Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Oct 2019
oh, now listen, to that blues man, singin' prayer
singin' words in ways we never
hoid woids sung thisaway, since Grandma on th Bayou,
introduced
me, to Mr. Jake,
Now mister jake, he was old country, old school

He settle a passle of flybit cows with a croon,
aimed right at the moon,
top o' his lungs, knowin'

I am the only voice I hear, my prayers
never bounce,
they soak down

may you arrive, said Mr. Jake
where you wisht you were, when we

learned of life in Louisiana from an old Siclilian
fisher man cook, who knew of
Tavasco Inlet, to Bayou Bleu,
the real
you can feel black mud from the top of
the river, carried all this way,
to squish between my toes,

so I never fo'got toejam spreader was a
occupying principle behind any
search for pearls
once fed to pigs.
Mr. Jake taught me to think these muddy
thoughts
with my toes, wigglin',
feel a nibblin'
set
hook, what do you know?
A thought while wondering if prayer is more the unwritten poetry blowing on breezes that sometimes feel like care-touch, figertip to cheek
Ken Pepiton
Written by
Ken Pepiton  76/M/Pine Valley CA
(76/M/Pine Valley CA)   
193
   ---
Please log in to view and add comments on poems