In the dim haze of tobacco smoke,
within this mirrored cave, a slick,
wet film shines on polished glazed
mahogony. Heavy velvet drapes hang
wrapped with beige sash and trimmed
in red wreaths--top and bottom.

The barman mixes ingenious potions
with exotic nomenclatures: the band
plays on for captives who are trapped by
the sultry and melodious notes of jazz.

The sour scent of yesterday still lingers
in smoke-cured air as troubled souls tip
tumblers up consuming their somnambulist
escape through today's new purgatory gates.

The music purrs forgiveness while smoky
epiphanies possess the hour. Dawn filters
through the dusted shards of exposed window
and cast golden streaks upon the murky floor.

Homeward thoughts are sheathed in notes of comfort
as they tap lightly the broken silence of the heart.

tom mcmurray (pierness inverness 1968)

Edited 4 time(s). Last edit at 06/06/2022 10:41PM by easyeverett.

I love a good bit of Jazz, and I think this poem has captured the melancholy feel that can sometimes inhabit the smokey jazz bars.
I liked it a lot, and the reference to sleep walking, not everybody uses that word and I for one, like it a lot.

Dan

Hi Dan and thank you for the nice comments. I loved the
South side of Chi. in the early sixties. Performance clubs
extraordinaire as flowers and painted faces began to replace
pointed alligator shoes and black berets. Thanks Dan. I'm
really pleased you enjoyed the post. tom