Holodomor
And in the square a little girl
in braided hair stands alone
in grief with hollow, sightless eyes.
Deep thoughts have been taken away
by her deep pain.
Deep
calls to deep
and sorrow to sorrow. I would giveher hope but all I have are my tears
falling into Lybid’s stream
while hers fill the wide Dnipro.
River Song
the Mississippi as the water
tumbles southward; black as the mud
that lines the bottom where catfish hide
trash feeding, only to surface
hook in mouth to grace a plate
in Midtown Memphis. The river moves
to the rhythm and beat of Beale
Street blues. Black water muse
infused with primal spirit-song
merges with the big gulf water:
New Orleans jazz, an old man’s laughter.
Street Corner Blues
Street
corner straight soprano sax
playing tunes on Preston and Travis streets.
Most walk by without notice. He doesn't
seem to care. His eyes are closed; keeping
beat in weathered blue suede shoes.
He doesn't see me watching, listening from
my wrought-iron perch, sipping 'jo
and taking in his smooth musical moves:
bold java Sumatra brews slip
down light and easy into rhythm and blues.
playing tunes on Preston and Travis streets.
Most walk by without notice. He doesn't
seem to care. His eyes are closed; keeping
beat in weathered blue suede shoes.
He doesn't see me watching, listening from
my wrought-iron perch, sipping 'jo
and taking in his smooth musical moves:
bold java Sumatra brews slip
down light and easy into rhythm and blues.
-Darryl Willis-
originally appearing in Apropos Literary Journal 2010, Inaugural Edition
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