to the hippie that taught me how to play jazz

in a church on the highest hill of Manyunk 

my mom paid 15 dollars an hour 

for the lessons of my lifetime 

on my tenth Christmas 

santa brought me that beautiful keyboard 

unwrapped with weekly family concerts in my living room

awake at 3am each night I’d take my hands to place a blanket 

off my bed, put it over my head 

because these hands were made for chord progressions 

they could jump for the funk of it 

they would jive and twist to a count off

just boogie their way up the octave because they didn’t 

learn how to play Beethoven

or Mozart or Bach or Chopin 

you see, I learned how to play piano from

a 23 year old hippie who couldn’t stand 

the greatest composers 

she felt they were too old too irrelevant to compare

when there’s people like Coltrane or Louis 

Monk or Davis or Dizzy 

she had auburn unruly hair, marlboro reds hanging 

out of the front pocket

of her favorite pair of ripped black bootcuts 

and I used to stand beside her and think I was 

her apprentice 

imagine that:

I would close my eyes to memorize 

how to play songs older than my time

write rhymes that scatted across the church windows 

blessed the ears of the stained glass seers 

I wonder if they know, how old I am 

where I've gone, why I have not come back home 

I have not seen the hippie who taught me how to play jazz in almost a decade 

my parents moved us to somewhere so pretty, 

but somewhere so distant from Coltrane or Louis 

Monk or Davis or Dizzy 

I tried to keep up with my roots, to keep playing with the same love, but

I got so busy growing up, that now the 2010 Yamaha 

collects dust under my college Twin XL 

once my only priority has become just a hobby

if the hippie who taught me that jazz music was the root of all blues, 

asks me: why did I let go of my piano passion so soon?

I'd tell her, that my hands may be out of commission 

but they still remember after all this time,

how to write rhymes and play the masters of time

so even though they've grown, 

they still own that 2010 Yamaha

they still blow the dust off the keys, 

to play on nights when the world is asleep

and I still feel that jazz is the only thing 

that lets me breathe

About the Author

Daijah Patton is a senior English/Creative Writing major, minor in Secondary Education and she has been writing poetry since she was in middle school. Poetry has been such a strong outlet for her, and she loves to share it with others by spreading awareness about important topics, and sharing her own personal stories. In her free time you will find Daijah either cooking/baking, reading several works of fiction and poetry, telling you crazy stories about her students, and giving you recommendations for any streaming TV Shows and movies to watch. Daijah is the recipient of the 2022 Excellence in Creative Writing Award.