Ian Moore

The Color of Jazz

Without filters,
Pour the amber of your soul
Inside
The tones
Of vibrating colors.

On a stave of reason
Walk your bass scent
Through the chamber of eyes,
No posturing for sound is necessary.

You suffer through chord progressions
In half-truths of poetic imagination.
The color of jazz
Punctuates the brass blues
Of a morning glow.

Fragile
A piano bends notes
Along walls
Teasing the ivory tremors
From under a cape of green.
The opal bass throbs.
The pink vocals scream.
The yellow rhythm section explodes!

When the fumes of harmony settle
Color, rhythm and humanity
Converge at songs end
Blessing the unity of many flavors
Resonating through the echoing
symphony of crystal light.

MY PEOPLE, MY PEOPLE

My people, my people,
The soul lives in a sickly air
Like dead dreams dripping off the heart.
My people carry slave ships in their shoes.

My people, my people,
Walking on fly paper again
Like cataracts on frozen eyes.
My people blinded by the light.

My people, my people,
The posturing motion has passed
Like velvet shadows of the cross.
My people throw away that withered branch.

My people, my people,
Everyone's spice box seasons
His or her own food
Like rays of raisins sparkling moons.
My people challenge the ghosts of hate.

THE POVERTY OF PLENTY

Hip hop slang
Rubs dud-dud sounds.
The music for whites
Who cannot dance and
Blacks who cannot sing.
Them loaded down
In oversized threads
Ignorant of history and
Their place in the scheme.
Them giant clothes hide
Them midget spirits
Desperate for sight,
A light in the world.

Its the poverty of plenty
In the land of the brave
Too fixed on the money
When there's souls to be saved.
It's the poverty of plenty
Fooling all who seek truth
'cause the thieves of the past
Have just donned new boots.

Oh the Hip Hop slangers
What a joke to the real
All remembering a past
They've never fulfilled.
They cry over scars
They've never shed, while
They climb over backs
Of their brothers who bled
For freedom and justice and
Respect for a truth now
Lost in the smocks of
A glided punk's tooth.

It's the poverty of plenty
In the land of the brave
Too fixed on the money
When there's souls to be saved.
It's the poverty of plenty
Fooling all who seek truth
'cause the thieves of the past
Have just donned new boots.

So let them hip hop
Til the cows come home
It can't feed their kids
And it can't feed their souls
And one day they'll wake
From a shattering dream
To realize they can't even HEAR
Let alone understand the word
PEACE!

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Cover Design: Joseph McNair