The Magic in the Blues

Sitting there one row back left from centre
mesmerized by the sounds and imagery of the blues
I became fixated on the chord progressions
and the solos that pulsated insouciantly
within their confinements
I could feel the notes as they were
stretched or trilled or slurred across the fret
or hammered into the neck
with an emotive force of passion
A passion that drove my imagery
further into the repetition of the twelve bar blues
Like a mythological bird
each repetition would rise renewed
from the fire that blazed within the blues
I became intoxicated addicted
craving one more repetition
one more image for the sheer beauty of its versatility
On stage there was a man
who represented a history of blues
blowing and caressing his harp
enticing from the fire that burned within his soul
an image that would paint the progression he played
Adroitly he played with the skills of a craftsman
and the sensitivity of one who has known pain
He painted images of life that begin and end in intervals
He brought me to a realization of life and death
as I sat there intoxicated from his images
for I realized that he too was but
an interval that begins and ends
an interval of beauty and articulation
that moves into a repetition of intervals
As he blew the last note of his last interval
he cast his harp into the crowd
as a bride cast her bouquet into the arms of a dreamer
I watched the harp as it slowed in space and time
until it seemed an eternity
I dreamed of the magic that must lie within its reeds
the brushes that painted such beautiful imagery
And as it passed the front row
a hand reached up on which it glanced
and fell into my lap
I instantly put the harp to my lips
in hopes that some of the magic still lingered
within its reeds and I blew...

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