In the nineteenth century
the delta was a swamp
layered with rich life forms
Rife with great white oak
but commerce triumphed
and the swamp was drained
Great levees were constructed
cotton was soon the new King
what the levee could not contain
Was music born which rode
the neck of 12 string guitars
away to Chicago and Detroit
Westward to dusty Texas
out to California and beyond
their names became legend
The Pattons and Johnsons
Collins and Kings and Smiths
Whether it was called swamp
or jump or swing or electric
or West Coast or soul the blues
Could not be picked like cotton
More from Issue #2
Poets Warren by Dave Gregg
Is this when you cry? Where you tumble down the hillside beg and plead for another lazy day one more wasted minute? A week you’ll wisely Imbibe sobriety? This isn’t the return…
Blues Noise by Dave Gregg
When the blues are played dirty (as must be) and they ricochet off the brick walls and echo over the levee linger long enough to join chorus of field hollers so long…
Travel by Dave Gregg
She packed a magazine! for overnight I saw her! And wonder, “Why this issue?” Am I not enough to occupy her every waking? Does my presence invite such dread? My insulted ego…
The NEW by Dave Gregg
Softly she dabs at crimson stars her hand towel bright with glow you never say where you find them but keep a tidy sky