Color of Blues (in Six Sentences)

We drive, windows down, in this summer steam to the end of a two mile dirt road sitting on the edge of a cotton field. In the rusty roof juke joint, Colt 45s are iced in metal tubs, catfish rolled in cornmeal, cooked in lard. Dirty dancing bows worn cypress floors cuts the blue haze in this one-time sharecropper’s shack. The night rings of bottlenecks sliding over wailing strings, the monochords of a diddley-bow moans of eddie-one-string- jones. It is black water blues that echo out to bloody hands, of old field hollers that answer in this delta night. It is too many that came before me painted the color of blues.

6 Responses to Color of Blues (in Six Sentences)

  1. johemmant says:

    Gorgeous……perfect prose poem.

  2. christine says:

    Nice, you bring me into an exotic world (to me), yet make it feel like home.

  3. maurie says:

    Nice piece,liked it.

  4. nathan1313 says:

    You’ve got a knack for this form, condensing the details.

  5. Holly Dunlap says:

    Great detials and rhythm in this! I can really FEEL this poem.

  6. Julie says:

    Have you been following me around? First the poem about the pathetic drunk woman on the internet at 3 a.m. and now the juke joint. Just kidding…uh…really.

    Scot, you are awesome. The rusty roof. The cypress floor. The color of blues. This is an amazing snapshot of life on the bayou, and your words have made my soul cry for home.

    Yes, there is rhythm here. There is soul. All rolled up in cornmeal and deep fried. I love it so much.

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