beale street blues boy

what was it ‘bout

that sharecroppin’ boy

usin’ a  guitar as a toy?

bendin’ and stretchin’

each emotion drenched note,

singin like demons and angels

tryin’ ta crawl from his throat.

made women swoon

and grown ass men cry.

my oh my,

dem blues is so sly.

left the lonely cabin,

searching for stardom,

when he was a young teen.

had less than 3 dollars in his pocket

but he was determined

to become a king.

named his woman Lucille,

a soul mate he met

during a juke-joint fire.

she was his lifetime reminder

to never lose that desire

to inspire.

lemon and prune faced

while crooning them tunes,

made people do devious things.

some of them

tossing aside wedding rings.

yet he gave us his all,

we were enthralled

by the virtuoso

at every show.

he melded jazz, blues

and pain.

a volatile concoction

that may never

be seen again.

quick witted and wry,

alternately making you

wonder why

you were in the situation

you happened to be in.

so many have gleaned

from those stretched note riffs

set blissfully adrift

on four-four time

and an occasional glass of wine.

if memories are golden,

he has given us

the midas touch

for years to come.

the thrill is gone

but his legend

lives on.

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~wurdz © 2015 all rights reserved