Confederate Blues
In Suffolk they say
“The prophets baptize their whelps in brackish water”
The salt singed stench
Rises from swamps
Of long tan grasses
When we could no longer stand
Our own urgent visions
We would spin spit,
Cursing our unconnected touch
We would drink cheap wine
By the gray Lynnhaven river
And leave whatever lived there be
We wanted to sing
Sunk in a Tidewater fog
To reverse a sad roaring tide
That reached all the way back
To the aching dead
Around Richmond’s fields of futility
We heard voices
In the ancient trenches of Petersburg
Crying from the Crater
Laying our hearts
On the earth
Felt defiant fingers
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
I love the colors in this piece. The red reminds me of exposed muscle. It looks like you used actual shutters for the chest region? I would love to see your work in person. Do you use plastic in your art? Perhaps it’s wood that is painted that I am seeing. Some of your pieces have a bizarre look to them, perhaps it’s the 3 dimensional aspect. I like “Waterboy”. It’s a very interesting portrayal of a baptism.
I did indeed use actual shutters. I stole some of Heathers Antique treasures. It is mostly wood , which you and your hubby would appreciate. It is a baptism in a way , in the delusion of southern history. I grew up in Tidewater Virginia , the cradle of the old south. I hit 21 before I realized the Southerners were the bad guys ….oy!