O’ echoes of marching saints

drum loud your songs of healing.

The improvised wings

of your feathered blue notes and neon blood

spread wide now

like the sacred myth

and swaggering hips

of your heart pulsing reserves of strength

through traumatized veins.

Holy jazzmen of small mystic hours

blow ye furious the rainbow of hope.

French Quarter of elegant mystique, Monica Blache,

Canal Street, Gustave Brother to My Visions,

Super Dome battered humble,

Jerry Bolton and Mississippi and Alabama,

beloved kins-people of Nordette Adams,

abused children all of the wind-goddess Katrina,

from our souls to your spirits

a halo like a world to embrace your trembling.

Sons and daughters of the Christ fire burning,

burn a perfect peace precisely where you are.

O’ Tap-dance Kings of Better Days,

O’ Gospel Queens of Prophetic Ways,

Princes of Tears and Princesses of Prayers,

feel these weeping arms lifting your arms,

feel these raging hearts beating within your hearts,

welcome this hope-filled breath to increase your breath,

feel these determined legs carrying your legs.

Scent and shadow of a bitch’s brew fade like lies rescinded.

Light of angelic eyes shine faith, speak compassion, bring love.

Aberjhani

© 8/31/2005