Atchafalaya -
Such mystery seemed to reside in this cluster of letters:
The music of it's sounds, the mystery of it's meaning and origin,
the vastness of the swamp underneath the bridge.
In my youth, the bridge seemed like a sidewalk to wondrous new vista -
A frontier with a new wilderness -
At once strange and familiar, unknown but innate -
At first, it's lull stultified the buoyant mood that began the journey -
Where the piney woods turned into the swampy alluvium of Louisiana,
A state with instant personality, apparent in the ravaged roads
That sang against the car tires a desperate song of it's savage frailties
That could impassion or disappoint, or a combination of both,
Where the Highway Patrol were unseen despots
Lurking in the murky weeds and trees
But (luckily) only as scenery in my stories.
Where the lure of New Orleans began to emerge,
My imagination running wild with drunken tales of spicy food
And sensuous women, looking for unspoken desires
In de Beinville's Vieux Carré, where Old God's run wild -
This place where magic was in the freedom found there -
Tip-toeing, drunk, across the sharpened swords -
Through the chicken-bloodied doors -
Ah, but the swamp was a source of strange dreams and visions
Throughout my life,
And it will always make my heart race
When I approach the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge.

People love
poems and articles about all of the bad things,
substance abuse, broken hearts, broken necks,
poverty, war, depression,
hunger, ******, lethargy,
whatever it is,
and people love those writings because
they feel less
alone.

others have passed through these fires and
a few have indeed come out alive,
it’s perfectly normal—maybe, from what I tell in those poems
for you to daydream about driving your car
into the Atchafalaya Basin
with your ex in it,
or knowing that you could not just end it all
even if you wanted to, because it would give you
no trepidation or pleasure,
just another thing of life’s routine,
or maybe the only reason you
have not jumped off a building
is because the buildings in your town
are not tall enough.

Whatever the case may be,
it is painfully obvious,
we are all miserable on this little planet.
I’m not sure if knowing so makes anything better,
Or if it changes anything at all,
but it is an oddly
nice thought.

Two cypress trees stand bare together
in the Atchafalaya

Midway between Aurora
And tomorrow

Or maybe just more casualties
To the brackish tide?

My heart keeps floating east
to the place of my birth
along the brown rushing waters
of the awesome Mississippi
the vast Atchafalaya basin
where the boys  
of fishermen and hunters
become men.
Oaks drip with moss
cypress trees grow out of swamps
and exude a mystic charm
that pierces your mood
and captures your fancy.
La Nouvelle-Orleans
born in centuries past
gateway to a new life
for my forefathers
who crossed oceans from France
made families for the generations
and planted their culture
amidst the rich foliage
and damp environs
of this magnificent mysterious place.
Yes, I yearn to cross the Sabine
make my way to Breaux Bridge
and other Evangeline towns
eat crawfish etoufee
by the Bayou Teche
speak my Texanized accent
to my Cajun cousins
who tell their stories
with a hint of French
and laugh in a universal language.
Soon I hope to make the trek
to quinch the yearning of my heart
hug my cousins
breathe the poem of my life
and the moist fragrant Louisiana air.