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bayou baby

She comes from the swamplands
Back in the mangrove
Back where the stories say
Magic runs wild
The devil plays host
And all who visit must stay

Witches and Zombies
Together by night
Gators and Snakes there as well
The river, it changes
Cut you off in a flash
And then you end up in hell

Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me

She comes to town
to get supplies
That's where I saw her first
I followed close
Back to the swamp
And saw her do her worst

A simple boat
A single lamp
An oarsmen, long, long dead
A different route
Through water black
To a place where most folks dread

Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me

She saw me
And I looked back
She knew that I would follow
She slowed down
Her travel home
And she trapped me in the hollow

I never told
Another soul
Of who I go to see
I travel out
At night alone
My Bayou Baby waits for me


Hair as black as Kentucky Coal
And eyes green as the sea
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
Born out of the magic's world
Where the mystic world runs free
She's the witch queen of the swamp to most
But, she's a Bayou Baby to me
anne p murray Apr 2013
He was casually walking one evening in a bustling place called New Orleans in the year of 1845. Nonchalantly strolling down Bourbon Street, a street lined with beautiful homes; graceful verandas; elegant parlors, and... Marie Laveau.

His name was Moine Baptiste. He was a black, French Creole. A man who lived for his music, Quadroon *****, the blues, jazz, and  places where he and Charlie would play their rip-roarin' music in the place called "The Big Easy".

Charlie the sax, was Baptiste’s long, time friend, since he first started playing the 'sax' at the young age of eight.

Moine Baptiste, Plessy Ferguson and all the guys played their Cajun, jazz and blues music at clubs like, 'Antoine’s Bar',  'The Maison Bourbon Jazz Club' and 'The Funky Pirate', all which were popular clubs in the French Quarter on Bourbon Street in New Orleans.

In those days dusky stable hands would lead horses around the stables engaging in desultory conversation that went something like this:
"Hey where y'all goin' from here?" they'd query. "From here we're headin' for the "Big Apple", one would offer in reply.  "You'd better fatten up them skinners or all you'll get from the apple will be the core," was the quick rejoinder.
Resulting in the assigned name, Those Big AppleYears".

Close by on another beautiful, tree lined street was 'Esplanada Avenue'. It was the most elegant street of all in the French Quarter.

Esplanada Avenue claimed fame to a somewhat elusive, secret Bordello called LaBranche House where all the affluent or wealthier men would frequent.

Baptiste was very familiar with LaBranche House. That was where he met all his women and spent most of his money.  

The French and Creole children casually roamed the town, sometimes walking down by the graveyard near Bayou Street. They had been told many a time to steer clear of Bourbon Street, a street with a sordid reputation of burlesque clubs, all night parties and…Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of   New Orleans!  

When Baptiste was taking his walks he'd always watch out the corner of his eye. Something he learned to do when strolling along the sidewalks in New Orleans and in particular Bourbon and Bayou Streets in Congo Square. You see he’d had a few encounters with Marie Laveau.

Oh he had a great deal of respect for Marie Laveau... along with a healthy amount of fear.

This Creole woman, often used her Voodoo  to manipulate, acquire power and upon occasion bless those she liked with good luck and prosperity. She  was also quite adept in conjuring up her many powers in matters of the heart.

Her hair was long and black. She was both feared and respected. Ms Laveau had olive colored, Creole skin. Her black, piercing eyes were sharp as a razor’s edge. Almost magnetic, if she stared at you for very long.

Baptiste had called upon the Voodoo Queen a few years back when he was down on his luck..... and down on his luck with women.

It was almost to the point, that he’d all but given up on the possibity of being happy and contented.

Baptiste was a man with a robust charisma of Creole and French charm. Yet he had an air of reserve and dignity, with a bit of naughty that shone brightly in his chocolate, brown eyes. He was remarkably handsome with dark brown, wavy hair; a well chiseled bone structure in his cream colored face, full lips and a well toned body.

His main problem was, he liked too many women. Too many all at the same time. He spent too much of his money on his women which left him broke,  lonely and dissatisfied.

One night while strolling down Bourbon Street he happened upon Marie Laveau. He’d just finished playing a ‘gig’, with his old, friend Charlie his beloved sax and a few of the guys. Baptiste was feeling a bit light headed and a tad drunk from the ***** that flowed and poured so freely in that part of town called The Big Easy. It was a part of New Orleans steeped in history, lore and many mysterious legends.  Baptiste was feeling slightly tipsy from all the Whiskey he'd drank.

When Baptiste saw Marie Laveau walking towards him down on Bayou Street, he boldly said:

     "Well, Ms. Laveau”,  said he as she walked on by
      She looked piercingly at Baptiste, stared straight at him right through to his eyes.
      She was the famous Queen of mysterious curses
      She carried potions and spells in her bags and purses
      She was a famous legend in New Orleans where all the black trees grow

      This Black, Creole Lady lived in the dark, murky swamps all alone
      She carried black cat’s teeth and eerie Mojo bones
      She had three legged dogs and one eyed snakes
      A mean tempered hound she called  Big Bad Jake    

      He said, “Ms. Laveau you Voodoo Witch
      Please cast your spells and make me rich”!
      Marie started mumbling and shook her magic stones

      Why it scared Ole’ Baptiste right down to his skinny ole' bones!
      She cast aVoodoo Spell and spoke some eerie incantations
      Promised him wealth, true love and a big plantation!
      There’s many a story told of men she’d charmed
      But Ole’ Baptiste, he wasn’t too alarmed

      They strolled through the graveyard down on Bayou Street
      Where all Marie's ghouls and ghosts and spirits meet
      There lived a big, black crow where she held her ritual scenes
      She spoke powerful Voodoo words and cast her magic in between
      She held Baptiste’s hands tightly in her large, black hands
      She promised him love and riches and lots of land
      From that day forward Baptiste had more than his share of luck
      He had the love of a beautiful woman and lots of bucks


      But Baptiste always remembered that piercing look in Ms. Laveau’s stare
      An admonishing, cautionary warning they always shared
      If you ever walk the streets in New Orleans....
                                   Beware....
      You just might meet up with Marie Laveau... "The Bayou Voodoo Queen"
__________________­_________
"Marie Laveau (September 10, 1794 – June 16, 1881[1]) was a Louisiana Creole practitioner of Voodoo renowned in New Orleans. She was born free in New Orleans.
Marie Laveau a legend of Voodoo down on the Bayou. This well known story of this
Voodoo Queen who made her fortune selling her potions and interpreting dreams...
all down in a place called New Orleans!
ALesiach  Jul 2019
Bayou Lullaby
ALesiach Jul 2019
Honeysuckle scenting the warm summer night
Getting drunk on sweet old apple wine
Crickets chirping their melancholy tune
Rocking on the porch beneath the wandering moon

Soothing sounds of the bayou flowing
Warm breeze from the south winds blowing
Whispering through the leaves calming
Winking fireflies light up the night glowing

The tinkling of wind chimes off in the distance
Smell the moss from cypress trees, tall and twisted
Click-ety clack, click-ety clack
Faint sounds of a train coming down the track

Haunting strains of a Cajun lullaby fill the air
Splash in the bayou birds scatter everywhere
Slowly drifting in and out of sleep
While the long blue bayou shadows creep

ALesiach © 07/01/2017
Down in the bayou where the mangroves grow
There's talk of black voodoo, like Marie Leveau
The Swamp Witch, is legend, she has magic so black
That those who have seen her, have never come back
There;s tales of the noises that come from the dark
Of werewolves and zombies as rough as the bark
The mangroves are sentinels, to where the magic resides
Where even a longboat has no room to glide
Bodies go missing from the graveyards most nights
And there's always a fog shading the fireflies lights
The Swamp Witch is ruler and Queen of this world
Where souls are all taken and spines can be curled
They say that she came here from Canadian lands
She was a metis they say, from the Western Tar Sands
A mystic by nature, a dark witch by blood
She lives deep in the swamp, protected by gators and mud
The gators respect her, they do as she bids
They keep watch on the waters, they're her reptillian kids
She keeps zombies as gendarmes, collecting bodies to turn
Just how black is her magic, no one can discern
The Swamp Witch is legend, she is as old as all time
The air in the bayou is as thick as the slime
The cajuns say voodoo is the core of her heart
They avoid fishing where the mangrove trees start
The Swamp Witch, a legend ? or is she truly the Queen
She's the Louisiana Witch, no one survives once she's seen.....
ALesiach Jul 2019
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange,
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.

Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees,
rise from black murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies seem to float across,
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.

Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp,
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slithering at your feet
or lurk above you in the trees.

Just as, the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below.
Looking for his meal and smiling,
with snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below where he will rot.

The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight,
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans.
Tenderly she caresses her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.

A ****-hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte?
Who managed to escape prison and gallows.
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.

ALesiach © 10/12/2014
Darbi Alise Howe Sep 2015
The teenagers of the bayou look down to their pocket God, summoning validation through divine vibrations;
heads bowed they pray for the prey, for the sensations of meaning, refreshed each second,
filed and cast aside,
except on thursdays, or maybe fridays ‒
for these are the sacred days reserved for nostalgia, for last weekend’s cigarette taste,
for those cheap-gin glances, lacerated by and filtered through the teeth of crocodile tears,
for the lovesick night sweats and the mouth of another, for the break from chronic ennui,
all captured in thirty-three unearthly flashes;
The teenagers of the bayou look up from their pocket God and stretch their aching fingers upwards,
exhausted, habituated, unquestioning
of the heaviness of such emptiness
within
their starving hearts
Warren Gossett Dec 2011
There is no night like a bayou night,
the air pregnant with expectancy and
mystery, mingling scents of wisteria,
trumpet honeysuckle and gumbo mud -
a Dark Ages alchemist seeking an elusive
golden fragrance. It's a night dark despite
the nearly full moon, a night in which
fireflies pulsate as so many flickering
neon bulbs and the cacophony of insects
reaches toward an unattainable crescendo.

Mammoth cypress trees line the bayous,
letting fall Spanish moss as strands of ghostly
gray-green hair, and the oppression of dark
is waiting just beyond the searching lantern.
At times the wind moans like a sated lover,
at other times it howls wildly, but it's always
present and always vocal to those who
would listen. There could be fear in such nights,
or there can be a love of the mysteries inherent
with the bayous - I choose the love of the bayous.

I lived in Louisiana about nine years,
and there are many things about that
state I still love - bayous being one of them.



--
Sarina May 2013
There was nothing I was ever so ashamed of
that I dumped it in a river to drown,
but one time my best friend accidentally tossed my pink fishing pole
into the bayou when a spider dangled from the line.

We were eight, everything was wishy-washy
because she called herself a mulatto like it were an insult
and my older friends kept mentioning that my mom walked herself

to a liquor store very late at night
twelve-packs bruising her German-colored shoulder.
I did not tell them my father had hidden away her car keys.

Girls teased me and I still wanted to kiss their cheeks at goodbyes,
The Little Mermaid featured at our sleepovers
saying, “kiss the girl,” so I did
but we stopped talking when I bought my training bra,
it proved what was in my skirt, my lips could not touch them again.

You cannot kiss a girl if you are a girl,
even if Disney movies say it is okay because Mickie Mouse
has no ***** to be ashamed of though a wife of the opposite ***.

I learned important things until I turned ten
and Hurricane Katrina unraveled the bayou into my house
and I existed in four different classrooms in my fourth grade year
where nobody had enough time
to learn my name, much less the way it is spelled.

Now, in therapy, the certified insists
that I am a girl who kisses other girls because my mother
only put her lips on a bottle.

But maybe I wear striped dresses just because mold grew that
shape in my home on Camellia Street,
mud decorated the fallen refrigerator so it looked like
a cow some punk tipped over.
I just wish the sidewalk I use to rollerblade on hadn’t flooded.
Wanderer Oct 2014
Smoky jazz music floats on air
Carried by the whispers of prohibition
Deep woods moonshine
Flashing smiles from pearls to cigar tips
Soft velvet red coating lips
Hiding behind champagne glasses
Their fresh diamonds sing of blood
I watch from the office chair
Wing backed, cushioned
Fit for a queen
Bayou queen with swamp water veins
Ebony skin like satin
Whiskey eyes that take it all in
I built this from nothing, hole in the wall
This is my town
You have to pay to play
My debt book is thick
Your names like a mantra I hum beneath the saxophone tune
I'll get my money
*Or I'll get you

— The End —