… your poetry.

By J. K. McDowell

March  2014

 

The Atchafalaya is grey with a tint of rusted bronze.

The trees leafless, listen – something under the waters

Speaks to me on this February afternoon drive.

 

There is a tremor in my right eye, ever so slight.

A forgotten bio-programmed reminder,

Selected long ago for just this event.

 

Weekend parade aftermath – the streets are strewn

With stands of beads, the colors of power, justice

And faith abound.  Landfill treasures of the future.

 

Bayou side.  Not knowing the source I hear a

Beautiful lament.  Later the troubling news,

Ophelia was pulled from the waters the week before.

 

Icicles on the roofline, parades cancelled,

Mardi Gras is here.  Mint leaves frozen ready

For the glass, if I can bear the unpleasant morning.

 

Purple, gold and green, you know the colors?

James, I remember the green rooftops in Marrakesh

And the tourist carrying a book of your poetry.

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