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Array ( [sid] => 31936 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Blues [time] => 2004-01-17 09:11:02 [hometext] => [bodytext] => His bowed hat,
and all of that blue
tucked up under
for the under-loved,
the under-paid and the fading ones.

Those shades of blue
he's unpacking,
tunes about lacking,
those baby left me,
baby blue, blues.

He's bending notes,
slouched against a bar stool
in stained rooms
where you could peel
smoke off air.

The fog perched there,
as his belly relaxes over his belt.
And every feeling ever
felt is in his voice and dancing
in his eyes.

A man whose music
soothes souls,
rubs aching backs, and passes
the collection pail for overdue tears,
a receivable, with years of appreciation.

And he lays it down
casually like a barmaid tip.
As the harps have
a musical conversation,
and the sax refills his glass.

In twelve measures of
rain down on me
spirituality, sexuality,
defined as Chicago blues,
there are no laps of luxury.

Only overflowing ashtrays
and one guitar, bottleneck slides,
-one, -four, -five,
watery eyes and smiles.

Until closing time,
when that bowed hat
tips to the crowd,
and all of that blue
turns navy.
[comments] => 2 [counter] => 171 [topic] => 43 [informant] => manicmuze [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )

Blues

Contributed by manicmuze on Saturday, 17th January 2004 @ 09:11:02 AM in AEST
Topic: oops

His bowed hat,
and all of that blue
tucked up under
for the under-loved,
the under-paid and the fading ones.

Those shades of blue
he's unpacking,
tunes about lacking,
those baby left me,
baby blue, blues.

He's bending notes,
slouched against a bar stool
in stained rooms
where you could peel
smoke off air.

The fog perched there,
as his belly relaxes over his belt.
And every feeling ever
felt is in his voice and dancing
in his eyes.

A man whose music
soothes souls,
rubs aching backs, and passes
the collection pail for overdue tears,
a receivable, with years of appreciation.

And he lays it down
casually like a barmaid tip.
As the harps have
a musical conversation,
and the sax refills his glass.

In twelve measures of
rain down on me
spirituality, sexuality,
defined as Chicago blues,
there are no laps of luxury.

Only overflowing ashtrays
and one guitar, bottleneck slides,
-one, -four, -five,
watery eyes and smiles.

Until closing time,
when that bowed hat
tips to the crowd,
and all of that blue
turns navy.

Copyright © manicmuze ... [ 2004-01-17 09:11:02]
(Date/Time posted on site)

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Re: Blues (User Rating: 1 )
by Necromant on Saturday, 17th January 2004 @ 09:19:12 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

Oh very vivid description! And very thoughtful poem. I was imagining the bar and everything, very good write! Though I don't really like blues but the poem is great! :D

Anne :)

Re: Blues (User Rating: 1 )
by ladyfawn on Saturday, 17th January 2004 @ 11:23:14 AM AEST
(User Info | Send a Message)

excellent expression, vivid images, simply beautiful poem, love it:) hugs n' love nessa

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