Bio Note: Internationally published poet, Community Theatre actress, award-winning artist with three poetry collections - Following Hope, Linger To Look, and Rabbit Hole. Founded and co-edit AvantAppal(achia) ezine and co-edit North/South Appalachia.
Carrion birds spear flesh Off dead in battlefield mud Blood on my sword dried black In white sunlight And you, the precious treasure Defended at all cost and sacrifice, Have turned traitor at my back: I have lived too long.
Grief Makes Me Think
Of N’Awlins With its jazzy twilights and devilish dawns, Purple green beads and lichen Decorating any day of the drunken Week, candles in windowsills Beckoning along sidewalks Cracked and upturned by Ancient, twisted trees, the Sentinels that know Who really belongs to this swamp, its Oppression of humidity breathing Over tourists in placid, glistering midday while Lazy lore-river licks passed revelers, their Tinsel-surface sliding atop black hole Wounds on display like the abandoned Ninth Ward houses spray painted With the number of those Katrina killed in them – People like ghosts fingering trumpets In all the stage’s shadows. I am parading you to your grave. Do you hear the drums and shouting And spilling of rum?
©2021 Sabne Raznik
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell her or him. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL