Swing Time The drunken trumpet blares, smearing notes across the listeners and the smoky walls. The clarinet smiles and sways to its own singing, lilting soft melodies caressing like satin. The piano bounces and dances, babbling to its own brook of sound. Softly at first, almost gingerly, then turning brazen, the drums beat their hearts against surrendered souls. The bass stands alone, iterating an untiring statement, a backbone to the guts of sounds pouring onto the floor, and the music stands and grabs and swings. Amidst the living fabric of song, the listener becomes yet one more vibration, neither the target nor the source. So swing time once more lives and breathes, remaining after the lights have dimmed and the doors are closed. November, 1995
Reason for writing:
I love music of all types... this just came to me....
Birth sign: Not entered
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View more poems by Ray St.Jonn, Capricorn.