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Blue October Morning
Canvas barn jacket keeps cool fall morning at bay as I
walk toward the steaming vat of simmering juice supplied
by sugar cane stalks fed through crushing contraption as
Ruth the mule methodically circles, providing the means
of extracting liquid sweet to be simmered into
concentrated thickness.
Froth and trash skimmed off simmering
sugar. Sorrel mules pull wagon filled with crushed
stalks to be unloaded and burned in an open area.
October sun lights the flatbed
trailer—our well set table of large, warm biscuits,
butter, fresh syrup. Biscuits baked by Angola inmates,
syrup made on site, cane harvested by inmates cutting
and throwing it into mule drawn wagons.
A hint of Angola’s past—a harsh sugar
plantation surrounded by Tunica Hills and Mississippi
River.
Today’s population there by choice of
murder, rape, theft.
Men who tell me of loving the mules,
the pride they show in working with an animal who
respects them, trusts them. Maybe more than their family
did. Light on inmates’ faces of talking to school
children who come by bus to learn how “we used to make
syrup.”
Buttered biscuits sopped on this blue October morning
taste better than any I’ve had before.
House By the River Styx
It stands alone, surrounded by cotton
fields and bayous
Two and a half stories that represent
an age gone by.
Sitting on a window seat, one looks
over fields to see mules pulling cotton-filled wagons to
gin.
Backs bending, hands picking as
brightly clothed bodies move down white rows.
Mind snaps back to reality as you see
a John Deere picker gliding, no bent back woes.
Thoughts wander back to family who
once called this home.
Wonder how many, what their
interests, where their souls now roam.
Your body enveloped by peace and
quiet, solitude.
A fish jumps at its supper, jumps
again.
Moments later a second fish surfaces,
rolls, disappears.
Reddish-orange glow in west provides
backdrop for clouds blowing in,
Forewarning of rain to come in the
night.
As darkness falls, you wander
downstairs and wonder of a life lived two centuries ago.
Siege of Vicksburg
Lord, what I’d give for a skillet of
Aunt Tine’s cornbread, that bacon grease adding crunch.
And a cold, cold glass of buttermilk.
They took our cows and hogs—Buttercup
was our prize Jersey. Her milk was so rich.
Ten hogs to butcher this fall.
Gone.
God, it’s so hot. Not even a river
breeze can cool these caves, these rabbit dens.
We believed our boys would drive back
the Yanks, might take them a few days.
A month. We’ve lived like animals a
month.
Songbirds, rats, and cats go into a
thin stew, flavored with what salt, pepper, and flour we
could pack.
My heart hurts for them, the
exploding shells scare me, what about the innocent
animals?
Will this siege not end until all are
dead?
Is saving face at the expense of all
so important?
It’s July now. Harder and harder to
face another day.
Too, too hot. Too little food.
Tired. So tired.
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