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Shelby Foote, The Civil War

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick, or the Whale

Michael Punke, The Revenant

Bill Bryson, Notes from a Small Island



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Katrina Blog Project
« While I Was Gone | Main | Saturday, September 3, 2005 »


A house is growing on my lawn.
How it got there, did it catch the bus or the ferry
Or lumber up the shell path that crests the levee top…
Oh yes. I remember it now. It lived a few blocks away
One of the dream houses that once bespangled this deserted road.

My own roof has sprouted dead branches
Its gutters gorged with the stubble of pine needles
On my driveway the tide has precipitated colors
      Paintings that have never adorned my walls
Near the kitchen door loiters
      A sullen beer keg I have not emptied.

Everywhere, ground, street, asphalt, cement, pool
Shards of baked sediment overcake
Like remnants of a shattered pot kicked by a careless mule.

This was a house of dreams. Not towering uplifting dreams –
The ordinary type that buzz the ear of a sleeper in a slow rocking chair
Rocking away the days, rocking down the hours
Breathing contentment into unremarkable
Better than flight, because flight is hardly possible.

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Reader Comments (1)

This was a house of dreams. Not towering uplifting dreams –
The ordinary type that buzz the ear of a sleeper on a slow rocking chair...

~ Wonderful tribute to all the dreams that Katrina displaced. ~

September 5, 2006 | Unregistered CommenterRita Schwab

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