L-I-F-E, and all that Jazz...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Once, years ago, when feeling low, I overheard a conversation in a bar:

MAN (despairingly and a little drunk) I don’t know where I’m going any more or who the hell I am even…

WOMAN (wearily) Oh, sure, and all that jazz…

MAN: Huh, I don’t even like jazz…

WOMAN: You don’t like jazz? Then you don’t have much of a liking for life, man, and it sure as hell won’t take much of a liking to you either….

After a sober pause, both burst out laughing and joined several other couples swinging to a lively number on the dance floor like saplings in a summer breeze. I went home feeling more upbeat than I had in ages although not sure why…and that feeling has lasted - through thick and thin - ever since. Maybe it has something to do with especially enjoying jazz among all kinds of music (and vocal) that do their genre justice.... 

L-I-F-E, AND ALL THAT JAZZ…

Looking back
at angry shadows waving 

madly at me,

but not in a friendly fashion,

clearly blaming me

for doing what I should not

have done,

being where I should not

have been,

saying what I should never

have said

Looking ahead

at more shadows waving

madly at me,

and can’t even tell if friends

or enemies

urging I do what I want

to do,

be where I feel meant

to be,

say what (too long) needs

to be said

Swinging round

like a scarecrow in the wind

at what’s behind

making my heart skip beats

out of fear

for all the mistakes I’ve made

and half made,

put right and half put right,

left uncertain,

no idea which way

to turn

Standing quite still,

listening out for something

(or Someone?)

to point me in the direction

I need to go;

right fork, left, fork, or give up

and turn back…

till sounds of bright music

pointing me at trees

making the kind of mad  jazz

that’s a life force 

Turning my back 

on fear, galvanised by nature

to chase after life

as a child might a butterfly

if only because

it, oh, so beats doing nothing,

going nowhere,

being no one, feeling sorry

for the child self

that never caught a butterfly

or listened to jazz

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015