Long ago this was Indian hallowed ground,
when the air was clean and water was free.
This is a place few are brave enough to go.
At times not even the mind or wind moves,
disturbingly opaque, like ice across lakes,
hard against the sky, curious tourists come
to casinos and to view hurricane remains.
Toys and linens still hang from broken oaks,
houses rest on top of cars, cemented slabs
replaced, cracked sidewalks, weeds creep.
Yet, one man, one-armed, completely alone,
ascends a telephone pole and rain to mend
my wires, as some turn their backs or burn
my flag, while some accept the sunless sky.

                          II
No secret passages, discreet messages here.
It’s bleak as the internal sounds that keep
a warrior awake, when nearby twigs break.
True Americans come with food and love,
and some meet their tailors, as their jets set.
There is a death without hope here abouts,
a kind only the few have courage to face.
Some may be laughing purely from the grave,
or say history sways like scotch on the rocks,
maybe so simple as seeing life in blue rain.
Rain like blue ice… the police are ruthless,
as scavengers sell gifts to starving men.
There is a time and place no one should miss,
saints crave, when one’s soul braves the dark.

                           III
After all, it’s how we react to life’s tragedies
that matters, as alone in windblown orchards
word musicians fashion their arid splendors.
Among the waste some are firm and overcome
the beast, when soup lines appear to be feasts.
Even scenic drive is a long, silent desolation,
not one marker, save that vast, worn ocean,
where wood and debris, like wayward women,
raise their heads, unphased to their extinction.
This is a place where bodies are still found,
where broken limbs, deserted streets confirm
the courage of despair, a city’s lifelessness. 
Many pilgrims come here, some leave in fear
they too one day may be without food or home.

                           IV
For months it has been a forsaken sanctum,
not even a sound from those nearby trees,
just mortuaries of faded, ragged greens.
The owl is gone, the doe, the bluebirds too,
as if nothing were out and nothing within.
Yet, one candle lights a room of darkness.
Nothing’s worse… to be alone in darkness.
Someone says the bodies trembled at death,
others welcome the tides of catastrophes,
while one continues to cultivate his vineyard,
another dances, welcomes a second chance.
This is where highways and gutters meet,
as the moon hides behind clouds and blue rain.
We move around ourselves to another’s pain.

                            V
Our native Indians had it right, earth and light,
and Bayou de Portage still flows from the sea,
where dolphins and pelicans make their runs,
each in magnificent flight, ways to survive,
like fish that swim deep to find their own niche.
Neither youth nor age is great for every wine,
but lies to ourselves defy our peace every time.
This blue phenomenon over the razor’s edge
and the shotgun blast into the twilight zone
leave a mess, like flying through hotel windows,
the glass, wondering where gentle pigeons go,
as if there ever was an end to self-inflicted pain.
Our native Indians with their valor are still here.
We hear drums as we plant corn and plums.

                             VI
To blend into the landscape, that’s it … at dusk
with blistered hands from planting in fertile fields,
back to the green fuse and the swaying of palms,
man has never been right since he made machines.
The comforts of conveniences clutter his mind,
and paradise sprawls with suntans, August heat,
and yachters sell romance, one million per dance.
Once there was a seaman who cursed his God,
then became the ghost for restless discontents.
So when Bayou de Portage ends way down stream,
and all my clever schemes have led to the grave,
say prayers, my name, and burn my rags for an urn.
When that sea rises, blasts Pass Christian again,
throw my ashes at sea so I sail the oceans eternally.