 |
| 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.
Barbara McDonald
