Thomas Wells Poet Sonnet

Billie Holiday

I love you lady, singing velvet night sky,
singing azure violet wounded woolen stitch.
I love your lady quavering haunting cry,
intoning shades of purple in fevered pitch.

I love you lady, even trilling, scraping in torment,
your voice straining oppressed about strange fruit.
I love you lady dear star teaching your malcontent,
piping broken lyrics, imparting pain so acute. 

I love you lady, you never knew a childhood,
you never rendered a cyan song the same way.
I love you lady, though you think my love no good,
it is you with whom I walk in the rain, preternatural every day.

Flame of Harlem, you gave so much to live. I listened, and I cried,
always my cherished one, so tragic how young you died.

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Brian Sambourne September 17, 2021 at 5:04 PM What a fine tribute you've penned. Billie Holiday had such a tragic life. There was pain in nearly every note she sang. A remarkable singer, + a fine piece to honor her. Cheers, Brian Thomas Wells September 17, 2021 at 11:48 PM Thank you so much, Brian. I can't help but recall how she was hounded to her death by the FBI for singing the song "Strange Fruit," which dealt with lynchings. PAX!

Rob Carmack July 20, 2021 at 9:55 AM I like the variance of the metrical feet in the last three lines. This poem reminds me of U2's "Angel of Harlem." Thomas Wells July 20, 2021 at 3:48 PM I love "Angel of Harlem." I'm humbled by the comparison. Holiday was a genius of variation. Thanks, Rob!