Poetry Blogs (crossroads)
Dockery Plantation Blues
In a Mississippi graveyard,
as the midnight hour crawls,
sits a young boy and his guitar
wailing tunes at the moon.
He prays his fingers faster
as they dance across the frets,
weeping at his inability
to speak in tongues from the strings.
He is lost in a fugue
of chaotic chords and strumming,
as the Delta Blues pour muddy,
like the churning brown river,
Thursday 26th March 2015 7:48 pm
I feel like I'm at a crossroads,
a path I do not know.
The future's looking complex as a vortex
as I continue to grow.
Do I wait in frantic futility
brazenly biting my lip and learning humility?
I see you stuck in Stockholm
waiting for the day that you finally come home.
Destined for greatness
yet thwarted by gravity and quicksand
Friday 5th October 2012 8:29 pm