Jazz Brush

There are sticks inside the cup
Sticking up
Rolled softly to fit
My fingers
Dance
Across
Virgin White
expanse.

     Beastly bristles stiff and dry
      On the ends
       of those sticks.

What beasts there reside
In those dances
Waiting to be danced
     (While Coltrane and Ginsberg
         Howl
          Across
            the thin white chance?)

There are colours on the plate.
I give in
Reach for a stick
To tickle the beast.

Reviews

[Angela]

Amazing. Love the imagery, made me smile. Great metaphor. Caused my heart to dance and sing.

[J. Hampton]

:::: Jazz::::: indeed
You are a drummer in reality no doubt
Endearing piece ... The formatting just adds
To it .... Nice refrence to " Howl" in there
One of my fav poems