Ken's Poetry

Trumpeter’s Kiss

Give her the bliss of the trumpeter’s kiss
the triple-tongue lick and the three finger flick
the bloom of fine brass in an old looking glass
that glows like the fire of flaming desire
that whirls in the riff of a recitative
when the lights are down low.

Give her hell-raisen notes brash and brazen
the razzmatazz of marching band jazz
that crescendo of trill never failing to thrill
the dumb muted fuzz making ear drums buzz
while the saxophones sway and guitars play away
when the lights are down low.

The throat of the bell’s like a deep wishing well
where the silk of soft sound swirls around and around
and a serpent is stirred like the wings of a bird
or a bugle-note blown like the last post of tone
long lean and sad for a poor soldier lad
when the lights are down low.

The dark table-rose in the candle light glows
and her eyes gently fade to a lonely parade
to a beachcomber tune in soft chiffon moon
and a dark silhouette on the sphere of regret
where all trumpeters play at the end of the day
when the lights are down low
when the lights are down low.