Lorrain Caputo, In the Jaguar Valley

Midnight Echoes

A solitary church bell

     across the valley encircled

          by mountains & snow-peaked volcanoes

Slow       one toll       then another       & …

     of this hour

Foot falls

     down grimed brick sidewalks

Past a towering basalt cross

Across the worn grey stones

     of the plaza

Past the gated fountain

     still spilling

Stray & pet dogs

     barking       & barking

From blackened homes       on dim corners

     down narrow cobbled streets

          & blind alleys

Pounding       pounding

     on a centuries-old door

Thick oak wood polished by

     untold rapping knuckles

& guarded by iron

     clasps & bolts, locks

          heavy wooden bar

Police whistles

     scattered throughout the dark

          like cricket song

Further details

Diane Elayne Dees, The Wild Parrots of Marigny

Storm Debris

We have seen it before:
the downed trees, the piles of limbs,
shingles flung to the street,
dozens of overflowing trash cans
reeking of rotted vegetables.
We know the drill—
the power will come back on
some day. There will be cable TV
and Internet some day,
and when we least expect it,
our phones will work again.

We are tough, we are resilient,
but we are powerless to escape
the sounds—the roar of generators,
the constant buzz of saws—the sounds
of Katrina. They blow through
the deepest recesses of our psyches,
they flow like restless bayous
through our waking dreams.

We knew then that we would never
be the same. Our hair stopped growing,
or it fell out, or turned suddenly gray.
The displaced, with their glazed-over eyes,
were easy to recognize. The rest of us
shuddered every time we saw the images.
Our bodies tightened like vises
every time the talking heads told a story
that had nothing to do with what happened.

We hear the droning symphony of saws
and motors—the sounds that remind us
that our DNA has been altered,
and that future generations will bear these genes.
The never-ending soundtrack of Katrina
is background music for the movie
that will never stop running—people
crammed onto the floor of the Superdome,
beloved pets tossed into the street to drown,
the sound of bullets on the Danziger Bridge,
deputies entering houses and shooting dogs,
the caskets of long-dead relatives
floating down the street, the deadly effects
of black mold and lead poisoning,
the remains of looted stores,
the search for missing corpses,
the leader eating cake in the desert.

Suddenly, there are birds
and dragonflies again,
and one morning, the sun shines.
At some point, generators will shut down,
and the saws will be put away.
But their sounds remain,
vibrating through our cells,
a deadly signature unique to us—
the eternal hum of trauma.

Further details

Kris Falcon, Some Blue, A Little Spur

Before Some Mud

You say there is nothing there. I see a lake,

a ferry midway toward hillocks

the boatman is sure of. Mist or no.

I see dispersing in the woods, a fistful of children

and their father or brother, seekers.

I see you heading where none      

disappear to,

the trails clear to all but me.

If we can dream of anything under the sun, we can

dream of God, so reads

an almanac on flowers.

It is a grower’s map, rustling as I follow.

How tiresome I am, you make it known,

your back to me and some stream, smell

of sweaty mushrooms. You, carefully

sticking to “you and I” until the pickup broke down

then you began to sound like a curse as in

you are always eating a sandwich.

Mustard, mayo, tuna, black jack, wing, macaroni.

Less and less youthful, you.

That child you are.

Maybe I have not said a word. Letting it lag,

twisting a stem in my mouth. Dark unfolds to bare

there is nothing here. Rain gently falls its fatigue.

You might be softer now

that you are right. It is hazing up.

But doesn’t that mean some mountains?

I see how I am to depart. 

Further details

 Sarah Leavesley, Rain Falling   

                                                            After the earth
                                                           heard thunder,
                                                        leaves held out their
                                                      tongues, the hedgerow
                                                    bindweed’s white mouths
                                                  brimmed with bowlfuls
                                               of pure      recycled river. May
                                             blossom       turned these to fonts
                                           for the  blessing of loosed
                                         petals,                  butterflies, bees
                                      & other                insects. Birds sang
                                    with warm                 wet freshness,
                                  beaks                                    open & uplifted,
                                feathers                              glistening. A shine
                              lingered                                 on every storm-
                            struck                                         surface, glossed
                          by sun & water, slick with equilibrium, scents
                        of rich peat, valley grass & purple-heathered
                      moorlands. Walking was a way of living we didn’t
                   weigh                                                         in heavy breaths
                 or heavy                                                        hearts. Our lungs
                were still                                                          trees, our pulse
              & motion                                                              paced by steady
           ground                                                                      beneath, not
        the swish of                                                                 fins & tails, flit
    of water past us,                                                      slit of gills too narrow
to sustain our need                                                for oxygen or mass survival.

Further details