When I see an artist cry
for not winning a Grammy,
I wonder—being a nominee would be a dream.
Oh, to even appear on television,
millions rooting, fans screaming—
is that less than winning a Grammy?
It's painful not to get what you deserve.
Losing is hard, all that pain we've heard.
But wasn't the journey mesmerizing?
To release songs, a massive crowd getting that feeling.
To be able to leave your mark,
getting recognized worldwide,
your spot had a thousand eyes.
But still, claiming that seat,
is that less than winning a Grammy?
How can one possibly feel less worthy
when being a nominee made you win?
You have true people still loving you.
Is that feeling less than winning a Grammy?
Oh dear, it's a pleasure for them to invite you.
The room was filled with ethereal beauty.
Your presence brought our televisions to life.
"I didn't win."
Rubbish!
In our eyes, you did.
When your birth was an honor for this world,
how important is it to win a Grammy?
is still a dream of mine:
to hold the body that
housed the quivering,
omnipotent voice
of an unbreakable woman.
You are still
stronger than the
small-minded men
and time around you.
“Here is looking at you, kid.”
We never stopped looking,
or listening.
The instruments
and those who play them,
next to you,
fade away.
They can only
compliment you,
in slow adagios
and caressing notes,
Miss Holiday.
Movies were limited
by flatness
and black and white.
You colored the world
with music, effervescence
and honesty.
Your voice is
maroon satin,
emerald velvet,
blinding,
painful yellow, and
warm, melting pearls.
Billy, “I’ll be seeing you
in all the old,
familiar places.”
“I’ll be looking
at the moon,
but I’ll be seeing
you.”
I have Mines
Anthony got his own too
I have Mines
Singing and dancing,
as the last to arrive,
he outshone his brothers
in the Jackson Five.
Moonwalking across the stage,
he was quite the fancy dancer,
but what happened to his other glove,
is a question no one can answer.
Comparing the early to his later work,
you can hear it when he sings,
Michael the 'King of Pop',
put a new complexion on things.
But in '85, with 'We Are The World',
he was dead wrong,
when he wrote the lyric
to the song,
as, from sea to shining sea,
on this globe there is much more,
than only that there north American shore.
Yet, Billie Jean (not his lover) was just a girl
who claims that he is the one,
and Bubbles brought on many troubles,
but the chimp is not his son.
Billie Jean
Miracle Man
3/16/2025
My first girl friend’s name was Billie.
she wore dresses that were short and frilly.
Her beautiful smile,
Would others beguile,
but toward other boys she could be chilly.
Since Billie Joe jumped off the Tallahatchie bridge
Nothing has been the same up on the Choctaw ridge
Since Bobbie Gentry, it appears
Up and completely disappears
The Mississippi delta has a new drawbridge.
May 20, 2021
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.
Ocean eyes and
billowing, bulging
covering: the most
vulnerable parts of you
unspoken
so somberly sad
in the most
curious places
your style is wild
and your flare overstated
your smile may lie
all she wants
but your eyes tell
the truth
to mine.
Billie died today.
Respiratory failure,
quiet and painless.
She just went away.
I sat beside her bed,
watching her breath,
the blue pulse in her neck.
She lay on her right side,
pale, fetal-curled,
facing the wall,
worn out, used up.
Hospice told me
that the only thing
keeping her alive
was the oxygen being given
though the clear plastic mask
covering her nose and mouth.
There were drops of condensation
inside the mask,
making most of her small face indistinct.
The parts I could see clearly –
forehead,
cheek and chin,
one ear,
were perfectly calm.
I was told that I could
remove the mask.
I did.
She took a single breath,
later, another;
she was gone.
She would have done the same for me.
© Jack Jordan 2013
It's like you know when I'm down
Always laying by my head
Whenever I feel alone
You cuddly with me in bed.
You never expect anything
Just a simple pet
Yet you can be stubborn
When your mind is set.
Since you were a baby
Always in my arms
With your big eyes staring
Suckering me with your charms.
You follow me everywhere
I'll always know where you're at
You're like a precious baby
Billie, you're a wonderful cat.
B orn Elinore Harris
I influenced all of jazz
L ies unknown to you were told
L ove of music, your soul
I ncarcerated so young, for nothing…a bully
E veryone adores your- Lady Sings the Blues
H e manipulated you
O h so many nights you shone
L onliness found you
I n clubs, unaware
D evestation to you, beware
A sad story in the end
Y ou died as Queen of the scene, but not in your own eyes
A. Green
Dedication to Billie Holiday
April 7, 1915 – July 17, 1959
Willy, Billie, Betty, and Bob
Climbed a tree up to the top
They sat down on the highest bough
And looked around for a while.
Betty, Willy, Billie, and Bob
One by one, began to sob
For when they finally looked down
They found no way to reach the ground.
Billie, Betty, Bob, and Willy
Are still up there, and look so silly.
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