The rising sun
The rising sun
I sat in the New Orleans in 1996. I liked New Orleans. Hard time and hard days couldn’t kill her spirit. I drank whiskey with old men and pretty women. One of the old Blue men asked me. “Dark Poet, read me some words to make me cry. Maybe I will sing you some song later.”
—-Dear New Orleans.
I love you like a love turn dirty.
Old city with hidden dark valleys and dark eyed woman who make you wish forever.
Your memory is like a missed kiss. You want to taste and swim in again.
I love the song of the Jazz. Old men and women singing songs of love and lost.
I like the old streets sounds. You can hear the spirits of the night that can’t never rest.
New Orleans is my mistress and place to fall into her darkness.
I need her more than she needs me, but she is sweet and allowed me to become part of her. Darkness loved the dark. We are one with the night.
The men and pretty women clapped their hands and Charley went to play his song.
A perfect dark-eyed New Orleans beauty took my hand and she embraced me tightly.
She whispered. “No angels in the city tonight. Just us accepting enough. Death isn’t coming for us lover. Tonight we dance, laugh and live.”
I kissed dear Doris on the head and lips. I told her. Thank you honey for the dance and the night is long and my wallet is fat. Let’s make the sleeping gods jealous of our laughter and dance.
New Orleans is alive and well. The people of the night are keeping the city alive and the old city does smile.