Jazz Poems

THE JOURNEY

Miles was waiting on the dock,

his trumpet in a paper bag.

Lady was cold—

wind lashed the gardenias

I stole for her hair.

We were shabby, the three of us.

No one was coming so I started to row.

It was hard going—

stagnant, meandering…

The city moaned and smoldered.

Tin cans on the banks like shackles…

To be discovered, in the open…

But Miles took out his horn

and played.

Lady sang.

A slow traditional blues.

The current caught us— 

horn, voice, oar stroking water…

I don’t know how long we floated—

our craft so full of music, 

the night so full of stars.

When I awoke we were entering an ocean, 

sun low on water 

warm as a throat, 

gold as a trumpet.

We wept.

Then soared in a spiritual.

Never have I been so happy.

LAWSON FUSAO INADA 

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