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Simone Gabrielli Oct 2017
This land still sings your silent song
I chased it West under suspension bridges
In the empty whiskey bottles along Mississippi railroad tracks
In the sound of sugar sweet air in blue humid mornings
and the cool breath of absinthe sipped by the riverside
flanked by banana leaves.
Heard it in the breeze of swamp-side Cyprus trees, over swaying docks to rod iron French Quarter balconies, above the Bourbon street children drumming hymns of the Bayou's soul.
Shelby Jencyn Jun 2017
I woke to an overbearing brightness;
Not enough sleep again.
I thought about you and wished the light would retreat.
Wistful reminders of waking too early under your arm,
my head pulsating from lack of sleep--
I lay down and question my self worth.

I silently walk through a house that is not my own,
thick oak floors giving away my attempted discretion.
I move to a deck soaked in sunlight
tucking myself into a corner with a smoke.
My only crutch left.
I relive my last day with you.

"Where've you been?" 'Busy.'
"What are your plans?" Silence.
The corner of any room is where to find me.
Isolated and alone, until someone sees you.
One foot in, one foot out.
One hand reaching, one hand releasing.
My shortcomings help and hinder.

Everyone smiles at you in New Orleans.
I have absolutely no idea what spewed out of me to create this heap.
rain and wind swirl outside in the dark gray above
no one wants to be out in the mess now
we all just stand and stare on our porches
wondering when it might turn
deep rumbles and sharp flashes light up the sky
the roof leaks and the power goes out
poverty seeps into our hearts as the darkness grows
the wood swells and the bugs drown
here we are again, waiting for the storm to end
Devin Ortiz Oct 2016
New Orleans, the French Quarter
Her eyes illuminate in the streets
Jazz bands dance with her spirit
As the enchantment of the night begins

Her soul, out of body, out of mind
Like water, boundless, dances with devils
Under street lamps, in our world
Marionette strings sever into liberation

Oh! What freedom, to be, to exist
As an experience, unable to be captured
Not by the words that bind her to the pages,
Nor world which demands of her

All the while she knows,
She doesn't owe it a **** thing.
Will laird May 2015
I am from my grandmother,who snuck out of the house to smoke camel non-filtered

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from the pine tree with a water hose tied on it, where I imagined  I was Indiana Jones.

I am from the woods, where the cicadas sang at night.

I am from the kudzu that blanketed the trees and menaced the garden.

I am from the apple trees in the front yard, whose fruit                         never turned red.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from my grandfather’s plaid pockets, where he would pull out                     suckers.

I am from my father’s mustang that i crashed into the driveway.

I am from my great-grandfather’s picture, proudly displayed on the              wooden mantle.

I am from my grandmother’s bible stories, in the back bedroom where she read every night.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from Highway 494, where the trees were leveled to build subdivisions.

I am from the soft red clay and moist brown earth of the backyard.

I am from the moonlight I could see from the top of my house late at night.

I am from the sweltering heat and uncut grass in the front yard.

I am from the middle of nowhere, not far from town.

I am from the small cemetary past the corner store, where my grandfather      lies next to my grandmother,

and my father next to her.

I am from Uptown New Orleans, where my daughter learns her A.B.C’s in the back bedroom

where she prays every night

I am from the brown bag from the Shell station that i fill with suckers, and sneak to her when her mom isn’t watching.

I am from the picture of us dancing at a music festival, her on my shoulders, displayed proudly on the wooden mantle.

I am not from from anywhere, in the middle of town

— The End —