What is home? Where is home? Is it where you park the car and watch TV? Or someplace else? What words describe it?
I’m feeling homesick for New Orleans. My poem, My No-Name Island Home was published in Coal City Review. I hope you enjoy it, and please tell me where you call home. ~ Linda Joyce
My No-Name Island Home.
Old Fort Pike stands sentry
three hundred years strong.
Lake Catherine swirls her watery gown
ruffling edges seep into canals
where bulrushes and cattails thrive.
Paths of crushed bleached oyster shells
crunch under foot
long weather-grey docks
where shrimp trollers, houseboats, and pirogues wait.
Crab traps and casting nets rest in shade
wraparound porch offers panoramic view
solitary pelican rests on piling
seagulls soar, dive, cry,
a crusty alligator sleeps.
Breezes cool waterlogged air
flutter hair from my face
waves lap against aged seawall
stiff brine wafts to my nose
aromas of Grandma’s gumbo,
crab, shrimp, okra, andouille.
As if Katrina never raged.