poetry
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Shattered
If I should die now Oh if this moment should indeed prove to be the corner I’ve spent thirty-five years painting myself into think only this of me That one more cheap camera has shattered against the world’s beauty. — Everette Maddox Continue reading
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Moonlight Over Washi
the words from my pen are the shadows of flowers Soseki Continue reading
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The Old Man and the R
All I managed so far today in NYC is coffee, the Strand Bookstore (but only the first floor where poetry is), lunch and back in bed in my hostel closet with my feet up. Not ruling out a nap before I leave to meet the kids at 3:00. I am not the mad dog Americano… Continue reading
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The JFK Airtrain
The JFK air train chased by banshees through the small tunnels. No one else seems to notice. This is not the screeching wheel of a subway car but a haunted high-pitched vox humana tritone of torment. I am alone in the crowded car with their howling. Continue reading
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The sound of an oud
“I resolve to see anew, to take sight into my hand to spill the blood of the sacred wounds of witness…” “Fill your pen with love or don’t bother picking it up.” From Piedra by Luis Alberto Urrea It is difficult to bear witness to this world without anger. There are worlds of oppression that… Continue reading
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[ALL THOSE SHIPS THAT NEVER LANDED]
After Bob Kaufman‘s All Those Ships That Never Sailed All those ships that never landed in the Port of Gaza, their cargoes of bread and of medicine for the hospitals reduced to rubble, are now stranded in other ports, empty, bleeding rust. Trapped in a racist nightmare land with no hope of escape by sea… Continue reading
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Romar Beach
If there’s a law in Alabamaagainst a breakfast cigaron the beach I will secedefrom such Baptist nonsense and declare a conch republic two chaise lounges widethe tern our national birdwith shells and tarballs for all. Continue reading
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Lebensraum
Do all men kill the things they do not love? -Bassanio, Act IV, Scene 1 Continue reading
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Do The Work
I recognized over a decade ago that writing wasn’t all inspiration. Yes, I revised and revised when I first started writing seriously, but I didn’t get up every morning and think: what am I going to write today. After my long silence ended last year I tried to focus on Doing The Work. I don’t… Continue reading
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Bayou Metairie: the birds
Submerged anhinga U-bird cruises periscope neckup looks for dinner victims The wild ducks feed on weed on the lagoon’send far from the breadbirds Lordly and isolate heronpoised in a cypress kingof wingéd fishers Beggar geese the direct avian descendantsof velociraptors The dark-beaked heroncalled Little Egret, solitaryat lagoon’s far end True egrets flockwhere food might bebeneath… Continue reading
About Me
Mark Folse is a provincial diarist and aspiring minor poet from New Orleans. His past blogging adventures included the Katina/Federal Flood blog wetbankguide on blogspot.com which David Simon told NY Magazine was one of three blogs that helped inform Treme, and Toulouse Street–Odd Bits of Life in New Orleans, which once outranked the Doobie Brothers on Google Search. His work has appeared in The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, The New Delta Review, Metazen, New Laurel Review, Ellipsis, What We Know: New Orleans as Home, Please Forward, The Maple Leaf Rag IV, and A Howling in the Wires (which he co-edited).
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Well Bottom Blues 