I have decided, in fact I have already transformed these pieces on jazz singers into poems. Different than what appears here. In fact they are much different I think. But I am submitting them to a contest so I can’t put them on here for fear that this will be considered publishing although most/all of the pieces here are in a state of flux, always ready to be rewritten before being finalized. This piece is about Savannah Churchill who had a bizarre career when you understand how it ended. Her family name was Valentine.
A Quiet Voice In A Noisy Time
August xx, 2008 by Maynard G. Krebs
b. August 21, 1920 Savannah Valentine. A series of unexplainable. Out of the blue. Events. Occurred. Who could have guessed? Combava. Garlic and ginger. Thyme and pepper pink. A Creole mixed spice. The great migration into the great stew. Brooklyn in the pre-war years. Savannah was happy. What a dish. Over the hot stove. A handsome husband. David Churchill. 2 boys. Another event. Unexplained. A car accident. David was thrown. Through a windshield. Now Savannah Churchill. A widow with a couple of kids. No insurance money. Rent to be paid. Cupboards bare. Who could have guessed? She had a satin voice. Started singing in night clubs. Sex-sational. Now everyone calm down. Sit on that bench. And wait for your turn. For a few minutes, we’ll let the band play. You stay put. Until we need you. But not Savannah. She kept tapping her toes. Music spilling over. When she got up to sing. The whole town was on their knees. Before her. And then another one of those events. Slipped on ice. Stepping out of a cab. Broke her ankle. Or was it her wrist? That’s alright. Made her take stock. Another twist. Of fate. Got back on her feet. Her name in lights. Again. Singing in a club. But then it happened all over again. A man who had too much to drink. Tried to stand up and salute Savannah. God, he was a big fan. Fell out of the balcony. And there was Savannah. So tiny. Buried beneath him. Career ended. Just like that. Unexplainable. Years of pain. Years of smoking. Esophagus. Back and forth. Fell down some more stairs. Broke her hip. Caught pneumonia. Dead at 53. At the funeral the preacher said it was not up to us to understand God’s plan. Savannah bit her tongue. And let the band play on. She should have sat up and told the congregation that God must be a fool. Because that was no plan.