Blues Bayou

Open your heart, and let it slide. The giving keys swing to and fro in the late eve, and the brisk frost feels just like an old, clapboard green, stars, moon, and seaside funny, cricket home alive. A heartbeat, familiar kismet kind of old soul love. Pink dew, the lyrical dusk hour when the world gets real slow and quiet … The sweet suckle melody, familiar, lovely, yet hauntingly old in the bones, still and quieting to the marrow, indigo blue rhythm. The greens I have seen. Parallel lives meet across continents and telephone lines. Dancing in the dark on the wet cement, barefoot and naked feels just fine. Step on my toes, I really don’t mind. Stretching, and shrinking the worry lines, playing riffs on a beat-up, red Mahogany ukulele, barebones, back roads leading nowhere, lost and happy, we’re not tight on time. Pickup trucks, tumbleweeds and desert roads calling, whispering winds homeward bound and solid ground, straight shot sunshine to Dr. Pretty’s embrace, sweet jasmine and magnolia rhymes. The spirit soars between the hook and the chorus. Hush, child your pretty, girly dress feels just fine, dancing and towing the line. Black Licorice tastes just like heaven on the lips, quivering frostbite. Don’t you worry little darling, the spirit bends with the wind and the tallest Evergreens. Daddy darling, dance with me one more time, my toes are cold and wet, and orange calcite emotional healing weeps down my spine. New Orleans second linin’ bleeds crimson red in summertime. I love to let the lines on your sigh so lovely; sweet kind, and gentle face carry me across space and time. Smiling eyes, bounce back and never die, as your fading voice becomes the night forgotten, lingering mystery. 

Photo Credit: leidio via Compfight cc