Birds flutter in the fountain taking their morning shower, the broken finial cascading a quicksilver waterfall The storm-stripped pear tree is putting out new growth, flower buds, as though it were April instead of September Cicadas are singing a dirge for summer while autumn shines like a beacon and I sigh my relief Continue reading Morning Meditation
In hurricane mode your life becomes an altered reality in which time has no meaning or substance. You’re stuck in a no-man’s land of howling winds, horizontal rain torrents and the pops and creaks of a storm-stressed house. The world outside the storm zone turns on but you’re inside a cocoon of stomach churning anxiety, uncertain of your next hour. After the storm passes, you enter a state of pure exhaustion from days of running on adrenaline and wait for the Gods of Electricity to favor you with power and a return to the normal little life you see … Continue reading New Eyes
Hush now, dog! There’s nothin’ on the front porch but an empty chair rockin’ in the rain spatter drippin’ off the roof. Thunder’s rappin’ an a-rollin’ and lightenin’s doin’ the stanky leg ‘cross the sky – yeah, it’s loud enough to wake the dead but they best stay sleepin’ lest they float away. Continue reading On 13 Days of Rain
Photo by Infrogmation Varmint Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum. It was resting in the courtyard of a bar on Frenchman Street next to a palmetto palm under the moonlight . Uncle Lionel was inside slaking his thirst with a cold draft Dixie bought with tips from anonymous tourists and devoted locals. The word went out in the humid New Orleans night, wafting from bar to bar on the notes of wailing saxophones and indignant trumpets. Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum. The news hit the streets and ran on a second line of lightening, traveling on the dancing feet … Continue reading RIP Uncle Lionel
On Delaronde street sweat runs beneath 200 year old oaks and between breasts, over gnarly roots and down the curve of a belly. Words of love, a melody in French, weave through the plumbago screen hiding a pristine white gallery and wafts on down the street, fading into the distant sounds of river traffic. Laughter crackles with the clink of glasses leaking from behind wrought iron, amid the slightly rustling palmettos. Fans and pages turn, sun tanned legs stretch out. The day dissolves into evening. Time to light the candles and pour the wine. _____________________________________ Shared on dVerse Poets Pub. … Continue reading Another Day On Delaronde
It gave her a weird thrill, his hands were shaped like strawberries, emergency lights barely blinked at the voice in her ear sliding down her throat all the way to the base, small talk about a storm brewing in the Gulf, surrounded by cypress trees and lily padded bayous, a weathered table by the window, phantom picnics interrupted. Obsession probably killed her; her eyes were blank, the world forgotten. _____________________________________ Shared on dVerse Poets Pub. Continue reading One Friday In August
Humidity hangs in the air like a wet dishrag on the kitchen sink, but as the sun breaks over the church steeple, the air becomes more delicate and a slight breeze ruffles the banana leaves. Only a ship’s horn on the river breaks the relative silence of a city morning. Continue reading Morning Meditation
The air of this late spring morning feels untouched and smells of the sweet perfume of possibility, clear and utopian. I want to grab this time and wrap it around my body, luxuriating in the ‘Now’ of it, rubbing it into every pore, plumping my skin with its temperate gentleness to last through summer’s fire and the rain-whipped rage of the season that shall go un-named. Continue reading Morning Meditation
I waited by the gate where we’d planned to meet, leaning against the metal barricade hot in the sun as sweaty arms and legs brushed by to get closer to the stage. Robert Cray was jamming, sweat dripping down his face while his mouth worked, chewing on lyrics like he was eating barbeque with a kick, fingers picking that guitar clean, leaving bare bones where meat used to be. I saw you coming, walking fast like you had somewhere to be, eyes focused on the roped off area behind the stage, guarded by a big man in red with shifty … Continue reading Hanging With the Cool
When the water came crashing through windows it wasn’t lovely or artistic, it was raw and dirty and filled with the last words screamed by lonely old ladies in wheelchairs who were found six days later in the room where they drowned. _____________________________________- I never know when the memories of the storm (Hurricane Katrina) and the flood and the victims will grab my gut. It did just now when I saw this photo and read about the artist who created it “to mimic a frothy flood of water rushing into a room”. And this was my reaction. This was a … Continue reading Perspective
