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Simone Gabrielli Nov 2017
Took me to the wrong end of the Mississippi
Blown north from the whistling blues
Dreamt that sweet sound of saxophones
Coloring St. Claude Avenue

Banana leaves melted into evergreens
Where the swamps finally ran cold
Through the mountain ranges of the lakes, and banjos of the plains
Where the countryside grew quiet and old

I grew up on the wrong end of the Mississippi
But now I’m taking that southbound train
Oh honey don’t ask me how I’ve been
It’s a restless, lonesome pain
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.
Bobcat Aug 2017
I have nothing to show for these past 3 years except a broken heart and a taste for whiskey
Now the early mornin' hours is when I think the most
Though you know I'd really like to get some sleep

See my body has a home but my soul is all alone and I know that it's all my fault
So I'll pour another drink and light up this roach while I sit and think 'bout the last 3 years wishing that this whiskey still burned deep

I'm listening to songs about New Orleans thinking that maybe thats where I should be
But who am I kidding I hate the humidity and I can't escape the shakes no matter how far I run away

And although my body has a home, my soul is all alone and I know that it's all my fault
So I'll pour another drink and light up this roach while I sit and think about the last 3 years and work on a new approach
William Schenck Mar 2017
I buzz down Bourbon St.,
bar-hopping to and fro in pursuit of some
sought-after nerve.

I’ll pass street entertainers performing
various tricks and trades
and I’ll envy not their boater hats
filled with cash, but rather the
attention they command from mothers
and fathers alike, on-looking and inebriated.
                              Maybe father would’ve looked at me
                              with the same awe, had I donned
                              a pair of stilts or covered my body in
                              tinman silver, for his
                              failure to pay me mind
                              certainly wasn’t a result of
                              under-intoxication.

I digress. The thirteen blocks that stretch between
Canal & Esplanade Avenue host
a distinct pattern of storefronts:
                    Bar, *******, bar, gift shop,
                    bar, *******, bar, gift shop,

and so on.
I’ll stop in nearly every other one,
and the taste in my mouth
will start to remind me of the street’s namesake.

With a scant blouse on and
a batting of my bedroom eyes,
a man will inevitably strike up a
“conversation” with me.
While I unconsciously engage
in repartee, I’ll wonder to myself
what must be wrong with him
that he would hone in on some
despondent fool like me.

He’ll continue to ply me with drinks
until a taxi cab takes me away,
and through a backseat window
cracked open, I’ll hear
New Orleans sing
while I sigh.


W.M.S.
2017
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.
Terry Collett Oct 2016
We stopped
for a short while
at Orleans,
after passing through Paris
in the early hours
by coach.

Miriam lifted her head
from my lap
and looked out
of the window:
where are we?
She said.

Orleans,
I said.

I feel a drag,
I must have
gone off
into a deep sleep,
she said.

You did,
I said,
I dozed off,
but you
were well away.

O Benny
you should
have woken me,
it must have been
uncomfortable for you
with me
sleeping on you.

The music on the coach
was some Mozart piece;
others moved about
around us.

Just for an hour,
then we must
move on,
the driver said.

Let's go find a cafe
and have a coffee
and croissants,
she said.

So we did
(after she had
brushed her red
haired head).

We found a cafe
and ordered
and sat down
by a window;
others were
there already.

What do you think
of it so far?
I said.

It's good,
but I am so tired,
she said,
I could sleep
for a week.

Well it would
save you
on food money,
but a bit
boring for me,
I said.

She smiled;
I guess so,
she said.

We drank
our coffees
and ate
our croissants,
and went out
to look around
and have a smoke.

We sat on a bench
for a few minutes
before returning
to the coach.

She kissed me
and I kissed her.

Best get back,
she said,
taking my hand;
I felt a tingle
go through me
stirring my fellow.

So we went back
to the coach,
and sat in our seat,
and the coach
started up,
and moved away.

It was good start
of a new day.
A BOY AND GIRL ARRIVE AT ORLEANS IN FRANCE IN 1970
wandabitch Apr 2016
I spend my days in money
My days off are in honey
I like it that way.

I like my tequila neat
And my baby sweet

But tonight,
Tonight

It wasn't neat,
It wasn't sweet

It was *****.
Nigel Finn Dec 2015
The darker side of my mind is where
Abstractions of fragmented poetry breeds;
A baby lies dead in a Hong Kong gutter,
And my lines fall into place.

Broken hearts sing lullabies to me,
Two savage beatings spare me a verse,
New Orleans lends me four at low interest,
And throws in a haiku for free.

The old veteran quotes me three lines
And gets buried with the last.
The rhyme festers with his body;
Both soldier
                      and verse
            are
                       free
                                       again.

I can't explain the beauty I see
In the dying faces of the abandoned ones,
Nor tell you why, if the bomb were dropped tomorrow
I should weep in both anguish and delight.

I can only tell you, should it all end,
Should all modern horrors dissapear,
The future will weep for the joys of the present
And smiles will dissapear forever
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