"accordian" poems
It was a graveyard and overcast sky
and I sat with book and accordian in hand,
hearing the world with its screams
swallow up around me.
The people whom I had loved and lost,
Papa with his silver eyes
Mama her sharp tongue and tough love
Rudy whose hair the colour of lemons
and questioned why, the living and dead,
worlds apart, yet both did not have a choice.
I stood and screamed so that everything shook
the burning rubble and ash and dust
willing my words to bring it all back
but it did not come, and my breath rose in gasps.
Death had looked me in the eye and said,
“It’s not time yet.”
I would shut my eyes to the world
only decades later.
I will understand that there was hate and pain
there was sadness
but even more so, there was love and joy.
I will know that the people I loved had reason
to kiss goodbye
whether it was their own hurt
or saw it as a necessity,
but they were never truly gone from me
always somewhere nearby,
in the thick and thin
frail and worn
of times.
I would learn
to forgive Death that day.
I will understand that
and I will be hurt,
but I will be okay.
~
*Not all deaths are sad.
Some, meant to ease their own pain,
Are called freedom.
While some,
Meant to ease the pain of others,
Are called love.*
© BT
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
meaning of wishtastes
desires drive delusion
devils delve deepening
seeds to root loathsome leaves
smelt cinders graying goals
craving strangled contentment
under backalley blackness
beats heart sneeze two
cavalcade blue
cacophony in fast dreams
reseized by letting go of circus surlplus
reassurance of real love is real gone
gone is the relooped sad troupe armies of needinesses
truth proofed **** the magician disappeared
withdrew tears,fears, smears, and leers
now amongst new artful peers
The lions tail was a cobra coming with teeth under the door
awoke then broke my dreams end and don't hafta go back again
ego sinning by ego being a sin says ego
leggo my ego waffle a proper prophet
the jewels three sweet gleams eaten
gifts even the ego cant teacher the reached rifts
sewn up all dischordian accordian polka poked out eyes
belief swam away to the island of surprises
can I ? I can will it . Will then be faithful to real action.
kung fooled schools chop trees sticks
paper stones throw away
I can walk 6 feet on airs invisilbe stairs
ears heard alistening stream just the branch that froots
Shotgun riding to the holy holy holy
Dee vine
Jun 18, 2010
Jun 18, 2010 at 11:16 AM UTC
ant infested arm chairs
folding accordian hardwoods
seas of soiled laundry littered about
tomorrow i'll hand off my birthday
in a bag to the neighbors, someone
may as well make a cent or two
off my quarter of a century on this earth
the whole block talks **** about us in spanish,
quiero decirles que entiendo,
but instead, i smoke bowls on the porch
and laugh at their corruption and convinction
over a couple of twenty somethings
who like to have a good time a little too much
i imagine them lining the streets with
pitch forks and torches, yelling to us,
escuche perras, su tiempo ha venido,
instead the neighborhood committee
knocks on the door at four pm interrupting
my six hours of vommiting, i stumble
down the stairway bra-less, brazen, and
baited, waiting for the moment to say,
we'll be gone july first
funny how families are cool with drug
front pyramid marts, but birthday parties
seem to have no place here
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 12:18 AM UTC
The Little Skiff Slips through the water, following Swamp Trails.
Soft Light of a Bayou Moon in the Mist, on right the splash of Gator Tail
As it hunts in the Moonlight, Twinkle of Neon Blares through the reeds,
From a Swamp bar Southeast of Lake Charles, Fiddle and Wash board,
Scrap , over Sweet Chords of Accordian Tunes drifting in the mist, As a
Patron of the Bar stirs coals on the bonfire, Drunken Guests Cut a Rug
On rolled out linoleum, Et Toi a Night of Bon temp Roulle on the Bayou
Inside the door, for some Cat fish and Red Beans & Rice with a cold brew
The Old Juke Box Plays Aaron Nevilles "If Tear Drops were Diamonds"
As the Band takes a Break, fiddle laying at Bars end Winks in Orange
To the flash of the Beer Sign, Uncle Solacess Raises his glass to the Moon
A high toast to La lune ete Amour de Coure, A Drunken Fight breaks out
Old Family issues, the contenders hugging and laughing over fresh Beers
As I Stumble out the door, just as the Zydeco strikes up I crank up the skiff
As I float into the fog, Bon Temp Roulle under Bayou Pale Moonlight
C'est bien de te voir, A bientot Au Revoir Bonne Nuit et Beau Reves....
.................................................................JMF 10/114
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 10:01 AM UTC
A 70th Birthday Poem
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep my brothers and I from fighting
fighting to cause star-shaped pain,
two-dimensional and primary colored, like on Batman
fighting to cause welts from
rising like tectonic plates heralding the end of Pangaea
fighting to bring forth blood
red blood
red blood
burgundy and green and iridescent blood
she said,
“As long as you’re laughing when you hit them,
it doesn’t count,”
and it became true
as the forced, adrenaline-driven guffaws
tumbled up and over one another
like rocks shattering one another
into pebbles exfoliating one another
into sand
white and soft and meandering
seaside to tomorrow and forever.
Know what I mean?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
to keep from clashing
in a fashionable/unfashionable dissonance,
it’s important to remember:
“Just because two things are red,
doesn’t mean they’re the same,”
or blue or white or black
that when held together like paint swatches
each holds a different value,
and the painter tries to make the best choice
because a purple shirt can be pretty,
but . . .
“Nobody wants to live in a purple house.”
Right?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
housecleaning should be done to a polka,
or not at all
joyfully or begrudgingly
as best suits the cleaner
and the polka,
because . . .
“Doesn’t a little accordian make everything better?”
Well, doesn’t it?
My mother had a series of rules
by which we lived
And by which I think I still do
For instance,
today is the 31st anniversary
of her 39th birthday
just as it will soon be
the 15th anniversary
of my 29th birthday
**Of course, it is.**
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:29 PM UTC
Mud bug Stew, Black beans and rice
Collard greens and fat back boiled up Nice
Nothing like a Bowl of Fila Gumbo
Boozoo Chavez play the Crawfish mombo
Blind drunk Betting, and Letting Dollars go
And he blew it all on horses and Ho's
Boozoo got a taste of Cold Cash And Cadillacs
Clifton Chenier in Lake Charles too
Snook right past ole drunk Boozoo
His accordian tunes Ripped right By
Boozoo Chavez who did not Know
How Clifton Chenier became
The KING of ZYDECO
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Amid an Upper Floor
Of the Ford Building
Was a Friends Studio, For
Commercial Photographing
A Ponderous sized Room
Complete with 12 foot ceilings
6' x 4' foot Softboxes on Stands
10' boom Stand angled is Key Lighting
All Surround a Mottled Muslin Background
1200 Watt Strobe Pack with cord like snakes
To Strobe Heads, Imbue the room with Light
Some soft shadowless, other pin sharp bright
Instantly my mind took in the Possibilities
If I should delve into this Art of Photography
So Enamored was I, to use Studio and Lights
I mopped and polished floor to a Shiny Sight
The feeling I had connecting Camera to cord
I knew that Moment I could ill Afford to
Not Pursue this Pashion as I Shot a.....
Lovely Young Model of Fashion
Accordian Like Toyo Large Format Camera
Ansel Adams treked up mountains to shoot Vistas
Have Stood the test of time, and Anals of our History
Or the Mamya's and Hassleblads Favored By Fashion
The 35mm Nikon F3, though its one I could ill afford
He used to teach Me, and Softboxes the Light Adored
It was Barely Shadowy, A Keylight with a snoot was bright
With Light and Shadow my Palette I began Photography
Of the Studio Life and the Parties at Night,
I could go on and on, Cold Pressed Coffee
Long after Sunrise, was the Ritual of the Yawns
This Tale's How I began the Art of Photography...JMF 3/2/2015
I went on for 10 years Doing Commercial and Weddings
My photo website is www.shamusmediaarts.com
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:32 AM UTC
on nights i cannot sleep
i blame it all on you
i let myself think back
to the very first day we met
and starting there, i fold
each day like the layers of an
accordian until i convince myself
that every note of yours
has affected every one of
mine,
and though yours will always be sweet
mine are now and forever off-key.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 9:32 AM UTC
There is this constant suppression
of all my aggression
and my actions
that never make it out my mouth.
Ever since fifth grade
I have been trying so hard
not to say the things
that would boost me out.
So I became this actor
like the ones in my own scene
who glimpse at the camera
beady eyes with no soul.
I could be staring at a mirror and I-
I would never really know.
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
FROM THE FLAGSTONES
This concrete town with no guts,
no grit where we can only smirk
as galoshered feet slip ‘n’
slide in and out our café where
exhalations of icy conversations
mix with the fog and cigarette smoke.
It’s a damp riverbank town
border with riptides
sneak currents
no watchtowers no walls
an escape for the committed
or reckless – the next country
a lucky swim away.
You draw down
panelaks, teetering like headstones
(that lost their plots
a regime ago)
pen in flagstones and millstones
flower tubs filled
with butts and dead dogs
tarted up with cans and stencils
subjects of your studies in pencil.
Nature’s only concession
(so far as I can see)
is this wedge like a warm slice of pizza -
four fall trees jutting out of the bar
where dogs curl up in corners
and mist pushes in fishermen
selling trout -
the toxic confetti
swirling around the passing
procession of Saturday weddings
dragging monochrome trains
drawn into this twilight
fugue whisked by an accordian player,
guests laughing back at us
while you’re smirking back at them
cocooned in wine and tuica
almost lost in your sketch
smudging *** ash for sky
dreamy with relaxed fatigue
of travel and infatuation.
Your pad’s our field dressing
that could work for a while
before the gangrene sets back in
so I’d like to amputate this souvenir wedge
for my scraps book.
I watch you listening out for the shanty
from the flagstones – about weeds
delicate, green, undamaged,
muscling through the cracks
in the concrete
drawn up to the cut where
we also look effortless and a little green.
Tomorrow we head for the border
and only one of us can swim.
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:26 AM UTC
The lake with geese flapping
The red crane, with a flag swaying over
The grass where Monks sit
The ears, where the voice is drowned
The tree, which the sun enshrouds
The cement, which the foot taps
The cart contains an Accordian that plays
The sky contains a silky cloud, fleeting
The bench of impassioned loving
The stone of thoughtful dreaming
The shore, harboring harmony
The streetlamps, harboring wanderers
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
"I Yyi Yyi fake move tubular my housebound,
to halve and to scold from dismay forward;
for butter, for wurst, for pitchers from pourers,
insecureness and unwealth,
to loaf, sherry, and obit, till breath us do smart,
accordian two cod's holy slaw."
Dec 21, 2019
Dec 21, 2019 at 7:03 PM UTC