Maggie At Jackson Square

March
She Still Showed A Youthful Look
As She Turned The Tight Strings
Of The Worn, Metal Guitar.

Her Tunes Were Pretty- Her Words Were Softly Sung,
But Underneath It All, Hardness Glowed
Between The Lines Of Smiles And Broken Stares.

The Garb Did Little To Mask Her Soul.
The Victorian-Laced Shoes And The Flowing Red-Veiled Robe
Slithering Against Her Hard Body In The Late March Wind Were All In Vain.

The Rough Skin, The Parched Lips, The Lean, Scarred Bare Knees
Spoke Of A Body Worn With Time And Bourbon Street Abuse.
Some Can’t Hide The Dark Spirit Inside,
Even When Coffers Are Packed With Green.

November
He Was Still There, My Maggie Of Jackson Square,
Entertaining Street Guest In Her Long, Blue Dress
With Turquoise Turban And Matching High-Heeled Shoes.

Her Colors Have Changed. Her Instrument Also New,
Now A Stained, Worn Washboard From The Recent Southern Past
Producing A Swish-Swash Rhythm With A Cowbell Attached.

But Her Faint, Occasional Smile From Her Pale, Gaunt Lips
Betray The Same Drawn Lines Of Dry Skin Looking Wind-Parched
Form Hours Of River-Blown Blasts In Hot Sun And Full Shade.

And Her Open Guitar Strewn With New Orleans Mint Green
Cannot Lesson The Poignant Need Crying Out
In The Shadows Of A Bustling Throng. The Dark Spirit Still Sounds.

More Shayari by John W. Crawford
    27 Nov 2008 No Comment

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