Peter Yowie Poetry
She’s a jazz great, with a voice like a black tourmaline crystal. Saturday night rituals, the witch of New Orleans. She’s the nemesis, the medicine. The music that falls from an upstairs window. Girl in mascara and lipstick, it’s the scars of a risk taking youth. She sings songs that make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven.
Ripples on the wide brown river, I sit on a memorial bench and hear the traffic on the bridge over troubled water. All the creatures great and small suck on the nipple of the triple muse. The river track is behind me, the river is before me. The top of my crown charkra and I’m a King for a day. Under the shade of an Elm tree, by the bended elbow of a bleeding river
