listening to the jazz

The Summertime piano

Playing on my old favorite

CD. One I have, and maybe a couple thousand others

Do too.

 

A base, swinging notes.

Those old familiar notes.

Nothing captures my soul

Like the soft melody of a Jazz note.

Not ostentatious.

Different and unorthodox.

Reserved, but youthful.

 

Jazz shouldn’t break out

Into raucous.

It should border

A reservation

And outright freedom.

It should be there in the middle

Conservative, not following the melodic theories

Or ideas or notions.

It should be there,

Not ready to let loose

Nor sitting on its front porch.

 

That is Jazz, and swing.

It just sits in a place only the great Jazz musicians can.

It doesn’t make itself the star.

It rather is a corporate thing

Where everyone in the big bands are one harmonious

Cacophonous melody.

The singer is only a star

But the Trumpet Player and Pianist get their dues

And the people know them, too.

 

Rock tried to carry on this tradition.

But it couldn’t. It went too far into the rebellion.

Jazz doesn’t rebel.

It stands for freedom, but it does not have a rebellious spirit.

It, rather, takes all its freedom is worth

And does what it will

Going wherever the whim will take it

Not following any rule

Or guideline.

 

It stays where it is

Content to just stay there

To bridge some line

Between youth and wisdom.

It is wisdom. It is youth.

An often rare pairing.

 

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