Long Miles davis Poems
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Celestial Zodiac Jazz
In the constellation of sound, Where Miles Davis breathes celestial blue/
A Gemini's whim dances through the air/His notes like shooting stars
Twisting notes like a lover’s embrace/ His horn whispers secrets of the universe/
Ella Fitzgerald, a Taurus, Grounded in the lush, rich earth, Her voice a tapestry of jazz scat gold, Singing truths that resonate, I don’t want to sing anything that doesn’t come real, A declaration, a manifesto, a love letter to authenticity/
So dig John Coltrane, the Libra sage, Balancing melodies on the scales into the night, Fifth House echoes through Jazz radio play, Astrological rhythms align, Jazz numerology speaks in syncopation, Every note, every chord a constellation/ a harmonic convergence into the jazz Horoscope being/ the huge vastness of cosmic music and the individual brilliance of the Universe’s soul jazz soul/
Horace Silver, the prophet of the zodiac, Riffing on astrological charts/ Tarot readings in a smoky bar/ Horace-Scope, the map of our souls, In his music, we find our destinies/
Capricorn Rising with Pullen and Rivers, A cosmic journey,
From the depths of the earth to the Zodiac heavens/ Are you hip to the jazz flow/
The jazz scene has many secrets and a lot untold/ Standard time meets the twist of the hipster's jazz meter, where rhythms collide and are as explosive as Art Blakey’s Jazz Messengers balancing act in their artistry/
A $1,000 horn in a $5000 car, Driving fifty miles for a $50 gig/ man, what a flipped-out ride/ This is the Jazz life, the pulse, the passion/ the highs and lows of should I stay or go/ club owners who take months to pay you for a gig you did weeks ago/ Yo, It’s Passion over profit, Artistry takes hold— Say, bro, are you into the jazz scene no mater what unfolds/
Never play anything the same way twice, For in improvisation, we find our freedom Jazz dance/ In the spontaneous spark of creation, We are all stardust, Floating on the notes of our existence the way it ought to be/
In the grand ever-changing nature of our mighty universe, Where jazz meets the heavens not by chance/
You can smell jazz, if you got hip to the sound, like on “Camera Three” a TV program in the 50s/ a 1956 episode featuring The Gerry Mulligan Quartet in black -N- white/
many jazz clubs come and go dimming their lights in the sunset glow/
fast food joints now line the streets where once stood the mighty jazz clubs of old/West Coast Jazz exploded in your ears/ Like Central Ave, It was the soulful jazz heart of LA’s jazz scene in the 40s, 50s, and 60s, all the jazz great’s/ would be sittin’ in to their fellow jazz musicians gigs after their two sets where over/other jazz clubs to be seen and be booked in up and down in the LA area/ Zardi’s, Tiffany Club, Jazz Cabaret, The Haig, Jazz City, drinks, drugs, sex, where all part of the show while diggin’ Art Pepper, Monty Budwig, Hampton Hawes, Ernestine Anderson, Zoot Sims, Miles Davis, Shelly Manne, and Wardell Gray
In the lost-and-found of memories, there lie Nina Simone LPs, forgotten treasures about love lost, love found, and a revolution in a new voice sound waiting to be spun/
A jazz hustler leans at the door, a whisper of dreams tied to CDs, silent songs, never given the chance to ride the radio waves/
In a cab to your gig, you left your horn in the back seat— a misplaced key in a world full of locks, yet out of the blue, you find your singing voice, the notes rise like steam from the New York streets on a rainy jazz night, each syllable soaked and sung in spoken word passion and pain/
It’s crazy, this love, sometimes feeling like you’re out to lunch, in a world that doesn’t pay to play jazz/
and yet you are hooked on this jazz thing bathed in the glow of the bandstand spotlight, asking, “Why do I love it so much?” Because jazz, my friend, is the heartbeat of the lost, the anthem of the unheard, a melody that sings even when the world goes dark.
Written By: D. Collins 7/7/25
I know the names of some of the greatest to ever dawn black skin.
Dr. Charles Drew, Miles Davis, Malcolm X, and James Baldwin.
Generations from now their achievements will be overlooked.
Due to coordinated efforts to remove them from history books.
There were the Buffalo Soldiers and Tuskegee Airmen.
Maya Angelou and descriptive writings of Toni Morrison.
We had Dr. Martin Luther King and Muhammad Ali.
Who gave hope to a population of people like me.
We've endured the longest deprivation mankind has faced.
You cannot remove something that refuses to be erased.
We've heard broken promises that never came about.
The Caged Bird Still Sings loudly from the top of the mount.
As I drive by the end of days I see a pumpkin and a happy witch on the doorstep of my joy,
As I pass by my four year old’s awe toward friendly ghosts down the street of nostalgia,
I am reminded of Saints gone home and good souls on their penitent journey,
Zora Neale Hurston, Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Paul Robeson and the poets of my past,
Hendrix, Morrison, Michael, Louis Armstong and the Sounds of my testimony,
Prince and Wynton Marsalis, Miles Davis, Amadeus, Earth, Wind, and Fire,
Saints living, saints dead, souls vibrant, souls sad in the darkness of regret,
We are a glorious symphony on this, this all Hallows Eve,
The eve of that day when I celebrate the muses of my sacrifice and the foundations of my epiphanies,
“Halloween is here” my youngest daughter exclaims and I am reminded of many a night spent scavenging for sweet things and expectant laughter,
Tragic kings like Edgar Allen and Charlie Parker, souls with so much pregnant genius that the world was too much for them,
It is our celebration dear friends that will move the mountains of discontent,
And so in this season of harvest, carpe diem calls me to absorb as much love as I can as the sun sets on purple leaves and gorgeous corn stalks,
And in mother Africa, the ancestors dance like their Celtic sisters who fused the worship of our Lord and the glory of mother Gaia,
And in mother Africa the land recovers from the grief stricken sting of rape,
And in mother Africa my sisters and brothers celebrate the saints gone forward into that great mystery,
Tecumseh and Black Elk I celebrate the brilliance of your aptitude,
And I cry with you in triumph for the resurrection of a people forsaken but not defeated,
Come Glory,
On this All Hallows Eve, I celebrate the beauty of a journey full of confusion and catharsis,
For the reality is that we truly cannot fail,
As our cloud of witnesses sing to me of the victory that awaits,
Tonight, adorned with the fashion of merriment,
And the subtle chill of October wind reds our lips,
Come Glory and Glory be to the faithful departed,
Happy Halloween!
She lit the candle in evening’s repose
then held the pages bound and decorated
in story-fabled paper coverings.
She buried her head in the words of others.
Arms outstretched and folded on a pillow,
she tightly held a lifetime of explanation.
As she opened each page of wishful longings
her thoughts drifted into unknown
yet sometimes familiar places.
She buried her head in the words of others.
Devouring and mouthing each line-
foraging like a hungry child
starved from intangible imaginings.
Imbued along the infinite road of her freedom
her head kept filling with vestiges
of rolling oceans and dire deserts-
of tawny forest and snow covered peaks.
She buried her head in the words of others-
hiding in the jungles of Borneo-
riding black stallions over the plains of Africa-
awaiting the earthrise from craters on the moon-
listening to the city of a million people
contemplated in the dulcet tones of Miles Davis’ trumpet.
She buried her head in the words of others-
entombed in a poet’s lyric read aloud
turning the pages that fell across her heart.
She swallowed each wonderment within-
filling an empty cupboard of feelings
like the moon melting in a rainstorm…..
Phhhhhhhhhh!
Tired and inspired she blew the candle out
From East to west enslaved in chains
To work the fields, make tracks for trains
They sang their song antiphonally
To dull their day, hide misery
Those blues notes hit in wailing tone
And words about the heavenly home
Their doleful sounds had paved the way
To blues and jazz in later day
Rhythms and chords became complex
Joplin’s ragtime was a great success
For well practiced piano on old upright
Those old time rags are still a delight
New Orleans was where it began
In ghettos for blacks with time on their hands
From morning to night they developed their skills
On trumpets, sax, it staved off their ills
Mastering their instruments with deft virtuosity
Jazzy riffs marked by smart improvisatory
The Mississipi paddle boats chugged their way
Aboard, the sounds of jazz in full sway
Entertaining, with a sense of pride
Scat singing, cross rhythms, boogie and stride
And took their art to far off places
Strutting their stuff, no airs and graces
White bands were now beginning to swing
Inclusion slowly becoming the thing
With time to go, but heading that way
In church, brilliant gospel helped them to pray
Spirituals continued to highlight their plight
Fair treatment becoming within their sight
Jazz continues to wow one and all
In different forms to really enthrall
Miles Davis and Matt Dennis both just the same
With jazz in mind, they played the same game
Blues and jazz have impacted new sounds
As popular as ever its music abounds
A hot jazz box time to listen to Eddie Henderson's big tenor, spontaneous spirit stirring way high
Ron Carter's bass groove on " Feelin' Alright." Man, like way out into the new
Jerry Garcia and Miles Davis in vinyl heaven, amen
Guitars for life, Wes Montgomery, and Django Reinhardt, Barney Kessell scales from the far side of the moon
tasteful execution and brilliant arranging, man, it's the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Orchestra
Band comin' home, baby, to the Storyville club
The power of jazz and a rich hip space journey through time, and thought with the Sun Ra Arkestra at the Tone Deaf Factory recording session
Right now, and then John McLaughlin's reflections on Zen at the Jazz Showcase, Shi Town cool is the rule
Like now like wow electrical acid Jazz field of love and hope man, is the new pope dope
First time I ever heard her voice, Roberta Flack and the color theory of her keyboard life
Spoken Word Poetry: JAZZ ALIVE
Man alive, and this ain’t no jive, I’m diggin’ on jazz to stay alive/
East Coast rhythms from the 50’s and 60’s, in the heart of the city, where the music breaths/
Up all night to dig the modern jazz scene, and out of the cool midnight cookin’ shows at the Blue Note/Located at 131west 3rd St. NYC the place to be/
City lights flashing, hipsters, record buying, dressed to the nines in retro threads at dive bars and clubs where the real jazz magic spreads/
Catch the scene, and get hip to the latest with the 50s swingin’ jazz machine/
Bill Evans Trio, Modern Jazz Quartet, Miles Davis, Lester Young – Can You Feel the Beat/ It’s Milestones with Miles/At that recording, Davis’s bebop/hardbop music was manifesting into his future modal thing/
Milt Jackson, Chet Baker’s smooth serenade, Dave Brubeck’s “Take Five” in Five Four Time, John Coltrane’s Cascade, Cannonball Adderley, Wynton Kelly’s embrace, Paul Chamers, Jimmy Cobb, all left their trace/
The city never sleeps, no change of pace, play your gig till 2 AM/
Chase the night with grace/catch a cab, hit the jam, Sweet Basil’s swinging where the music never dims/
Women strong and fierce, oh how they loved their jazz men/
Financial support flowed like a sweet refrain/
“This Here, “Dat Dare,” and “Moanin’” what sounds, in Bobby Timmons groove/you know what I mean/
The Tenor Conclave, Hank Mobley, Al Cohn, John Coltrane, Zoot Sims/ Hi-Fi jam sessions to no end/
Max Roach on the scene, Deeds Not Words, his LP/
Abby Lincoln, Helen Humes, Sarah Vaughn, Dinah Washington – jazz voices supreme all greats in their prime/
new record companies popping, day into night: Jazzland, Riverside, Atlantic, Prestige all shining bright/
Philly Joe Jones, Blues for Dracula, man what a scene, what a feeling on Halloween’s Eve, back in the day when Everybody dug jazz, but what happened to the Five Spot Café where the legends would play? /
So dig this, I’m walkin’ to Jazz Alley, Soulmates on my cell I know so well, Ben Webster and Zawinul, their melodies swell/
In this world of music vibes, man, I find my reprieve in modern jazz rhythm and choose to believe in the downbeat of jazz to set me free
Tag words: advertising, bebop, bird, bottle, Charlie
Parker, Coca-Cola, Cole Porter, Dizzy Gillespie,
door, flag, heart, jazz, light bulb, Louis Armstrong,
Miles Davis, palette, Pepsi Cola, pluralism – found
object, retablo painting, sculpture
Arbitrary or subconscious, Saunders picked six.
Man created on the sixth day from darkness;
we came into the light, of knowing, of naming.
Satan, sin held within, black of skin. Oh,
Africa chopped up bleeding, the third world’s
doors shown black, nailed shut. With the skin
of drums, the heel of hand, he pounds the nails
on the trail of the carpenter.
Kept in place, biblical wives of Lot turned to salt,
white-line the globe. White powder, white power,
sugars the unpalpable, addicting, coca leafs and
caffeine, doping the public, the poor for dimes.
Reinforcing the lure of the bottle; the cola bottle
that fell unbroken to earth from the sky in The
God’s Must Be Crazy. Some have always used their
addictions to create. Like a found objects, we too
fall calling to Mother Mary.
After: The Gift of Presence Raymond Saunders 1993
First Published by Ekphrastic Art:writing and art on art and writing
*Lot the nephew of Abraham, husband of Edith
who was turned to salt.
Zig Zag Free steps to the mic, deck in one hand, jazz poetry in the other, bass line buzzing in the air/He’s a jazz poet, a poker player, forever chasing that ace-high flush life/where luck dances with discipline and rhythm keeps time with fate/
On stage, the room digs him with a trio or a lone conga whisper, and Zig flips syllables like cards, letting melodies deal him into new possibilities/
His genre is a fusion, a street corner orchestra: jazz, funk, rap colliding in friendly combat, syncopations jagged as city shadows, delivering truths in a blast and mighty roar/ He digs deep into Amiri Baraka’s spark, Gil Scott-Heron’s jazz spoken word-rap, Miles Davis’ cool fire, Albert Ayler’s skock to the cosmos, letting their ghosts tune up the room while his own words improviseto the sound of jazz/
Zig studies cards the way a monk studies breath—practice, patience, a little luck, and the art of when to fold or not/
He learns from every shuffle: the tell, the tilt, the courage to reveal what’s underneath. He uses cards as metaphors for his jazz poetry, life: risk, balance, probability, and the mercy of chance/In his word delivery, the syllables swing and swing back, a double-stacked riff that asks/What does it mean to win if you forget to listen to the masters/
What does it mean to lose if you’ve never learned to love the moment you’re dealt? He doesn’t chase a flawless hand—he chases the feeling of being fully alive, the ace-high flush of now, where every breath is a bet and every beat is a return to his jazz potery keepin' Zig Zag Free alive