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Home » Poems » Trisha Sugarek » Blues in the Night

Blues in the Night

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This poem started out as lyrics in my novel, Ain't Nuthin' Gonna Separate Us. Available at all book stores and online. 1950. In a shack in the Georgia backwoods two siblings, Hannah Mae and Jerry, find themselves suddenly orphaned. The swift and unexpected death of their mother casts a long shadow of foster care, threatening to tear them apart. But fierce and resolute, Hannah Mae vows to keep the system from swallowing them whole. In a desperate bid for freedom, they hit the dusty roads, aiming for the sultry embrace of Mississippi and an obscure auntie, a phantom relative who exists only as a whisper in their memories and a faded photograph in their father’s old Bible. She is their only hope, their sanctuary against the storm. Amidst this turmoil, Jerry grows up fast, his soul ignited by the mournful wails of the blues. When he discovers the harmonica, nothing can stop him from mastering the instrument that fills his soul with song. Self-taught and brimming with raw talent, Jerry catches the ear of Jerimiah Johnson, a great ‘bluesman’ who had silenced his music a decade ago after a personal tragedy. Inspired by Jerry’s prodigious gift, Jerimiah takes the young harmonica player under his wing. From the cotton fields in the Mississippi Delta, where the blues echo the heartbeat of the oppressed to the jazz clubs of New Orleans he guides Jerry on his musical journey. While Hannah Mae struggles to let her brother go, let his amazing talent flourish, she studies to become a teacher and meets the love of her life. It’s not easy for the young couple as he is Jackson, Mississippi’s royalty and she is from the back swamplands of Georgia. “Ain’t Nuthin’ Gonna Separate Us” is a symphony of hope and heartache, a story of rhythm and resilience. As Jerry’s music and fame rise it becomes a beacon of unity, challenging the status quo and inspiring those who hear it.

‘Specially the lost souls seekin’ our music as a cure fur somethin’ they don’t know sickens them weave our magic, notes a tapestry of pain and triumph each song a story told In this dim-lit haven where the pain belongs guitar strings weep, and the piano keys moan Their troubles forgotten in the whiskey's sweet sin the moon hangs low, casting shadows on the walls and I blow my harp, conjuring tales of love and falls I've seen heartache and joy, etched in every face from the broken-hearted lover to the lost in grace

Copyright © | Year Posted 2025


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Book: Reflection on the Important Things