Robin Jones

Issue One, Student

Jazz, a Canvas of Fervor

Notes arise tenderly, 

as if the foundation of a painting.

Sporadic lines 

of many lengths and widths, 

floating up the surface 

in suspense for the main act.


not quite sure what will become,

mysterious to all 

but to the man behind the canvas,

the mind behind the lunacy.


in harmony with the spirit.


pacing the rhythm of my taps.

An escalation of sound so smooth, 

it seemed faint 

to my wondering ears.


keeps it grounded, 

the jazz flowing.

Each flick of the string 

propagates a fluky gray line,

a peculiar sound, 

melodramatic in a hint of blues.

The lungs blow 

and the saxophone trills, 

the climax has flourished. 

Now, lines have colors, 

slapdashes of dexterity across the board.,

a stir of odd ingredients

—slices of tangerine orange

dipped in jade green, 

with a side of merlot red.

My shut eyes on the verge of sight,

a view to a passionate melancholy.

A masterpiece of sound, 

embodied in a dance of lines and colors

performed deep in my unconscious.

“This jazz of mine, 

timid, but telling, timed but tempting.”

Only one piece has yet to be revealed,

the engine, the plug,

the essential drug 

to dose the mind 

and to calm the soul, 

like soul had calmed.

“Introduce me to her, 

deuce me in the gamble.”

Baritone voice, 

the revelation of the composition.

“Life will be just fine, 

a taste of an Italian wine.”

The moan, 

became a mosaic of bright objects

and shady abstracts of every tone.

The revelation of the art. 

A delusion of emotions; 

giggles to sobs. 

A dyslexia of visuals and sounds;

piano to chorus,

white to black 

and every other color in between. 

“This jazz of mine, 

a true theoretical body 

of meaningless truths.”  

The croon has faded, 

the saxophone has dwindled, 

shapes back to colored lines.

The drum concluded,

the bass has come to an end, 

colored lines back to gray strokes.

In a selfish, cryptic solo 

the piano man resists,

a fight for the dying craft,

before my depiction is crumbed and dumped

to be left rotten and forgotten 

into the only place it had lived


The final key has been performed, 

gray strokes dissolving back 

to where it all started,

pale white of a jazzless life.

Knowing Knew

I knew things,

things knew me back,

to know it all 

had been my design.

Young and bright 

to the lights, I soared,

ambitions ran high,

everything set 

for a memorable ride.

The clicks ticked, 

and my ticks now click.

Round the about 

and back it again,

life had become 

a neighborly route.

“Oh,  for I whim 

to have ignorant dreams!”

For knowing it all

I knew much less why,

for my reason to plunge, 

to conclusions, I dove.

Of one grasp 

I had yet to discern, 

so, for the truth, 

I buckled and bid.

“Why do I feel dull 

of my raison d’être? 

Little to learn, 

of more I’m aware.”

Things thought I knew, 

I thought they too,

guess nobody knew, 

but knowledge itself.

Knowing knew 

the sin of the deed.

The deed of knowing, 

the knowing of the sin,

the sin of the deed. 

About Robin Jones
Robin Jones da Silva is a Brazilian International student at Thomas University graduating in Business Management with a minor in creative writing.