Of Stones and Ghosts

My grandmother,
with yellowed fingernails
and a cigarette voice
like gravel crunching underfoot,
explained sorting out
the bad ones—
the hard stones
in the bag
of black-eyed peas.

We then rinsed
and soaked them,
allowing the ghosts—
or empty pea husks
to rise to the surface
for removal.

I had heard
the terse whispers
of my parents
from behind
their bedroom walls—
discussing how my mother
was left alone as a child
as my grandmother
frequented the bars
in Memphis,
and I had watched
my father ask
through tight lips
when Grammy would take
the bus back there.

But, as we sorted
and rinsed the peas,
I pretended
not to know.

Deltascapes

In the older part of town,
proud columns prop up porches
with faint blue ceilings,
as pots of geraniums
flank white wicker.

Outside of town,
small houses
shed paint skins
and watch turned earth
support the harvest.

In the gravel
at the road’s edge,
a clump of butterweed
invites one empty shoe
to sit for a while.

Serving Up Biscuits, With a Side of the Blues

Cherry Street in Helena
on a sun-soaked October day
at the King Biscuit Blues Festival—
sagging structures sit
next to refurbished storefronts,
and the air smells
like funnel cakes, beer,
and music.

The crowd weaves
between food truck vendors
and T-shirt stands
as musicians finger guitars
on street corners and stages.

A man plays guitar
near the entrance
to the main stage
with his hopeful case
open to donations—
a sign announces

“Bluesman’s 401K Plan”

Broken buildings are forgotten
as Helena seems to transform
back to a thriving river city
with juke joints open all night.

The riverbed soil grew cotton,
and it grew the Delta Blues,
as segregated communities
cultivated their spirit
into a raw and restless sound
that sent out roots
to Kansas City, Chicago, St. Louis,
and across oceans.

The audience for the main stage
sits on the levy that holds back
the brown water of the Mississippi.

They can hear
background music of the river,
and may also hear
faint sounds of harmonicas,
slide guitars and voices
from past Bluesmen—
Robert Lockwood used to sing
Come on, please take a walk with me
Back to that same old place,
Baby where we long to be.

Laura Trigg is a retired physician who has been writing poetry since elementary school. She joined the Poets' Roundtable of Arkansas in 2015. Her poetry has been influenced by the nature, people, and music of the American South. She is the mother of two grown children and lives in Little Rock with David, her husband, and Steven, their dog. dtrigg.05@comcast.net