Son of a Blues Player
His old man played in Miles city,
a learned trumpeter from Mississippi.
High notes were the only thing he hit,
paving the future for his son to make it.
All those warm Cajun summer nights,
of weathered gazebo's and fluorescent lights.
Gospel singers would tag along for kicks,
bobbing their heads to the saxophone mix.
The smell of barbecue coals fill the air,
as music like no other parades the streets.
Nobody knows nobody and does not care,
crowds gather round the globe on common seats.
The black silk shirt his father wore,
glistened in the spotlight upon the stage.
The sounds of a lone tuba like a giant roar,
fumbling music sheets while turning the page.
He toured with polished brass by his side,
yet still cherished his little prince the most.
The boy laughed pulling on the trombone slide,
as they traveled first class from every coast.
Cheers from the barrelhouse echoed loudly,
sipping bourbon in a finger printed high ball.
The jazz daddy pats his son’s head proudly,
writing both their names on the wooden wall.
Now the son has earned his own deed,
and the father still toots his favorite toy.
He hopes that jazz will follow his seed,
all from the soul of his prized little boy.
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo | Year Posted 2010
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment