Robert Johnson Calls the Blues
for J.C.
the hour that calls dawn
the day already trussed in heat
the careless stars
gone
the smooth brown sky
gone
the sun kneels
penitent
like grief’s apology
here, the reverent reach of your hand
this Mississippi soil
this dollhouse church
this rain-blanched headstone
your own disease
close to mind
in all its heedless anarchy
here, touch
the earth’s slow decay
the blood memory of song
touch the fields
cradle of mist
its breath is what sings
its voice is what troubles
here, closer
come listen
closer
come hear yourself.
• • •
Ken Holland has had work widely published in such journals as Rattle, Atlanta Review, and Tar River Poetry. Three-time Pushcart nominee, he was awarded first place in the 2022 New Ohio Review poetry contest and was a finalist in the 2024 Concrete Wolf chapbook competition. He lives in the mid-Hudson Valley of New York. kenhollandpoet.com