sign up or log in for additional features. (It's free!)
one day walking in the park around the corner of his apartment, he saw the strange looking blue grass. amazed and shocked he wait for some time what he was seeing. suddenly he realized the he has found a new species of grass. he was over whemlwed. he quickly took few samples.
By Shraboni on 09.08.2013
Bluegrass is the music i’m not quite sure of.
It is somewhere in the country genre but not really.
It is the color of the sky manifest in what should be green grass.
By Jess on 09.08.2013
There was a twang of bluegrass in the air. She smiled, feeling the rythm bounce off of her like the wind. Then she slowly sank back into the earth from where she came.
By Emma Kukuk on 09.08.2013
bluegrass, that picking sort of sound, banjos, Appalachian mountains, and a whole boatload of history that White America don’t wanna touch. A twig in the mouth, some natural toothpick while notes trip over each other, overalls, not green grass, something Kentuckian, pure American, Wadsworth and Whitman.
By Saladin Thomas III on 09.08.2013
Bluegrass sway shimmy
Calling down and summoning
some jazz-like spirit
(but not quite,
By Jordan on 09.08.2013
With roots deep. Some days I hate working at the Credit Union, but that’s grassroots. I grew up too country for all of this. Maybe that’s why I crave the city. There’s a beat instead of strumming, and banjos just make me sad.
By Claire Marie on 09.08.2013
They danced on the roof, bulky bodies swaying over the glow and crowd from the festival below. They could smell the sour sunny beer swelling up, and they felt themselves waving against it, sweat clinging to fabric and fingers sinking into skin.
By reem URL on 09.08.2013
Twang and thrill
not quite wordlessly
this is a song of the people
the North says
and would they be so wrong?
I swear the mandolin music mixed with the bass and fiddle solo made it sound like I was back home. Back home someone would mention how the best fiddle players were always missing their front teeth or how the way the mandolin was just slightly out of tune on one string added so much to the jig. Here, where all I can listen to is this cd, the song sounds too perfect. This kind of music isn’t supposed to be perfect. It’s supposed to be grab the nearest instrument and strum, beat, or draw ‘til you can feel it in your toes and your grandparents look about ready to get up and dance.
The song ends suddenly. No cheers or hollering hillbillys crying for another song. All this music does right now is make me wish I was home.
So I bought a plane ticket I could barely afford and headed home.
By owltastrophy on 09.08.2013
Texas was bluegrass, and blue grass, and cockroaches scuttling out of it in swarm when the sun went down. Late night dehydration was a battle, a brave arms against the bugs, thrashing against their ancient exoskeletons until they curled into themselves, pussing and bleeding into the linoleum. They would always be there after you were gone.
growth out of the head of a dead hill.
something brittle in the fingers, breaking off and blowing in the wind.
something simultaneously lonesome and full, pregnant
with dust and sorrow.
You spent days fixing up that banjo, days when I wasn’t allowed to see you. But those were the ones you were happiest. Strumming away playing bluegrassy folk music in your basement. Whiskey and pipe tobacco, but you’ve never been to the South.
…I’m just going to pretend like this didn’t happen.
I really think it’s for the best.
By S.C. Lovelace on 09.08.2013
a division of Identity Crisis, Inc.