Spanish moss curtains
fluttering in the wind
A gauzy layer over
the banks of the Ashley.
Down by the market
Ebony skin glistens
Sculpting a basket
of the reedy sawgrass.
The old market echoes
cries from the past
that trail a carriage
of modern day belles.
Paddle fans twirling
down Meeting Street
Over to St. Mary’s
with whispers from the tombs
over to Poogan’s Porch
Miss Zoey speaks.
Lazily sipping on the side porch
trying to catch the afternoon’s breeze.
Over on Queen Street
tantalizing smells waft
calling your name.
At the end of the Battery
regal homes stand
taking notice of
all the years.
The images pieced
create the majestic.
your spirit will always remain.
Originally Published in Burningword Literary Journal, 2002
Sissy liked to draw pictures, flip the pages
for homemade movies.
The night of the hurricane, Little Bit screamed
her shoulders into the world. The eye’s eclipse found
Sissy mothering, emptying pots and pans of hurricane.
Gators dug into the swamps, snapped at wind, and burrowed
sunken logs. Only the ibis and Sissy kept watch as waters
rushed the stoop, then cut an island out of the homestead.
Daddy was gone. He paddled streets to see the remnants
of Moore Haven; someone else’s destruction. His exits
always involved broken containers and bitter waters.
The storm passed and the water receded. Most nights
Sissy watched her movies in the shack on the bend
of the Okeechobee. Viewed the same picture again and again,
the same raging storm.
From The Sister Series-2008
Pudding House Chapbook Series
Carol Parris Krauss
A dried leaf skips down the alleyway
as a dove coos a cadence.
Dawn broke minutes ago and
Fort Lauderdale stands still except
for vagrants like leaves and doves
and watchers like me.