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Blues is not in the color
of skin, but in the life lived,
the pain felt, a willingness to
report it—

We convert it to beauty, try
to please the LORD with
sounds off the Mississippi River
whether you live there or here.

We see and feel a roll of shore-
break, the beat reminding, the riff
from God descending so that we
can rise every other line.

We drive directly into the pain,
know we can do no good by
skirting it to the flank; we give all
we can against the grain.

We see a break in the clouds,
an end to the rain—so keep playing
our woes, the dog barking, the bird
low, inspired chuckling,

Yes we even learn to laugh, as
someone listening understands what
we say!  Has had that bummer, too!
It’s only real if unaltered, just come

with the Truth.

“Anything more would have seemed
too weak” said the poet next to a
farm he farmed poorly but unique,
his pen a fountain run by bugs

and fireflies, wisdom and changing
skies; say it, repeat it and change it
to a good riff, may we smile and laugh
many times before they say we die.

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