Uncle Jim Poem by C.R. Blazo

A creaky screen door
On an Allegheny porch
Rolling rockers
On paint chipped planks
Uncle Jim
Grab your guitar
Custard teeth are gates of sound
A map of life upon a wrinkled face
The breeze carries song to the firs
And Uncle Jim plays on
With hair of sand
And earning hands
He plays to dusk while stopping time
And the Bluebird's song blends with the old
To hide in a song as a child
Is to hide in death as a man
When land seems to crumble
And youth tends to fade
I could always find a Bluebird
Knowing Uncle Jim never strayed.