as cool as the sound of jazz

it�s late, gig over, I should be on my way home
I suppose I can convince myself that I am
but the roads are mysterious and the night air
is as cool as the sound of jazz
drifting from a basement club in Basin Street
the car takes me down roads to see where they go
some place I know but different
shadows like a sheet
change familiar shapes into strangers
ghosts of friends
here the sound is the rhythm of tyres
clipping on the edge of concrete road slabs
another time it will be the slap slap slap of windshield wiper
and another the distant sound Dave Brubeck
on the CD player
volume turned down low
and maybe some words will come and I can speak them like a song
to the slap slap slap slap slap slap slap of the tyres
or maybe not
but it must be time to find some familiar place
time to find my way home
out of the seductive never ending streets
away from the music
away from the cool air
away from the comfort of night
back to the room where the sound is imprisoned by walls
swallowed by carpets and curtains
back to the place where tomorrow
demands to be organized
back to the place where darkness is trapped
and night holds its secrets behind a closed door
where dreams wait
but just for now the road is empty
yellow street lamp lit
traffic lights all on green
the car window open brings in the scent of early autumn
and for now just for now
life is as cool as the sound of jazz

when I tried to write a haiku

I saw a bike
covered in snow
resting against a low wall
waiting for a thaw
when it would be taken
wheels slicing air
along Cheshire lanes
I wrote it down
tried to capture
its crossbar
seat stays
the graceful twist
of handlebars
dripping melting ice
the canvas saddlebag
cape tied across it
like a cowboys bedroll
tried to capture this moment
the coldness of its metal
the salt smell of the wind
tried to capture it all
in a haiku
but failed

poem for you

this is a poem for you
though I have to pretend
it is for someone else
when I talk about the
curve of her neck
or the fall of her hair
or the gentle turn
of her breast
they are yours
and you are always
in my thoughts
so this is a poem for you
whoever you are 

                                                                                                � Jim Bennett

Loch Raven Review Spring 2006 — Vol. 2, No. 1
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