The forest must have been colorful,
peeling off greenish yellow towards rusty brown
The ground is soggy, paths unclear
branches and wind-blown vegetation.
There must have been walkers huddled
or full with their face in the watery sun,
who was perhaps there. They must have looked disapproving
or agreeing. There were also solid beech nuts,
chestnuts or a single ***** fall in November
as you know it, from before and pictures. I don't remember.
You were there.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 11:42 AM UTC
I lament the days to come
theyre empty and look
so useless without
your words they moved
my view of things and
anointed the way
I look towards life
and living in a broad
perspective its seems
in vain, so now all
thats left are forgotten
words memories of
brightness and a
sun that fades into
an ocean of emptiness
no flowers please
acquisitions are not
appreciated
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 3:43 AM UTC
In his glass world
he seems to float
embryonic smooth and white,
not pure white but rather yellowish
watched by thousands of eyes
far from his ilk,
alligators in green, out there,
innocent, harmless
it seems as if they, in the evening
after the last visitors have left,
pull the valve out of his back
and let the air and life leave him
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 10:47 AM UTC
At the third street on the left
from Bourbon Street,
the reddish brown waterline
follows us to the hotel
The sleek white walls appear
to be from ‘after Katrina’
like many here
In the spring sun
the pale green lies deserted
in the shadow of
a long line of soot
coughing cars
Where Sachtmo's park
seems forgotten
after cleaning and renovation
is the home of this
other musician with worldly
allure, like a fresh blueberry
on a flat beaten hill
full of loose ends
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:21 AM UTC
There is one living
in every street
of this city
or more
they do not constitute a partnership
have no mores
nor do they share a front door
the shame keeps them
indoors, their actions in the shade
of the past, tucked away in deep drawers
behind bankthick vault doors
any reference to the events
from the past
may cause irreparable
damage to the
mental health
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 4:29 AM UTC
This city breathes the blues
buried just under the skin
in the memory of cleaners
and slaughter
Here the gospel travels
from mouth to heart
and it offers comfort
as by-catch of the bottle
The center as a pacemaker
in an old and worn out body
is waiting for the final lines
from a song by Muddy Waters
"You ain't gonna trouble
poor me, anymore "
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 8:09 AM UTC