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Poem

Ella Fitzgerald (1917 – 1996)

In the midst of stale fog – Is it day or night?
The dimmed dishevelled lights don’t give a bass clef 
Whilst notes made syncopated love at the bar
A tsunami of discord,
blew out the flame of a good old fashioned
And lipstick-stained stubbed ends forgot bruised anguish
A minor digress

Untainted melodies,
swung from a silhouette commissioned from a Nova 
Calling humanity to bath in the melody of birdsong
Quenching dried remnants of bourbon with a perfect pitch
Of rare cut diamond chords and rip

Each instrument paused before the bar
As the voice tootled a trumpet sound
The lady knew how to blow that horn
Yet, no brass brushed against her lips

Then, silence waited in awe for the coveted scat
From the sui generis range of a regal gemstone
Where the constellations hold the original cut
With lulled echoes flowing to hit ‘rewind’

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