Cedar Walton/Meri Culp
Cedar Walton’s Blue Notes: Blue Monk, Turquoise Twice, & Blue Train
Blue Monk (morning)
Blue rush daybreak, night shutters flung wide,
the sun catching fire in song, how easy cool the cockcrow of morning
finds heat, the city sidewalk below hopscotched
in jump back beats, this improv game
of street rock bounce, in the lines, in the lines, spark riffed
around the corner and back again, these numbered squares
still holding their own, the backdoor key slide home
tuned to memory, skipping in sapphire, in light.
Turquoise Twice (evening)
Quarter-toned dusk bending into the blues,
into the progression, the simple chord change of night
finding a staircase, edged in half-light, each step a key, black, then white,
the room above, a window left open, curtains drawn,
a half-note moon just beyond the pane, a touch of sound
entering skin close, doubling back in rounded lines
of spine talk, an arc of hands springing open,
gathering in street bouquets, fingering deep petals, falling.
Blue Train (midnight)
Wheels to wood, the blue train splits the night,
has no care for a smooth run to day,
but instead lays down the gravel tracks to the next bend,
hooks up the hit or miss of boxcars, the stop and go
of small town crossroads, of a sputtering yellow house light,
a blur of home, of loneliness layered so deep, so much of leaving, leaving
that the brass horn moon ahead, drops in and out of the black tree line,
picking up where the train left off, edging on the morning side of midnight.