Aug 2013
As the crow flies over yonder
Rusted strings beckoning their call
The wind in the weeping willow sings
Redeems those ugly sins longer
Leadbelly played the midnight special
With Roberta dead and gone
Pieces in the trees, except
For her soul which belonged to another
Devils got my woman tonight
Heads twisting and turning in my sleep
Rising flames going south of heaven
Fear bearing fruits of the womb
Boy, he could play
He could make the wood cry
He could sing and howl like that
With scripture and gospels fly
Prodigal of the rising sun
Voices carrying his wings of charm
Playing tunes whispered by fiends
That mistook his woman for some strings
Willie Brown knows the crossroads
Ages ago in the summer day haze
Watching friends like Robert trade their
Fingertips for sliding bottle licks
Hellhounds got my woman
Dealing cards from under her dress
My body whipped and beaten
With worms squirm in ****** mess
There goes the one, the man in black
Tipping his hat to me
The Morning Star approaching, asking
“Do you want to learn from me?”
The crooked tree like the arm of death
The clouds rising over the red sky
Yellow eyes lingering and staring
Weighing my soul for the perfect price
Mud covered my feet
But it hasn’t been raining
Nightmares crawling from my nails
With crows sounding like my momma
Devil strumming with my woman
Devil grinning, with a mouth like a cellar furnace
Hell wanting a piece of me
Sliding bottle licks and singing blues
Under the crossroad tree
A ghostly soul who can play
For the traveling eternity.
Rusted strings beckoning their call
The wind in the weeping willow sings
Redeems those ugly sins longer
Leadbelly played the midnight special
With Roberta dead and gone
Pieces in the trees, except
For her soul which belonged to another
Devils got my woman tonight
Heads twisting and turning in my sleep
Rising flames going south of heaven
Fear bearing fruits of the womb
Boy, he could play
He could make the wood cry
He could sing and howl like that
With scripture and gospels fly
Prodigal of the rising sun
Voices carrying his wings of charm
Playing tunes whispered by fiends
That mistook his woman for some strings
Willie Brown knows the crossroads
Ages ago in the summer day haze
Watching friends like Robert trade their
Fingertips for sliding bottle licks
Hellhounds got my woman
Dealing cards from under her dress
My body whipped and beaten
With worms squirm in ****** mess
There goes the one, the man in black
Tipping his hat to me
The Morning Star approaching, asking
“Do you want to learn from me?”
The crooked tree like the arm of death
The clouds rising over the red sky
Yellow eyes lingering and staring
Weighing my soul for the perfect price
Mud covered my feet
But it hasn’t been raining
Nightmares crawling from my nails
With crows sounding like my momma
Devil strumming with my woman
Devil grinning, with a mouth like a cellar furnace
Hell wanting a piece of me
Sliding bottle licks and singing blues
Under the crossroad tree
A ghostly soul who can play
For the traveling eternity.
If you have ever lived or passed by the American South, then you might have heard legends and urban tales of Bluesmen and their stories. From the infamous Crossroads, where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to play blues guitar like no one else could, or the eerie folklore spreading like the tune of a hooking melody, the captivation of such music and spirit can be engrossing.
During my time in the South, namely Central Texas and numerous other states, you see bits and pieces to long that unappreciated idiom. Stories told through the words and phases of pain and suffering. The haunted bridges and abandoned houses where I shared my first paranormal encounter.
Evidence of this classic movement can be heard in the work of Robert Johnson, Skip James, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly, Honeyboy Williams, Muddy Waters and many more.
This slow moving poem is in dedication to exactly that.
During my time in the South, namely Central Texas and numerous other states, you see bits and pieces to long that unappreciated idiom. Stories told through the words and phases of pain and suffering. The haunted bridges and abandoned houses where I shared my first paranormal encounter.
Evidence of this classic movement can be heard in the work of Robert Johnson, Skip James, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly, Honeyboy Williams, Muddy Waters and many more.
This slow moving poem is in dedication to exactly that.
