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 ago you must hear the broken things
in the blues the anger and lust, rage and disgust the need and sweet joy
the staggered stanzas of Memphis Minnie singing with Lonnie’s guitar
Like the current clergy of Cray, Guy and John Lang we tap our toes
Clap our hands in weathered delights and homage and grateful prayers
More from Issue #2
Birth Place by Dave Gregg
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…
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
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…
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…