Ode to Jazz:
By Anthony Conwright:
I remember when I first saw her.
A full figured hollow body,
Breast warm with sound.
She had perfect fifths for fingertips.
Sliding between frets,
Dancing over keys,
Making knuckles curl and bow in her presence.
I wanted to know her,
dance with her, and become telekinetic with her hips.
Sit and write love letters to the world with her.
Swallow her sweetness and let her permeate and cultivate inside of me until my fingertips and footsteps are musical notes and I can walk to her beat.
I saw her,
Standing next to the pond, with the body of a violin.
I wanted to be her chinrest.
The musical nymph played her lyre, and I fell in love.
She, jazz, extended her hand, crying blue rain.
Tired from travelling through time in an immutable immortal soul.
I grabbed my axe and played along with her,
Carving notes from my bleeding heart until we were in unison.
Speaking together in 3,000 tongues in a coded matrix of flat 5s, 7s, 9s and 13s.
Making love together in my favorite position with her sitting on top of me with open arms, stretched into my heartbreaks, grabbing my blues and strumming my bones clean until pain comes out of me.
I sit and exhale cathartic moments, from watching her enter a room with my ear wet with passion and my eyes see you. A chorus of color shaped notes that illuminate my life creating a medley of melodies of children named music. That will make sounds that will fall on my heart like leaves in autumn.
I wish I could play you in the style of realism and play you the way your sounds look. Bend notes into your lips and follow the contour of your spine with vertebrate so sharp my fingers drop flat. My hips can’t hop and I fall in your lap and embrace your love.
You are more than music, more than love; you are my genesis, the food to my soul. You are my one and only love.