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Back behind Gianni's bar
The Bluesman sings his tunes
To all the local n'er do wells
And to the stars and to the moon

His voice is coarse as forty grit
His playing smooths it out
He plays upon an orange crate
Comfort is not what he's about

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One sung just for me
One that paints pictures in my head
A song that I can see

Buskers, lined the concourse
The street where he was not
This was just a place for tourist fare
He was where the world forgot

His tunes were sung for no one but
Himself and to the air
Out front, that was another world
Bluesman, did not live out there

A crowd has gathered slowly
More of a group, than a real crowd
They heard about the bluesman
And out front was too **** loud

In back, you heard the feelings
Felt the music, heard the strings
You experienced the atmosphere
That a good old bluesman brings

Out of the crowd of fandom
Working his way through the mass
Was a young, tousled haired boy
Everybody let him pass

He rocked in one position
He felt the music ebb and flow
He looked where the notes were airborne
He saw the music go

The bluesman sat and watched him
playing stories, telling tales
Of drunks in old Las Vegas
And of sailors fighting gales

the young boy stood and rocked some
always looking at the air
He wasn't looking at the bluesman
He didn't know that he was there

He walked up to the old man
staring out into the space
that streamed the bluesmans music
right into the young boys face

the bluesman watched intently
As the young lad touched his hand
And he held the bluesmans old guitar
He became a member of the band

The boy moved even closer
If that were possible at all
He was feeling the sweet music
He was having quite a ball

The crowd watched as the bluesman
and the boy became as one
The boy resting his head now
On the guitar, having fun

He couldn't see the bluesman
But the music, it was there
The boy was blind, autistic
He saw the notes that filled the air

The bluesman kept on playing
For that was what the bluesman did
He was playing for the starry sky
And for this wondrous little kid

His mother came and held him
She took the bluesman by the hand
She said thank you for the music
For letting him be in your band

In a voice as smooth as Bourbon
The bluesman told her that her son
Could come and feel the music
The music makes us one

Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
One that's only just for me
Bluesman, Bluesman play a song
That only I can see....
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
Tooked  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
Back behind Gianni's
There was no one to be found
The alleyway was quiet
You could not hear a sound

The frost had not yet burned off
The alleyway was wet
The deliveries had not been made
No one was moving yet

In the sky  a rarity
Both sun and moon were out
But seen by just night creatures
Since no one was about

The back window to Gianni's
Opened to where Jim slept
There was garbage in the doorway
Since it had not yet been swept

The moon was getting lower
The sun just in the sky
The silence was then broken
By a blackbird flying by

The bird woke up the Bluesman
with his early morning call
And he watched the Bluesman set up
Perched up high upon a wall

The Bluesman had his guitar
Wiped some moisture off  his crate
Another blackbird landed
A rat peeked out from a drain grate

The Bluesman started playing
Singing low, just barely heard
More animals were showing up
And they took in every word

His medicine beside him
In a flask, engraved "For Dad"
His voice was smooth and smoky
You could hear him, just a tad

More birds came for the concert
More rats, some squirrels too
No humans yet were moving
In the early morning dew

He sang as he was known too
To no one special, just the sky
Songs of revelation
Songs of watching people die

The small flock that had gathered
Watched The Bluesman, moved a bit
As he took sips from his medicine
Not a single song...a hit

The world was just now waking
But The Bluesman didn't care
He was doing what he always did
Singing softly to the air

Normally, the street would fill
As word would spread around
That the Bluesman was out playing
But, today...no one was found

The window to Gianni's
Let Jim lie in bed and dream
That he heard the Bluesman singing
In his room, on a sun beam

The birds all flew away at once
The was movement in behind
Life was coming to the street
Where at night the vermin dined

The Bluesman packed his kit up
Snuck away from the day light
To sleep and rest his weary bones
To venture forth again that night

The rats went to the sewers
The birds had flown away
The squirrels, they were also gone
And the street began it's day

Jim looked out his window
The alley empty, no one thee
Where while Jim thought he was dreaming
The Bluesman sang songs to the air

An early morning concert
Full of music, 'neath the sun
A concert heard by many
A concert just for one
The word was out around the street
Tonight, behind Giannis bar
There would be really something special
From the bluesman and his guitar

For locals not for punters
Just for those upon the street
You'd better bring a lawn chair
If you wanted a good seat

The word spread fast and no one
Would miss this once they heard
New works from the bluesman
You had to take in every word

The bluesman was a legend
In this flawed, dark part of town
He only played back in the alley
That was where his show went down

At precisely eleven seventeen
The bluesman took his place
Upon his beat up orange crate
In his same familiar space

It was just like a cathedral
Underneath the golden moon
Quiet and forboding
As he started his first tune

The alley was the bluesmans church
As he sang to the street people
But this church had no walls or pews
No bells, it had no steeple

The bluesman sang of love and loss
Of dragons, ships and gin
He sang of Shubert, Bach and Liszt
He sang of constant sin

He looked but he saw no one
He was zoning, all alone
He sang songs of faith and hunger
Time to give the dog a bone

He played and drank his med-cin
For sometimes he got dry
The bluesman had the crowd entrapped
Beneath the shining moonlit sky

He talked of how his smoking
Through the years gave him his sound
It only took me fifty years
I'm surprised I'm still around

He sang of love and window panes
Of jealousy and trust
Of walruses and potholes
Of people turned to dust

As people sat in wonder
Of this prophet in disguise
You could see a certain twinkle
Deep in the bluesmans eyes

Gianni, stood off to the side
Timekeeper of the show
He signalled to the bluesman
One more and we must go

He had to close the restaurant
Turn the lights off in the back
So the bluesman took another sip
And grabbed a song from his minds pack

He finished up with something
Singing songs for all who came
He made them feel it was their heartsong
Although he never said a name

He sang of waitresses and barkeeps
Pawn brokers and of guests
of family and train tracks
of watchers and of quests

He finished up and packed away
His crate and his guitar
And he collected appreciation
In a two quart mason jar

The crowd left thirty dollars
almost ninety cents a seat
A fortune to the bluesman
And the folks here on the street
The door opened, he entered
There was a whoosh of air
The Bluesman looked bedraggled
And he grabbed himself a chair

Cy, came out, he heard the bell
Saw the Bluesman, gave a smile
He said "I see the storm is worse"
"It's gonna keep up for a while"

The Bluesman looked around the store
Saw a guitar on the wall
"She's an old one hanging over there"
He called to Cy, now down the hall

He grabbed it, rubbed the neck some
He said "she's got a lot to say"
He went back to the wooden chair
And the Bluesman, he did play

"There's lots of music in this girl"
"So many songs not sung"
He looked back at the hook behind
Where this old guitar had hung

He sang songs about Jesus
about freedom, and the moon
Amazingly for the guitars age
It wasn't out of tune

Cy went to the pawn stores  back
returning with a flask
He'd brought the Bluesman medicin
The Bluesman continued with his task

"This old girls a treasure trove"
"She's just so full of words"
"Songs kept hidden for so long"
"Songs just waiting to be heard"

He played some more, the storm let up
He thanked Cy, took his leave
"An old guitar needs to be played"
"It's lost songs to be grieved"

"You know that you can play her"
"Whenever you come by"
The Bluesman turned and smiled
He held the flask given by Cy

"That old guitar is special"
"She's an old soul, just like me"
"I thank you for the offer"
"Time will tell, we'll see"

The Bluesman left the pawnshop
It was if he wasn't there
He went out back behind Gianni's
And sang his music to the air
Jim Brady was a local man
His life was non-descript
He was not on local radar
In fact, he was a blip
He moved around but no-one knew
Just who Jim Brady was
they knew not where he came from
They didn't know his flaws
He worked under the table
He wasn't on the grid
But of all the money that Jim made
He gave most to his kids
He worked nights at Giannis
In the kitchen, ***** stuff
He cleaned up after closing
The work here...it was tough
But Jim, worked hard and honest
Earned his money every day
And Gianni, as a favour
Off the records he would pay
Jim Brady was a soldier
He was broken...and no good
But Gianni, saw his life light
And he did what all men should
He gave Jim work and fed him
Kept him clean and made a life
For Jim had come home injured
But it was internal strife
Jim's mind was torn and tattered
Simple thoughts could cause him pain
Jim Brady was a soldier
But would never serve again
He had trouble with his anger
He was not quite in control
But Gianni saw a soldier
Who needed help out of a hole
Gianni ran a restaurant
Been there for 30 years
He helped all those who knew him
Through the smiles and the tears
He housed the ones who needed
Just to get off of the streets
He fed the tired and hungry
And he performed other feats
Gianni was a hero
To all in this poor town
He would never turn a man away
If he knew that he was down
When Jim came in one evening
Gianni read his face
He said "Son, I'll help you"
"And you're now working in this place"
Jim lived by the water
The noises kept him calm
But on nights of wild weather
He stay at Giannis, nice and warm
Loud noises brought the nightmares
Put the pictures in his head
Of the IED explosion
And of his three companions dead
He went to get some treatment
But the VA said "You're fine"
"there's more important cases
than just you out in the line"
He was shuffled home to start again
A damaged, broken man
But with issues like poor Jim did have
He tried as one man can
His marriage broke down quickly
His wife was not to blame
But Jim came home with issues
And the **** war was to blame
He looked for help at every turn
But no-one would help out
Until he met Gianni
Jim's new hero I won't doubt
He gave him work and money
Jim then gained some self esteem
He wasn't Jim the soldier
But, you could see who he had been
His pride was back, his head was high
But still he had the dreams
There was nothing that they knew of
To alleviate the screams
But Gianni, still the hero
Thought "I know what might just work"
He introduced Jim to The Bluesman
He also has a minor quirk
The Bluesman as you seem to know
Lives out behind and plays
His music in the alley
Where he spends most of his days
Gianni helped The Bluesman
Maybe he could now help Jim
It could be The Bluesman's music
Might just be right for him
Most nights when Jim was working
He'd leave the window open some
Just to let Bluesman's music
Find the kitchen . make Jim hum
Jim liked The Bluesman's music
It painted pictures in his head
But this time they were joyful ones
Not pictures of the dead
They helped him come to terms with things
That made his life a mess
They did what others couldn't do
His problems were addressed
With Gianni and The Bluesman
Jim moved on and did quite well
Funny how a restauranteur
And music man could bring Jim back from hell.
Sunday morning silence
Like the eye inside a storm
The street was empty, vacant
This would be the brand new norm

The windows all were shuttered
The doors were closed up tight
No one in Cy's doorway
To recover from the night

The church doors were both open
A note pinned to the door
The back, open to the alley
The note, "pray" and nothing more

Giannis, door was locked up
Joe was sleeping in the back
A note said "order through the window"
The window, open just a crack

The bar was also locked tight
A note said "coffee, but no beer"
"yell through the broken window"
"Don't worry we will hear"

Broken Spines had in the window
A large note for all to see
The note said "Cooking up some chili"
"Come back here around three"

Cy came in the back way
Taped his note up on the door
"Don't worry about paying"
"Call if you need more"

The street was still in motion
It had life, but none to see
Today, and for a while
The street folk lived for free

The city closed the main roads
The street, forgotten to most folk
The old man, sat on the curbside
Looking up, he lit a smoke

People ordered up their coffee
Got themselves a bite to eat
Stood in line outside, all waiting
Social distance...now six feet

Most folks on the street now
Lived above their stores or near
The street was still in action
Strong and silent, cloaked in fear

While life was now adapting
A sound, blew by upon the air
The Bluesman, oh so gentle
Was singing, but, from where?

The alley by Gianni's
Was empty, not a sound
But, still there heard the music
With the singer not around

The music, it got louder
The wind brought it to the street
The stores opened windows,
To hear the Bluesman's vocal treat

It took some time to figure
Where the music was relayed
He was on Gianni's rooftop
He just sat up there and played

A special Sunday concert
With stops for "medicin" now and then
Brought the street folks altogether
They were one now, once again

The Bluesman sang The Beatles
He sang U2, he sang the Band
He sang all the Guthries
He sang about the land

He sang of inspiration
Of not being all alone
How we were in this together
His message simple, inspired tone

He sang songs that got you dancing
In the stores, that's what they did
All alone, but, with the Bluesman
Dancing like a little kid

Some sang, but no one heard them
They sang loud and didn't care
They were exactly like the Bluesman
Singing proudly to the air

He sang for near an hour
Folks below yelled up their praise
The Bluesman brought The street together
In the most beautiful of ways

He finished up by singing
Two songs that made this right
He sang "Imagine" by John Lennon
Then he gave them "Silent Night"

He made his way down slowly
He was older than he was
He did this for his people
He did this just because

People started singing
You could hear it all around
But, the Bluesman grabbed some chili
Found his tent, and hunkered down

Inspired, I would say so
That is just life on the street
A group of flawed, broke people
You'd be lucky should you meet

A family, but not really
They were one, but, many too
No one here is really special
They are all like me....and you.
It was a hot summer night
Still nearly ninety, I'd say
When out back of Giovannis
The Bluesman sat down to play
He pulled up his crate
Took a sip from his flask
"This here's my med-cin"
"In case someone happens to ask"

He started a story
That we'd never heard
We're the folks of the street
And we followed each word
It's a tale of James Withers
A man in need of a hand
But to us on the street
He was the Sand Castle Man

The bluesman strummed gently
He didn't want the words to be lost
For this was a story
That had a hell of a cost
You see, James the sand man
Lost a life to the sea
His grandson, young James
Drowned and died ...only three

Each day James went down
With his grandson in tow
They'd make castles together
They'd make some fast and some slow
One day the pair
were out at the end of the pier
when a rogue wave hit hard
And took what James held most dear

His grandson was swept out
Lost at sea ....never found
They searched for three weeks
But the poor boy was drowned
James kept a vigil
Every day on the beach
He'd look out on the water
His heart out of reach

He kept making sand castles
As he did with young James
With shells and old driftwood
And he gave each castle names
He'd have non-existent armies
Fight non existent wars
In his hard packed sand castles
He carved windows and doors

There was nonexistent dragons
In pools by the sea
Guarding nonexistent princesses
Who no one could see
There were turrets and moats
And each day he'd build one
To be lost to the tide
As the days work was done

Each day a new castle
Each day a new war
But , nobody knew
What he was building them for
The tide would come in
And would sweep it away
All that hard work
Gone at the end of the day

But, next morning he'd show up
Build one more for the tide
With armies nonexistent
To flow away for a ride
People would watch him
Make the castles of sand
With imaginary soldiers
In imaginary lands

The bluesman sang soft
Took a sip once again
From the flask on his hip
It's just med-cin
The crowd didn't stir
We were like moths to the flame
As we heard the bluesman
finish his tale about James

I asked him one morning
If he ever would end
Building castles of sand
He said, Bluesman, my friend
I know that each castle
Will be washed out to see
And I hope that my grandson
Gets a message from me

I make each sand castle
Like we both used to do
I come back every day
And start another anew
It helps with the closure
I send my soul to the sea
And I hope that my grandson
Knows their for him made by me

He finished and thanked us
And we went on our way
All of us changed some
From what the bluesman did play
Next time I'm out wandering
And see the castles of sand
I'll know what he's building
Now...that I understand
I was banging out some music
When from the dark I heard a voice
Son, if you want to make a living
Then you gotta make a choice
I heard what you was playing
That was music, not just noise
Son, you wanna make a living
You gotta make your choice

Son, pass me that there  growler
Over in the corner
Don't drop it, you'll be sorry if you do
It'll burn on through the florboards
It'll burn right on through to China
It's a wicked drink, A nasty witches brew

He said, I know you is the cleaner
You clean up when night is done
But, I've heard you from the alley
You're a bullet, shy one gun

Kid, you play piano like it ain't been played before
You're wasting your **** time in here cleaning up the floor
There's a whole world out there waiting, just go on through the door
Oh...they call me The Bluesman....before I say much more

I played some boogie woogie
something light just to begin
He said, boy...get that growler
I need some med-i-sin
He pulled up close beside me
Rubbed his face and scratched his chin
Now, follow close young player
The lesson will begin

We played for near five hours
Didn't hear the storm outside
We played what struck his fancy
We told stories, we both lied
He played that guitar so  smoothly
With the strings so loosely tied
He brought things out from deep within me
Stripped bare, nowhere to hide

You got to feel the music
Not just play it to get paid
You got to let it lead you
You got to know why it was made
The folks who made this music
From the normal line had strayed
You got to feel the music
Play it right, you may get laid

He drank most of the growler
said, son, now I need to rest
I've heard bluesman all around here
And I'd say you're second best
There only is one bluesman
And then he puffed his chest
You met him, and he taught you
It's up to you to do the rest

I finished with my cleaning
Heard him leave and go out back
Then I heard the whistle
Of the train, pass on the track
I had to choose the music
Be a bluesman, not a hack
I learned that  in five hours
I'd learn more when he came back
Daily walks would lead me down

The tourist laden streets

Where people from all walks of life

Would congregate and meet

Buskers, singers, ne'er do wells

Would work throughout the throngs

But in back of Giannis restaurant

Sat an old man sharing songs

He didn't sing so much as talk

His voice was hoarse with age

But a milk box and an orange crate

Were his table, chair and stage

His instrument, an old guitar

Scarred, battle worn and black

His guitar strap was as old as he

An old potato sack

He sat and played to nobody

He just let the words be there

His audience could be a hundred deep

Sometimes it could be air

His music was his lifes blood

It was everything he had

So he shared it with the people

And the people....they were glad

The tourists, stayed away though

They were more attracted by the flair

Of the buskers and the jugglers

Not this man who wasn't there

He never left to join the crowd

And to sell his songs to those

Who really wanted nothing more

Than to hear some manufactured prose

The people who he played to

Were just others from the street

They worked the bars and restaurants

And at night they'd find a seat

In front of this old bluesman

Sitting by his orange box

Playing his guitar by candle light

Taking in his songs and talks

He sang songs from the heart, I guess

About those who'd he'd met

He'd sing about a dozen songs

That would constitue a set

Then he'd open up his silver flask

And ******* two gulps down

"This here's just my medicine"

"My past lives just to drown"

He sang of Truck Stop Beauty Queens

And of Walks out in the park

He sang of people living life

Not just hiding in the dark

He sang of things so real you'd see

Their pictures in your mind

He'd sing of places and of things

That others would not find

But tourists, they just stayed away

Near the buskers blowing fire

While yards away this old man sat

Just like an old town cryer

His audience would leave a bit

of change for their free show

He never asked for anything

For this was his row to ***

At two though when the street shut down

He closed his show down too

But he always had an extra song

A special one for you

His music came from in his heart

He shared it without fear

For once it left his throat it was

A sound that was so dear

The tourists went to hotels

Once the buskers all went home

But he just moved his crate and box

He slept out here alone

He sang his songs of characters

Who helped make us his life

His words were sometimes gentle

While others cut you like a knife

His world was just that orange crate

And his music helped unfurl

The melodies in this mans mind

It helped him share his world

He knew some things and people that

Would take rather than give

He sang about the street people

Because among them he did live

His home was just a cardboard box

Behind Giannis bar

And if you want to see a real good show

You don't have to go far

It's just a little beaten path

Away from tourist fare

Where this little, old, shy

Bluesman sings to hundreds or the air..
On Christmas Eve, the street was dead
Most folks were home or gone
The buildings all were empty
That is, except for one

Gianni kept the lights on
As he did most every night
To let the people of the street
Know that everything's all right

Gianni's was a haven
A safe house for the street
The residents were welcome
And there was always a free seat

On Christmas Eve, though magic...
would take place inside the back
For each Christmas Eve at midnight
They'd get more than Santa with his sack

Precisely at the hour
When Christmas Day became the date
The house lights dimmed just slightly
As if by magic, or by fate

There on stage with Gianni
Sat the Bluesman and a band
Some only played this concert
It was the best one in the land

Hymns and Christmas carols
Sung like angelic odes of joy
And as always ...there's the Bluesman
Smiling, looking just a little coy

You never knew his secrets
There was always more than he would show
And most folks would pay a fortune
To know just what this man did know

Holy, Holy, Holy,
and songs from years gone by
were mixed with hymns that grabbed your heart
and made most folks there cry

It was invitation only
Just the folks from on the street
The locals didn't post it
It was kept quiet.... indiscreet

He played for near three hours
His little band of odds and sods
Singing songs of Christmas
Singing songs to God

He always had his med-sin
that small flask was by his side
And Gianni, every watchful
made sure it never did go dry

The Bluesman, stopped the concert
the room was quiet, all subdued
And everyone just sat there
I swear, not one person moved

He opened up the window
Pointed to the brightest light
He said "another saviour may be born"
"And it may just be tonight"

It was on a night like this my friends
That Mary did give birth
When Jesus Christ, our saviour
was given life right here on earth

My music sends a message
To all, both near and far
The same message was sent years ago
By one bright shining star

Gianni, led them all outside
And they stared into the sky
Silent Night indeed, Gianni thought
And then the Bluesman bid goodbye

He went back through the kitchen
To where he slept most winter nights
Where Gianni, gave him refuge
You know it's safe....from the bright lights.......
patty m  Feb 2015
Ouija
patty m Feb 2015
Silly fools,
touching the planchette
as it invades the haunts of spirits and demons
their dangerous interaction
pointing to blackened letters
or the answers yes or no.

Open gateway something relentless creeps to the surface
unbeknownst to anyone.  
Do they think this is a game, this summoning?

Bluesman, playing his guitar
sings about a shadowy man
on a dark road and the bargains he makes.
Moonless skies and rumbling trains
a strange twisting in guts
as a crows caw spreading shiny wings.

Shadows, the long road is filled with shadow,
filigreed limbs darkening fleeting time and the trains with
their black smoky smudge muffling secrets.

A strange man turns up, like a carney in a traveling show
to show us a frightening future.
Spreading prophesies of horrible events along with the demise of millions, with demons gnawing human flesh.
Then too there was the promise of the dead rising;
exhumed bodies, an army of zombies marching.

Old men smoke their cigarettes, lungs crackling
in phlegmy coughs, rheumy eyes filled with pain
as they watch the children **** in frenzied dance
their heads spinning clockwise. . .  
The train chugs off in the distance
as the last illusion crumbles into a dark and rotting hole.

We no longer see the stranger.
as the song comes to an end,
yet disquieting things skitter on the edge of reason
as they slither through our fear.
Up ahead looms a fiery god staying
trajectories of doom and damnation,
while the Bluesman strums his old guitar
on a ghost train going nowhere.

— The End —