Charlotte Hamrick – Four Poems


Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum.
It was resting in the courtyard of a bar on
Frenchman Street next to a palmetto
palm under the moonlight .
Uncle Lionel was inside slaking his
thirst with a cold draft Dixie
bought with tips from anonymous
tourists and devoted locals.
The word went out in the humid New Orleans
night, wafting from bar to bar on
the notes of wailing saxophones
and indignant trumpets.
Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum.
The news hit the streets and ran
on a second line of lightening,
traveling on the dancing feet of the
pissed off patrons of Maison’s and Donna’s
of The Dragon’s Den and The Starlight Lounge.
By word of mouth and cell phone
the call went out; on Facebook and
the Twitter, the interwebs
hummed with a purpose.
It’s high alert, New Orleans, because
Someone stole Uncle Lionel’s bass drum.
A varmint is among us.



Footsteps of Jean Lafitte
echo from the past as I,
in my black eye patch and
swashbuckling boots, walk
the same streets. Revelers
dance down Decatur, gold
teeth winking in the sunlight at
wenches who lift their ruffled skirts
and crook their fingers: come hither!
The crowd salutes the paraders
with beers held high but I,
I sip my pomegranate martini with
lips stained red then kiss you with
a tart popped tongue.



the street is restless
with throngs of people
drunk and sober
ecstatic and depressed
weaving, intermingling in
a tangle of movement like
tree branches whipped
in a tropical wind, anticipating
we are voyeurs in our
own tangle of arms and
legs and sheets, watching
the passing bodies outside
our bedroom window, hidden
the muffled street noise drifts
on the breeze and the setting
sun casts shades of pinkness
through the transom, onto
our love-slicked bodies
the moments stretch within
the heartache of everything
that is this street we live on
and the love we share in
this miraculous life



I remember your nimble fingers in
the morning
tickling down my piano key spine
from the straightness
of my neck to the roundness
of my derrière as the light of
a new-born day dappled gold
across our love worn bed.
I remember your nimble fingers in
the late afternoon
following the S-curve of my sated
body from bottom of hip to
top of breast, your warmth spooned
against mine, your breath whispering
on my cheek, we didn’t budge for
hours in our world of us.
I remember your nimble fingers in
the sweet stillness of night
following the arch of my foot, up
the tautness of my calf, slowly
moving to the softness of my
yielding thighs as I barely dared
to breathe.
I remember your nimble fingers in
my sleep where theory begets
life and all that appears to be,