No time left now
The light is extinguished
The chair unoccupied
The pen abandoned.
Their tales of earth, sea road,
of fire and stone. Ever read immortals
Unlocked the air of admiration
in the altered I.
The city of illusions lies
Shrouded in darkness
As the unreal and the real collide
We hear the dispossessed voices
Render the language of the night
When wild angels rode the wind
To rob us of the truest name
© Sheila Ash, 2018
“The thrill is gone” sings the reprise
I wipe the tears from my eyes.
“The Thrill is gone” is all the airways play
Hallelujah on this his judgement day.
Is it true the main man’s gone?
His music lingers long.
Raised sharecropping cotton in the American South
Discrimination and the Klan handing its justice out
a 15 dollar guitar nestling sweetly in your hand
“3 O’clock blues” sounding strong across the land
You hit the road in ’52
Nothing else for you to do.
The Beale Street Blues Boy and his bands
played a year of one night stands
Playing the juke joints, clubs and bars
You and Lucille were the stars
Heading t’ward the legend you became
“King of the Blues” in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Don’t fight over women. Don’t run into a fire.
Sing praises to the Lord in a gospel choir.
Foot stomping blues made me sway,
broken heart laments took my breath away.
Soulful 12 bar poems, finger-plucked in 4-4 time,
endorsing my heart strings to resonate in rhyme
With that deep gruff vibrato’s cadence
Full of pain and perseverance
Signature songs of lust and loss
overcame at such a cost
rhythmic rifts of grief and pains
The Man is gone, but the thrill remains.
© Sheila Ash 17th May 2015