|Jim Edwards, Composition in Blues|
Oh, I am not taking from the strings that free us or deliver,
I am looking at the horn, not from abandoned delight or quiver.
Could have been the blue as it caught me right up front,
Maybe just the simplicity – is this a cardboard stunt?
That little thing we often refer to that lives in you – me,
Way down- tests you to look! Stop! See!
Screaming – take me, take me.
When you play your soul from a piece of brass
You share your heart be it bop or jazz -
When your carriage rises to the blow from you
The victors are shared by all –what is his follow through?
Reflections on curling his sleeves-- just so,
Bucks or saddles “stand your collar”-- You want to go?
Milano’s, a second street jam, a Sunday treat.
He was 15 –He never missed a beat.
As the blues penetrated his being, he got his game.
I recall when I asked him what tunes to blame.
“Want to’ bring some passion to the session,
What is the vinyl choice, brother?”
Would you imagine Herb Albert or pick another?
He blew his horn and blew it well
The equalizer -- the music, not fear of hell.
He grew with a pucker mark on his lip.
He grew, he become-he left the pip.
My brother blew a horn and blew it well.
His heart never put away that gel,
He quit blowing -- arranged his music surround,
Protecting from his Langley den, underground.