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for Rosemary
she merrily wanders the world
this fire and grace
drinks a cup of riot
and blesses the saints
terrorizing young children with a clown strip tease
or reverently on her throne, a goddess if you please
the social dictator planning another party or trip
or blessing a ceremony, giving us a sacred sip
with poised aura and hearty humor
she boldy graces this royal theatre
she lovingly teaches with heart and grace
the student, a loved one, or a strange face
merry explorer, heroine of our hearts
we still share a laugh over horse and carts
you rejoice the art and paint the town
with verve still left to play the clown
graceful lady, lover of art and moon beams
you inspire us all
to love beauty and live our dreams
wandering grace you are the bohemian drop
of the Divine’s splash born to pop
and soak us with your day dreams sparkle
a passion for life that is a marvel
tasting and sharing the apple of your eyes
dancing and blessing the magic of God’s sunrise
fire and grace, bohemian sister of my soul
Happy Birthday and may pterodactyl times
forever ROLL!
the Goddess of the Pterodactyls
Click Here to see Maurine reading this poem live to Rosemary at her Birthday Celebration
step child of the Mississippi
born on the defiant shore of mixed ancestry
pigment of tribal song and French regents
color shaped her lips like a song
levees lifted her arms to place her crescent
she flowed her roots swamp deep and alligator rich
sticky voodoo mist and hard brow colonialism
spiced the roux
caribe boys marched and jazz hearts tapped
she spread her legs and collected gold like any enterprising girl would do
port and parcel
building her jewel box and investing in her swampy shore
barely above the level
she was coveted enough for war, but not enough to die for
She was sold like a whore, abandoned by her French father
left her jewel box empty
and her skin blazing with yellow fever
Good Friday burned her memory
but fattened her Tuesday
her heritage dripped out her Edwardian windows
her character seeped out of the cracks in her streets
disregarded by the modern investors
who didn’t find her worth the plunder
her antiques were left to the impoverished
who took her heart in their care and left her buildings naked
she broke free in spite of her decrepitude
and served up her Poverty on a creole plate
made it taste good
her saviors were the Bohemian
her resurrector the musician
the artist and the bum
they embraced her decay
and preserved her style
ultimately poverty was her Great Protector
it is what preserved her
and delivered her back to us
so we can go back in time
when life was raw, burnt-sugar authentic
taste her roux
drink her ethnic flavors
and relish the irreverent sauce
that only the French Quarter
can serve up
This poem won 1st place at the San Mateo County Fair 2013
Painting courtesy of Jim Blake
see more of his art at http://jimblakeart.com
