This is the blog I swore I would never write because it would steal too much time from writing poetry. Then a friend suggested that I could use it to recommend books and post favorite quotes and pictures. That didn’t seem time-consuming. So here is the first post.
Nine Years After
It’s been nine years and a couple of weeks since Katrina blasted ashore in NOLA where my son lived in a converted bar in the 9th ward. I remember the days during and after as a scuffle of worry as our son was trapped in the city, lost, then found but what I remember after that was a trip to dig out what was left of his goods, gear, tackle and trim from a devastated city that resembled Beirut in 1990 more than its jaunty pre-storm self.
September, 2005, Oh Yes Jesus
Driving in, we’re stunned by then-novel sight of houses with their tide lines, sidewalks crammed with bagged garbage, refrigerators stinking in the sun, their doors jawed open, a city bus abandoned in the median on St Cloud. We make our way through the semi-deserted streets to the apartment where we are hailed by some remaining neighbors come along to greet us. The stringy bicep, the tobacco-stained tooth and the rakish grin of America’s gulf coast surround us with this great city’s vernacular of hand-in-hand. Driving out hot and tired we retreat through the patrolled neighborhood taking with us our admiration for the stubbornness and returning joy of people who weathered it out, buoyed by the sound of gospel music from a house nearby, a full tabernacle choir wailing, someone chanting “Oh yes, Jesus. Oh Yes!’
Nine Years After
It’s been nine years and a couple of weeks since Katrina blasted ashore in NOLA where my son lived in a converted bar in the 9th ward. I remember the days during and after as a scuffle of worry as our son was trapped in the city, lost, then found but what I remember after that was a trip to dig out what was left of his goods, gear, tackle and trim from a devastated city that resembled Beirut in 1990 more than its jaunty pre-storm self.
September, 2005, Oh Yes Jesus
Driving in, we’re stunned by then-novel sight of houses with their tide lines, sidewalks crammed with bagged garbage, refrigerators stinking in the sun, their doors jawed open, a city bus abandoned in the median on St Cloud. We make our way through the semi-deserted streets to the apartment where we are hailed by some remaining neighbors come along to greet us. The stringy bicep, the tobacco-stained tooth and the rakish grin of America’s gulf coast surround us with this great city’s vernacular of hand-in-hand. Driving out hot and tired we retreat through the patrolled neighborhood taking with us our admiration for the stubbornness and returning joy of people who weathered it out, buoyed by the sound of gospel music from a house nearby, a full tabernacle choir wailing, someone chanting “Oh yes, Jesus. Oh Yes!’