Now my Southern Soul can sing.
Blues thrum my roots
like boiled peanuts, cornbread, squirrel stew,
black men’s music spills into a white woman’s heart.
guitar strings strum
saxophone blares screeches
bass holds the beat
and now percussion.
echoed by all the instruments.
the blues speak.
sadness, joy, regret.
Slide guitar laments
broken hearts, lies told, love cheated.
Now jumping and jiving,
now tragic and mournful.
Harmonica adds its wail to the mix—
just hear that lonesome whistle blow.
Twang goes the guitar!
A perfect supper of sound,
echoes in the deepest layers of being.
My soul is stirred by the blues.