Ron Whitehead

Kentucky Blues

by Ron Whitehead
I am a poor wayfaring stranger
A wandring thru this vale of woe
But there’s no sickness, toil, or danger,
In that bright land to which I go.
I’m going there to see my mother,
I’m going there no more to roam;
I’m going over Jordan
I’m only going over home


from Kentucky he came to east Chicago railyard to work
                                                                         he was      gone
     and at night    after    fourteen hour days
                          Gideon’s Bible and The Cheapest Wine         warmed
                                           body and soul          sacred ceremony
   in ramshackle bedbugnewspaperwalledbeersign neon hotel
                            within eyeshot of “the yard”
                                                     not far to lumber on frigid morn

early evening
               thru the night
                              all night
                                        the wind whispers cries sings
                  to her
                           and thru the cracks
                                                         of her attic walls
                           she listens      she listens      listens
                                           and when the wind don’t blow
                                                                        she turns an ear
                                                          to the voice coming to her
                                                                  thru the stillness
                            thru the stillness      of gnarled cedar and pine
                                  blanketing like shrouds the old
                                       grayweathered woodslatted farmhouse
                                            nestled deep in this coalbarren wilderness
and she turns an ear
                                 to the voice coming to her
                                                                              thru the stillness
                                                                                    of cedar and pine
                              and thru the stillness
   she turns and looks at his
gray railman’s hat hanging limp from 8penny nail on wormwood wall
                                          his hat and railroad manual were all
                                                    he brought home the last time
                               but that first Christmas visit
he brought her a blue calico dress and red sweater with pearl buttons
        carried on the train with gifts for all
                                                                   he and they all proud
                                                         of him    a man    no longer boy
                                                 but always hard worker of farm and mine
                                                                  in this pioneer Kentucky land
                      but now he returns again     so soon     unexpected
                                                             returns        eternal
                                       presence    home    for good    his body
                               from east Chicago railyards he comes
            his body crushed between coal cars                            coal
and like the bituminous gold shipped from Kentucky to foreign parts
                                                                               he’s delivered by train
                                 long    wailing    whistle    signals    his    arrival
                                             last stop of the L & N

and a year later    frail    tired    torn
                                              she drifts
                                                                thru tears
                                                            by candlelight she sees
                                   she sees his spirit at top of attic stairs
                                       at foot of her bed calming real
                       presence he moves closer reaching to her
                his hand touches her forehead her eyes close finally
                                                                to deep dream sleep


Copyright © 1997-2008 Ron Whitehead