The Bluesman

Poem By Brad Evans

phil walks into the bookshop,
picks up a mag from a shelf.

I tell a work colleague near me:
‘that guy is a hell guitarist! '

he looks at phil -

phil's head is thin and withered-looking!
his hands look tired and weak!
his back is shaped like a banana
time appears not to have treated him that well.

my work colleague looks at me like I'm a fucking nut.


i tell my work colleague
to place a guitar between phil's hands
and give him some space...


his head will snap upright!
his hands will attend to the strings like they would a lover's back!

and he will sing the blues
in a style
and in a way

that only rare, gifted bastards do!

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A Midwinter Riddle Poem

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From a distance, at first glance,
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I don't know about you
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