The shrimping boats are late today; The dusk has caught them cold. Swift darkness gathers up the sun, And all the beckoning gold That guides them safely into port Is lost beneath the tide. Now the lean moon swings overhead, And Venus, salty-eyed. They will be late an hour or more, The fishermen, blaming dark's
An award-winning poet and novelist, Judson Mitcham was named poet laureate of Georgia in 2012 by Governor Nathan Deal. His writings, which examine basic human themes within the specific landscape of Georgia, are both poignant and powerful. Although much of Mitcham's educational background is centered in psychology, Mitcham has taught workshops in poetry and fiction at Mercer University, and has also served as adjunct professor of creative writing at the University of Georgia and at Emory University, where he has directed the Summer Writers' Institute.
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Hair--braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher's rope, Eyes--fagots, Lips--old scars, or the first red blisters, Breath--the last sweet scent of cane, And her slim body, white as the ash of black flesh after flame.
(A Funeral Sermon)
Weep not, weep not, She is not dead; She's resting in the bosom of Jesus. Heart-broken husband--weep no more; Grief-stricken son--weep no more; Left-lonesome daughter --weep no more; She only just gone home. Day before yesterday morning, God was looking down from his great,