I’m sorry that this is so terribly out of order, I have gotten very mixed up in the move, and this is the poem I found fastest. Still a work in progress, for my Uncle Doug. His word was “Blues” (Hence the title of this post).
My fathers father and his father
found freedom in the fractured four-time
feel of the jazz man’s tune.
The syncopated sound slithered through
my grandfather’s sinews and synapses
straight to the center of his soul
and made the old man howl at the moon.
If my father’s father and his father
couldn’t be free, the rhythm would riot for them
it would roar in half steps and runs and it would
protest the white-washed world that watched them.
The horns and drums cried and tapped towards
time when music wasn’t the only thing we had in common
it rat-a-tat-tatted along the snap-snap path to the
doodle-wop scat song of singularity.