Return to
Table of

a poem by Kevin Ridgeway (1 of 2)

Bearded Prophet

his white hair dangled
in massive strands
beneath an immaculate hat
his beard a sheath that
he strummed in between
punching the ivory keys
with the delicacy of
an old master,
bringing out music
of pain and glory
without making
his fingers bleed
singing songs of love
tortured dreams,
the good times,
the bad times
all with a
boogie woogie
accentuating this
bluesy collection
of his soul's riffs
the tight rope
of life
he played on every
record and sang
every song
and he embodied
it all that night
behind dark shades
and a stern growl into his microphone
shining underneath
white lights
in his leather
overcoat with fringe
dancing as he played
singing from his
stubborn heart
like a fallen angel
to his God

© by Kevin Ridgeway
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #21 ~ May 2012    next poem