by Judith Vaughn
Miles Davis, blue-black as night, mysterious as a cat
walking along a fence, lit by a silver moon.
His back turns away from an adoring audience.
Two or three notes from his trumpet
fall freeform into the silence of our regard.
Amazing bombs that tear no flesh, leave no blood.
Musical notes take us soaring without wings.
We fly over the silver moon with that cat
Miles, a god in human form.
Since 1991 he wanders the outer world,
not a lost soul, but a magus elevated.
We mortals carry on in the light of his memory,
dreaming sounds we heard, like watermarks on our skin.
*Jazz Club. Hollywood, CA
Click below to read more poetry
“Strange Fruit / Billie Holiday“
“Black Walnut“
Another poem in First Literary Review
Another poem in First Literary Review
Copyright 2020, Judith Vaughn, all rights reserved. No reproduction without prior permission.
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