Jazz Soup

Written
2002

 The tulle fog shrouds my being.

It stomps around

       and crushes the blushes

       of sunny days.

It comes for a short visit and,

       like poor relatives

      stays the long nights of winter.

It weeps as it keeps away

      the sun's warmth

     and the feeding rains.

Depression and despair

      mark my daily view.

Fires are lit

       and loud parties fake ,

       with false laughter,

       the comfort of

      the nearly forgotten fall.

Calendars become counting boards

       as days are crossed

       off with unhappy faces.

Hope is nearly forgotten and 

       spring is an eon away.

But, close the drapes and

      put on some

      jazz of the greats.

Let Frank Morgan,

      the mellow,

      tell of believing in spring

     and its sunny freedom.

And Ellis can take you

      to New Orleans

     and the warmth

    of summer nights.

Monk's Brilliant Corners

       light the dankest day.

The cloudless saxophone

       of Turrentine cuts

      through the thickest gloom.

And if it is Sunday,

       go with Kenny Barron

      or Steve Kuhn to

      “Live at the Mayberry.”

Jazz and some good soup

       are all I need

      to get to the sunny side

      of the street.

Even the saddest blues

      are better than fog,

     so try a little

      Bessie or Billie.

Don't let the fog

       get you down.

Split pea soup and

        a jazz riff light the corners

        of fogged-in soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes
I hate the fog in the Valley and the fire and the jazz make it possible to last until spring. Come my 100 th year and a time to leave I will wait until the first foggy day.