Words cram themselves into mouth,
waiting for their turn to spring into action.
Bending, stretching, doing squats in preparation to fly.
They push and bump into one another.
They get angry at not being used.
Springing from lips, they wait in the air, floating on the wind.
Like hummingbirds they linger, still on the wind.
Like smoke, they evaporate.
Like notation, singing songs.
Like mirage, thirsty for liquid.
Words dance to the floor as they
propel themselves off tongue.
Flipping as if diving into water they float downward,
landing a perfect 10 score.
Laying on the floor, happy that they've been used.
They wiggle as they melt into nothingness.
Having finished their task.
Having been used in conversation
Spoken in action.
Words are waiting to hear the sound of thought,
so they can fly from their cage,
having been set free.
She Is Jazz!
She was jazz!
Long before sound
she sang in hushed voice,
that gave life to birth.
She was African born from the Congo,
6 feet tall.
Beautiful brown skin adorned her bones.
Curly nappy hair
covered the beauty of her mind.
She was water before it was wet.
She drank from herself,
from the river of life.
She dances to the Congo beat.
Moving her hips in gyration of being free.
She spoke and the sun came up.
She breathed life into every living being.
She touched her toe to the earth
and flowers bloomed.
She shielded herself from the sun
and it began to weep.
She is jazz.
Her voice covers the scale.
She made music from drops of water.
She is jazz, and her music is life.