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Tag: blues

What Good Is It: blues sonnet

Published on April 22, 2025

What good is it to stand and curse the dark?
Yes, in the black of night, to curse the dark?
If you want some more light, create a spark.

What good can come from waiting out your time?
What good can you get done, just doing time?
To get out of a pit, you need to climb.

What good will grow if you don’t plant the seed?
No good will grow if you don’t plant the seed;
from nothing sprouts up nothing, guaranteed.

What good becomes of empty words and song?
Can you change anything with words and song?
You either lead or learn to sing along.

What good is it to know and not to do?
The world can grow or die, it’s up to you.

22 APR 2025

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Learn to Sing the Blues

Published on April 8, 2025

Nothing to choose:
only new ways to lose;
learn to sing the blues
retweeting evening news.

And in the end, the ruse?
That life’s a pleasure cruise
and not a dog that chews
through everything of use;

that every cut and bruise
and all your worn-out shoes
will be sufficient dues
to get you passage through.

What victories excuse
our sink back to the ooze?
No matter what your views,
each of us stands accused.

Somebody’s fault, but whose,
when misery ensues?
Don’t waste your fire or booze
on a few old statues.

What method will you use
to propagate your views?
When suffering’s old news,
we all just sing the blues.

08 APR 2025

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Win or Lose: Sicilian septet

Published on May 24, 2017

So often, when it comes to win or lose
(or what we each define as either one)
the pathways offered that we tend to choose
reflect the adage “ends as it’s begun”.
Could be the reason why we sing the blues
(and why not? Can you name a better one?).
Roll over, Ludwig; tell Peter the news.

24 MAY 2017

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The blues spoken here

Published on April 2, 2013

In the Marines, they quip there is no color:
just light, dark and medium green.
So it is with the blues, if you look closely enough;
beyond the initial reaction,
the worry over the metal detectors at the door,
run-down houses down the block,
a sign that hangs precariously by one rusty screw
and a hastily tacked up hand-printed waybill
proudly announcing a cover charge
changed at least three times
if you can trust the scratch outs,
there is a calm in this place.

To speak of blues lovers
as separate but equal,
colorblind,
open-minded or tolerant
is to cheapen the blues,
to somehow try to prove, in vain,
that misery and suffering
are not quite universal,
less than absolute,
meted out in small degrees
according to one’s lights.

Not so, not so:
the blues succeeds
where other kinds of music fail,
across wide oceans of despair
to reach into the blood and bone
which are, when life is measured out,
bleached white the same
and turned to dust.

2 APR 2013

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Natural Blues: a blues sonnet

Published on November 17, 2010

Every fire begins with just a spark.
Yes, every fire it starts with just a spark;
comes out of nothing, somewhere in the dark.

Every morning starts before the dawn.
Each morning has its start long before dawn;
it stops its sleeping, has to ramble on.

Everybody’s got their cross to bear.
It’s true, each one has got their cross to bear;
no use in crying out, “It just ain’t fair.”

Every flood starts with just one drop of rain.
Every flood starts with just one drop of rain;
wets the rich and poor man just the same.

Every storm begins from a small cloud;
Tornados sure must make their mamas proud.

17 NOV 2010

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Lowdown Existential Blues

Published on September 21, 2007

Just like everybody, I try to get along;
but I can’t win for losing, things always turn out wrong.
Need to have a membership,
but I have an objection to the dues.
I’ve got the feeling non-essential,
clearly quintessential
lowdown existential blues.

I could stand for something, but really, what’s the point?
It’s not like what I say will change the way they run this joint.
I still end up walking the extra mile
in someone else’s shoes.
I’ve got the wrong end of the pencil,
most irreverential
lowdown existential blues.

You don’t need my opinion on the way it ought to be;
you do just what you want to, in the end.
Nowhere doing nothing is reward unto itself;
No sense in wasting time on let’s pretend.

Yes, it’s a dilemma; I don’t know what to do.
Seems I’m good for nothing; I know that to be true.
Doesn’t seem to matter much
what answers that you’re seeking, or the clues.
I’ve got the sittin’ on the fence will
make you non-essential
lowdown existential blues.

21 SEP 2007

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The Dead Room

Published on July 24, 2007

I wonder why you come to hear the blues;
there is no recognition in your face
of any depth beneath the music’s steady pace,
nor rhythm to the rare tap of your shoes.

While those around you sway and nod their heads,
acknowledging a lyric with a shout,
you sit in awkward silence; and no doubt,
imagine yourself somewhere else instead.

And yet you come, and sit, and watch me play,
absorbing the crowd’s energy, and mine;
you leave no tip, no word of thanks, no smile.

Where did you learn to act in such a way,
a black hole dousing every light that shines,
that counters all catharsis with denial?

24 JUL 2007

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