"cajun" poems
I want two bottle nutella
I want three pack of skittles
I want two Pepsi
I want fried chicken with cajun seasoning
I want lasagna
Mostly i want foods
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 9:27 PM UTC
She's a Wrath of my Dreams
This fine Cajun Queen
Her Bare Breast Flashing
For all to see.
She Flirts with the Men
And kisses the Ladies
With her Magical Charms
Of Voodoo and Gris Gris
Igniting a Passion
Of Mardis Gras Fashion
That consumes me
In Fantasy
This Poem is from the Collection "POETIC STALKINGS"
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 12:15 AM UTC
two young hitchhikers
with big dumb cajun mouths
sinking below the roadside
in an abandoned cotton field
an oasis of sunkissed tractor parts
one in a ten gallon hat
the other wrapped up in barbed wire
two miles south of the state penitentiary
headed toward a pinched pachuco sunrise
onward, into the vortex.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
at the end of the pier
no one is fishing
a couple from Jersey
leans out over the
rail looking down into
the brown swill
rolling under the
weathered boards
The wife remarked
“Belmar's water
is much nicer.”
on the Gulf’s edge
unhappy gulls convene,
plaintively gazing
over gray waves
ebbing at their feet
Brown Pelican crews
fly in long
ordered formations
incessantly circling
in widening rounds
seemingly reluctant to
plunge into the
endless depletion
of this aquatic
dead zone
I speak with a
Jefferson Parish employee
working a shovel
to regrade disturbed sand
boasting a consistency
of moist drying cement
“How did the Gulf oil spill
affect this place?” I ask
“It took evarding.” she said
With a slight Cajun accent,
“dig down a foot or two in da sand
you hit earl. It nevar goes away. Nevar.
“I live down bay side
near forty years.
Had’nt been in de water fer
twenty five. The ******
******** took evarding.
They should go back
to Englund”
She went back to
tilling the sand.
Deepwater Horizon
yet festers a short
forty miles out to sea
is now covered by
an advancing storm
swelling in the Gulf
standing at the end
of the long pier
my hands grasp the
sun bleached lumber
straining my eyes
peering into a
dark avalanche
the serenade
of bird songs
have been replaced
by the motorized drone
of tenders servicing
offshore rigs
sounding
a constant refrain
filling my ears
with a disquieting
seaside symphony
the taste of
light sweet crude
dances on my tongue
the pungent sting
of disbursements
climbs into nostrils
rends my face
prickles my eyes
grandeur is a
conditional state
never permanent
forever temporary
Music Selection:
Cajun Music:
Hippy To-Yo
Grand Isle
2/20/17
jbm
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
I know that isn't how my grandmother would want me to remember her. Hell, the last time you saw me, I was fifteen pounds heavier, unkempt, and I was wearing that awful, low cut v-neck that made my chest appear a bit too supple. Wish you didn't remember me that way. But you do. But I do. You can't redact the past. Believe me. I used up every black marker in Oklahoma County trying.
You're dating a chef. By your lovely description, I could see the tendrils of spiraling capellini. Smell the buttered ciabatta. Were there candles? Did you whisper over the wine glasses? I hope there were candles. Cinnamon candles.
I actually cooked last night. Cajun tilapia and wild rice. Easing back into it. I've been living off canned vegetables for two months. Peas and carrots mostly. I'm going to assume if you and I shared this conversation in person, at this juncture you would whisper over wine glass, what was the occasion?
Heather called last night. The dancer. She needed a place to sleep. I guess her Craigslist roommates, those two shifty-eyed boys from Nevada, bailed on the 30th of September and the rent came due on the first of October. She hadn't paid it. Evicted. For a night, my room was adorned in all manner of frilly things and five pairs of heels. She left everything else in her car. She explained the decorations as proof of employment.
Don't worry. I didn't go there. Though, she thought I would too. After staring over her head at the beige wall behind her for two hours with my *** hanging off my twin-sized bed -- her lying in the middle -- I tried to move her to the east. She took it as an advance. "I'm not on birth control and I don't want a relationship," she said. Are any soft women left?
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 1:49 AM UTC
I hate resorts and I hate vacations.
I hate birthdays, I hate celebrations.
I hate pop radio stations and I hate cajun seasoning
I hate New York I hate the feeling,
I hate being a tourist I hate sightseeing.
I tried being happy I tried doing the right thing,
Until I tried smashing through the glass ceiling and broke my hand on the concrete.
I thought an apple a day keeps the doctor away
I figured out that he's just running late on the subway
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 9:27 AM UTC
There used to be a time when you were paddling down the river
You'd hear that banjo song and you'd go all a quiver
You know the song I mean it always made me shiver
Now, there's something scarier when you're out there on that river
(banjo music...deliverance theme)
No matter how far south you go there's tv shows galore
Cajun this and Cajun that and Cajun even more
Louisiana sold out it's a reality tv *****
If you find name one show that's filming you know there's 15 more
(banjo music...deliverance theme)
Of all the shows out there I don't get Honey Boo Boo
I mean, look at how that child looks we're talking nasty ju ju
There's a high priestess out there who did some Boo Boo Voo Doo
I've never seen another kid who looks like Honey Boo Boo
(banjo music....deliverance theme)
There's not a place down south not owned by Duck Commander
They own the rights on everything, on every salamander
If there's a deal on anything, these good old boys will land 'er
The Robertson's own everything, those Buck 'n Duck Commanders
(banjo music...deliverance theme)
Now, as I said that banjo song was scary and it was a real big hit
But, now it takes up second place, something else will make you 'git
No need to fear the banjo being played by a hermit
It's when the State Trooper asks..."Boy, where's your paid up film permit?"
( banjo music...deliverance playout)
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
cajun family
personalities
dealing with
alchemical transmutation
transactions
changing of values
history for money..
wildly popular show..
biting humor wraps
sly bidding and exchange
greed rises and falls..
initial bid and response
a scaling gap
startled unbelief..
increments then decide
decisions' sharp edge
money or heritage..
convenience argues
bad choices faced
painful needs are voiced
a values paradox..
microcosm of life now...?
snapshots of our mirror...?
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
Check it out see what melanin is about
To shine you embrace you
With multiple clues
That'll stiff you like a statue
So I'll be black as the sun and black as the moon
Black as Saturn rings and Jupiter's moon
Black as the Hennessey and the shadow in the room
Black like a smoking heart that can no longer consume
Black oxygen soon to be a black death
Lost breath finna be cooked like a black chef
Cajun fire blazin' So I can climb the
Ladder of black steps
diggin' deep formulates my black concepts
Black as Madonna tongue swift as an Iguana
Tail no fairytale black as the prison system filled with with
black hell
Black sin casted since our souls blackened
Black like thoughts you'll see once the skulls get the cracking
Black like the Vietnamese burned into the ashes piles of scented death just stacking
Black like the smoke from a chimney
So ya know fire is what's happening
Black like deaths clapping
Appraising souls swarming black hole
Preparing for rapturing
Black capturing black like the Billy Lee
Leading Washington
Fighting the Great Britain
During America's revolution
But no black solutions
Still tryna climb into a black institution
Black intuition
Hidden deep within wondering
If the Black Lord will forgive me of my sins
Let back of the black souls be watered and cleanse
Black like Boyz II Men tryna find a road that doesn't end
Black like storm pushing strong winds
Black like my ancestors forming hurricane across the desert ends
Black as Mahogany angled to perfection with black geometry
Black with knowledge of Dogon
Black Sirius like the Dog logo so long gone
Cuz black love is gone black vibes made from black lungs
Fill with black vibrations from.the mental gongs
Black like the law canonical stolen from my ancestors manual
Europeans ain't nothing but savage animals known to be cannibal
Check my black cerebral digging from my black celestrial
Dropped the sugar now I see the black extraterrestrial
Waving so I can jump into the black.mothership
And dip where no other brother live
Black as night sky line
black as heiron cooked under a spoon
Black as blueberry pie
Black as darkness in an empty heart filled with gloom.
Yo talk to em Yosef
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
Before a Creole love call, and a curdled Cajun moon
the bay water laps about pierrot, bay grass, and wading egret knuckle
Treading through his mucky labyrinthine mistress, and wind-knitted mire
beak prods pock, and inundate in the same instant
silt gilds his bill as he finally snaps about scaly sustenance
Sated
Wings boom and beckon in the darkness
Lift
Scooped in pearl beam, he commands the aeriform
An ether opus bellows about his form
Drying silt disintegrates from aerodynamic bill
Dribbling about in a forgotten slant in the darkness
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
walking slow, oh it could be called dancing
crowded with Bourbon Street night people
music filling the air, we stop every so often
wrapped arms around each other and swayed
firing up to the already hot-blood New Orleans
seems to affect all the out-of-town tourists and
the nights are specially made for physical reaction
big easy, sin city, whatever, a city of cool coitus
her willowy body pressed so close to mine
her face in my neck nuzzling and groping
I feel her eyelashes teasing, pleasing, my neck
we're fused together with lover's super glue
she broke away, her café au lait eyes dancing
as she tiptoed up to speak softly in my ear
in her intense and absolute Cajun accent
sha, we gon stay out heah on da street all night
lovely Denise didn't need to say anymore
I danced her back to her pad above Galatoire's
and it wasn't just to get the grime off when
we showered with plenty of soap and water
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC
Before the hurricane, in my youngest years things were extremely different
My outlook on Louisiana was a place of water and happiness
I was six years old, and boating was what I did for fun every single day
Boating was what basketball is to me today, a treasure, an outlet
The bayous were alive, the marshes were green, and the trees fruitful
You could smell the salty mud, (which smells very different from a beach)
Our white propeller boat sped to the lake, and lake mist sprayed our faces
Fishermen and crabbers littered the banks, pulling in flailing lively catches
We ate the fruits of their labor at the Cajun restaurant on the bayou, inwards
This was no commercial place, but only the locals had ever been
It was rough, light blue paint peeling, men with grey beards laughing
And the smell of fresh fried catfish had taken over the place,
Perhaps the most unique thing about it was the way to get to it, strictly by boat
My childhood is colorfully painted with these memories, however,
The real life experiences have been swept away in the muddy currents
The restaurant was knocked off its stilts and demolished,
The trees now branchless, dead, and the marshes are hues of yellow and brown
No longer is the water lively, but still, no longer is it safe to dive to the bottom
For fear of remains of houses, boats, glass puncturing our bodies
I consider myself lucky to get to experience that everyday, the bayou was my backyard
That was the Louisiana that is on postcards, not the usual experience of suburbs
That was the Louisiana I used to know, the Louisiana that is no more in my life
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:28 PM UTC
Once upon a mealtime
When salt had gone away
He had left in such a hurry
And with no sub to work his day
Poor pepper started panicking
Mostly missing his dear mate
But also with a worry
If he alone would taste so great
So he soon sent out a message
To all the pots upon the shelf
'Partner needed quickly,
I can't dust dinner by myself'
So suddenly came rescue
In fact response was vast
The rest of all the condiments
Took triumph for him fast
First of course came ketchup
So used to being shared
But pepper didn't quite believe
That they would be best paired
Then came Mr Mayo
With a winning stance he stood
But too eager for the winning
Pepper didn't think him good
In butted boisterous barbecue
Believing there was no other
Unless there could be any left
Of his favourite sweet chilli brother
But pepper wanted neither
For he cared about this dish
And they came in heavy servings
Which wouldn't be salts wish
Still with plenty choice left
He looked upon his friends
Mustards, chutneys and pickles
Fine flavours they'd all lend
But then he heard herbs and spices
Who were giving a loud shout
'If you want salt not to be needed
Then you'd best not leave us out!'
This quickly made him realise
That the best friends he could make
Would come not squeezed all over
But served with a gentle shake
So he rounded up the shakers
But he wouldn't work them all
'You're right you'll help me nicely
But who mostly? It's your call'
The chilli taking charge of things
Addressed pepper with this test
'Well what is this dish we're warming
And we'll tell you what works best?!'
When they looked upon the oven hob
They saw mix of veg and meat
Chopped finely and frying in a pan
Slowly taking up the heat
So suddenly they knew now
Who would win the role to take
Cajun and paprika
A fine taste they surely make
So shaked upon the cooking
It was served with a success
No one need ever know
That peppers day had been a mess
So later in the evening
When salt stumbled his way home
His apologies were heartfelt
'I'll never leave you all alone'
But pepper soon forgave him
He said 'there, there, it's ok'
For now he knew the secret
Of how to cook in the best way
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
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
Jul 22, 2019
Jul 22, 2019 at 4:58 PM UTC
Wanderlust
Eerie lights bob and weave through twilight mist
The exotic scents of Cajun spice and sweet *** linger
Quiet
Breathing deep bayou heavy air
Settling moistly into clove filled lungs
Chicory sends all the senses ablaze
The skies are big here
Brilliant constellations loom over scattered thoughts
Impressive and singular in their silent sentinel forms
A slowly ebbing tide recedes
It's 3am. The time when dreams die.
Leaving is a constant urge but I always come back
Head stone cold and porous against my tired spine
I've been walking a while
Never really knowing what the night will bring
Always hoping it's winding road will lead to you
Mar 2, 2012
Mar 2, 2012 at 4:28 PM UTC
There better be an ashtray at the end of this rainbow
The record is spinning static
Room key has your name left with it
The bayou chattering like the immigrants tray full of ***** wine glasses
Nobody is coming for you
Turn out the lights
I warned you
Even crying babies have to say goodnight
The hallway lights start to flicker
My feet no longer touch the ground
I wander out into the empty twilight cooridors where lowly Cajun girls were found
Nobody is coming for you
The water splashes room numbers throughout the hallway
I can't remember which floor I'll find you
My number is up anyway
Jan 10, 2014
Jan 10, 2014 at 6:52 AM UTC
Imagine this centered: And lunch with Kirk and Uncle Bubby
Even the birds are staying home today
Those flocks and flights whose accustomed spirals
Make animate the skies are grounded by frost
And leave the waters of the marsh in peace
Young men uniformed in Nomex 1 and beards
Spiral into Hollier’s Cajun Kitchen
From the barges and the maintenance shops,
Cracking units, pipelines and hotshot rigs
They are smart, tough, and strong; they fuel the world
And pose for pictures with the concrete pig 2
1 Nomex is a flame-resistant material developed by DuPont and is worn by workers in many industries, especially petro-chemicals. The man or woman in Nomex keeps our cars, our lights, and our lives functioning.
2 There are in fact two concrete pigs outside Hollier’s (pronounced “O-Yays,” says Uncle Bubby).
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
the charm of French Colonial style
with Cajun cooking promised -"genuine!" -
at every second door
jazz bands at every other
the flair of well-groomed wealth and savoir vivre
exuding from St. Charles´ porticos,
the restaurants on Calle du Roi,
the campuses of Tulane, UNO, and Loyola
the grandeur of the superdome
the open space of Audubon and City Park
oakes draped with Spanish Moss
alive with jogging, skating, biking, walking health
between the nights -
all this makes you almost forget
the city project housings
slumming beneath the highrise business shadows
crime ridden,
floating on neverending waves of dime-a-dozen tunes
from hi-fi stereos of cruising cars
the grand lake spoiled for generations
with the big city's waste,
the 'father of rivers' dwarfed beyond repair
by wharfs and cranes and fortified embankments
that line his banks as far as you can see
and far beyond
a shotgun wedding of the rich and poor,
the black and white,
torn by the struggle to ascend
from shotgun to colonial
to the soft sound of dixie
* * *
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 3:45 PM UTC
Is it weird that my hero
Is found in actual comics?
Gambit, the raging cajun is my hero
Much like a mathematicians is Zero
He's operated on both sides of the law
And he had caused horrible catastrophes
And owned up to his flaws
That and come on, The Kinetic Cards are just outright cool
And I can never get tired of the character, even when he's being a tool
So Gambit is my hero
I'm a comic Geek I'm proud to admit
At least I owned up to my nerdy habits
That as a kid made my mom's wallet split
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
My buddy the quarterback said to go long
music to my ears the chorus of my song
I could easily outrun all the puny secondary –
the guys from one block over on wealthy Dewberry.
We were all better at football on Lillian Street
beating the crap out of those guys was oh so sweet.
Now mulling my interests, passions and such
I wonder why I love football so much
what with a life of writing, thinking and teaching
my football mania seems a tad overreaching
but still my arm flexes watching that heaver
connect in a perfect arch with his swift receiver.
Being Cajun in Texas where sports are king
probably explains something of why I’m so keen
and my pulse quickens as I remember
the neighbor boys’ shouts and calls in September
to meet them in our favorite autumn spot
down the street in that vacant lot.
Most of my life I’ve gone for short passes
connected with ideas and English classes
no novel for me, I fell for poetry
nor did I brave the rigor of a PhD.
Now finally, with my scores of years its not so wrong
to watch, leave it alone, wait a while, and go long.
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
So much time
has passed
since you grabbed me by the shoulders,
and yelled
at me
about stealing money from my parents.
You are the asphalt.
You are the reflectors.
You are the speed limits.
You are the road.
I came to visit you,
when you were laid up in the hospital,
and I felt all right
about crying.
I have been in love
by now,
and you know about it.
Bojangles tastes like happiness
when we sit in the lobby,
over cajun fries,
and you tell me about
my grandmother.
Because she was so strong
in her love
and you
were so weak.
"You are my hero,"
I said.
And meant it,
even now
when I am
restless
and unsure.
Bills
are not paid in full
by the end of the month,
and I have a thousand loan checks to fill in;
but I will pay them in your stern and gentle voice.
I think
that there are some things that I am missing on,
so,
I will never plan
your funeral.
Aug 3, 2012
Aug 3, 2012 at 10:25 PM UTC
I’m reading a book of poetry
it's nine hundred pages long,
penned by a man of many dreams
whose words are historical songs.
I remember reading those words
when we studied him back in school,
the class was "American Lit"
masters of the "poets pool".
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
whose work has endured the years,
ole "Wordy Wadsworth” he was named
by the men who were his peers.
His writings contain many musings
spanning the centuries of time,
my favorite story of all
a narrative poem, "Evangeline".
This particular poem, a masterpiece
blending talent, knowledge, and heart,
containing pathos, love, and history
t’was recounting the “Cajun” start.
Numerous stories he's told
using plenty more words, or few,
tales wringing either hard, or soft
embellished with wondrous hues.
Spellbound, in awe of his words
I'm carried away on the wings,
of thoughts, dreams and fantasies
to where his poetic muse springs.
~
Dec 8, 2017
Dec 8, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
A silky purple sky
so hot
like my head is under sheets
there's no way I can breathe
and see
the patterns in the air
of branches, twigs, veins
of bark twisting
clouds coiling
slithering in the rain
cold drops on the windshield again
in another taxi
another smoke stained
cigarette hole in my cardigan
and man
I miss you in this Cajun heat
the orange light bouncing off of cement streets
where you have gone
and I cannot defeat the
demons dancing
in my thoughts
and dreams
and everything you
mean to me
Where tornado alley never ends
or goes to sleep.
Ok, so I love you
and I hate this Texan heat.
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 2:29 AM UTC