Listening to Blues by Carole Martin

The old soft pink-palmed hands
Clap out the music; stiff-jointed into air
Like pigeons’ wings, yet just right
To keep the tune afloat.
The blues on the guitar is sweet
As new earth, live with birds, the scent
Of bluebells, an aching spring lament.

In the dim firelit dark I sit
Tapping the beat, and find out
The smell of the old man’s sweat
And see, amazed, my hand
Stretch out to touch his hand.

So the completed phrase
Perfectly comes to rest.
The blues falls to an end
His hand touches my hand
 

Comments   

0 #2 Carole Martin 2021-05-11 09:08
Thanks so much Phil!
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0 #1 phil barling 2021-05-11 08:11
lovely poem Carole. reminded me of those old prestige lp covers. Listening to Blind Willie McTell's Crapshooter's Blues as a I type.
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