It is Time to Sing the Blues
It is time to sing the blues
She whispered softly to the crowd
She with her eyes lowered to where her heart rest
Like the beige suit jacket hugging the backs of chairs
Chairs supporting the weight of jazz thirsty,
Trumpet eating, bass thumping, drum beating men,
Hungry for the texture of her caramel, brown skin, the tone of her
thighs under those two inches past high
sequined blue dress, Her deep hazeled eyes
blended in with the stage she stood,
back tangled and
bruised with darkened grey hues
her eyes were a mysterious
grin,
reflecting red tints of lights,
Dim,
Wrapped around the notes,
melodious harmonies
trapped within from the
Crown of her head
Right to the nail of her toes
She stands… waiting
It is time to sing the blues
She whispered softly to the crowd
Red velvet hats emancipated themselves
from the tops of the women’s head
They relaxed their spirits
their essence illuminates
her reflecting presence
Welcoming tides of high n pitched heavens
that they too would accept into their
emotional crevices
Her voice illustrated the beauty
Of their broken arts
They are freed from the
Restrictions and inhibitions
To be unseasoned
within their broken start
The chorus line, erupted from her soul
Trumpets blaring quietly, smooth rouges like wine
Every note found refuge in their glasses
they drank
The healing powers of her cries
The trombone emulated her growl
As she neared the ending of her solemn tune
She,
liberating these women and men
It was time to sing their blues