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Mar 2018
Gianni watched the clouds move in
Closed his window for the rain
It was spring and that meant
That it was gonna storm again

He looked out at the street outside
He saw a man turn and walk away
"Better get himself inside"
"Looks like a nasty one today"

The man looked at Gianni's
But his mind was down the road
His hair was wet from the rain
He carried a large load

A block on up from Gianni's
Past the bookstore "Broken Spines'
Was an old white clapboard building
That had sure seen better times

In true New England style
It had shutters painted blue
It had lived a hundred lifetimes
It was nothing short of new

The man walked to the building
Looked around and walked inside
It was dark, and it was scary
A place for lost souls to reside

Gianni never watched him
He had already killed the light
Except the one saved for the Bluesman
To help him safely through the night

Out back of old Gianni's
The Bluesman hunkered down
His box was lifted on four skids
In rain like this he'd surely drown

He looked out at Gianni's
Smiled at the light left on
He knew the street was vacant
Everybody was now gone

The man stood in the building
Looked around for what he sought
He couldn't find the thing he searched for
So his visit was for nought

The building creaked and whispered
Echoed voices from the past
From workers and from sailors
Who's lives were spent with sail and mast

Once it was a tavern
Then a house of ill repute
For years it was a hostel
For the lost and destitute

I guess it's come full circle
A place for homeless and for *****
A place to find redemption
A place for that and more

The man took off his jacket
Ran his hand through his wet hair
Said a silent prayer to Jesus
Even though no one was there

He set to work the next morning
Cleaning up and setting straight
He went on out for say, an hour
To get some wood to fix the gate

Trucks came down the alleyway
Woke the Bluesman as they passed
They were all on their own mission
The trucks drove by so fast

The man stood at the entrance
Gave directions to the men
It was happening so quickly
It was nearly ten to ten

Boxes and some benches
Tables, chairs and things
Were now scattered in the building
On up from where the bluesman sings

The man walked up the alley
The bluesman was in form
He was singing to a ferral cat
In the sunshine getting warm

The man looked at the bluesman
Stopped and listened with a smile
Then he ventured over to him
"God, it's been a while"

"How you doing Father?"
"I see you've made your way to town"
"I"ve got some medcin in my thermos"
"Why don't you rest and sit yourself down?"

"You know I've missed you Bluesman"
""The way you sing just fills my soul"
"I've been empty since you left us"
"Your voice, helps make me whole"

The Bluesman and The Father
Tied together through the word
A pair just so unlikely
You'd not believe it if you heard

"I've moved in to the building"
"Up the block, I'm sure you know"
"I know it" said the Bluesman
"I go inside to miss the snow"

"Well, we're opening on Sunday"
"As a respite from the street"
"We're looking for some people"
"To come on out and meet"

"I'll have coffee, and some biscuits"
"I'll introduce myself and talk"
"I need to ask a favour"
The the two went for a walk

"I need you there on Sunday"
"You know it is your choice"
"I'm not going to preach religion"
"I only want you for your voice"

"I know you believe what you do"
"You follow what you know"
"I'm not asking as a preacher"
"Just a friend, from long ago"

He pulled the Bluesman to him
Higged him close then walked away
Then he went back to the building
Lots to do in there today

The Bluesman walked a little
TookedΒ Β his flask off of his hip
Then he pulle the stopper from it
And then he took a good long sip

Twice more he stopped on his way back
His past was now just up the street
He grabbed his old guitar and then
The Bluesman took a seat

He didn't know just what to do
His past was now right here
The Father was his mentor
Someone he held so dear

Sometime back, and somewhere else
The Bluesman broke a trust
He'd broke a promise to him
He turned his golden word to rust

It was two days until Sunday
The Bluesman just sat and played
And in the building on the corner
The man, worked hard and prayed

There was a sign in front, fresh painted
Saying "Welcome, one and all"
"Services this Sunday"
"In our large, cold, meeting hall"

Sunday came so quickly
A few folks slowly wandered in
Not so much to see the preacher
But, to see the house of sin"

The preacher walked among them
Shaking hands and drinking tea
It was still a work in progress
That was surely plain to see

In the middle of the morning
There was twenty folks or so around
The silence of the morn was broken
By an old familiar sound

In the alley on an old crate
Sat The Bluesman singing songs
Hymns, of all that's holy
How to right all of man's wrongs

In the doorway stood the preacher
As the crowd passed by his side
He listened to The Bluesman
And he opened the doors wide

"I guess we'll meet out here today"
"We have a show for all to hear"
"The gospel from The Bluesman"
"A voice I've always held so dear"

Now, on Sunday's if you're lucky
If all the stars give you a sign
You might come and find the Bluesman
Singing to God, he starts at nine
Roger Turner - Poet
Written by
Roger Turner - Poet
301
 
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