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Jim Davis May 2019
Look what the cat done drug in
Slow on down... darlin’!
Hol’ yo horses!
Don’t go get’n a conniption fit
Or get’n your knickers in a knot!
Hush up
Or’n I’m a goin **** a knot in yo tail!


I’m busy as a one legged cat in a sandbox,  
but I’m fixin tell what we got here at JuJu’s

Now lookie here...

we got
crawfish mild spicy
crawfish medium spicy
crawfish spicy spicy

we got
crawfish with corn
crawfish with sausage
crawfish with potatoes

we got
crawfish with red sauce
crawfish with pink sauce
crawfish with melted butter

If y’all a bit dry...
we got
crawfish with canned soda
crawfish with bottled water
crawfish with beer
crawfish with BYOB

Or we gots
jus’ crawfish

Go on an pick how yo’ want yo’ crawfish spiced, then go on an decide what yo’ wanna add!  I reckon we gots dang near 362,888 ways to eat these here mudbugs

You might could get
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage
spicy spicy crawfish with corn
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and corn
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn and potatoes
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with corn and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with potatoes and beer
spicy spicy crawfish with
Zummo’s sausage, corn, potatoes
and beer

I could go on...
till I’m plum tuckered out... but...

Got it?  You good??
You want mushrooms
Well, I’ll be
Don’t go axin... what we ain’t got
No siree bob, no mushrooms

We also ain’t got tea, sweet or unsweet
But sweet’s the only way to have tea sweetie

If you want soda, you can get
Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, Dr Pepper
Diet Dr Pepper, Hawaiian Punch, Brisk Tea
Or Root Beer

We also got shrimp... just boiled

We also got gloves... half a dollar

Well, I’m worn slap out!

Watcha have a hankerin for?   

Take your own sweet time!  

Sit a spell

You’ll soon be full as a tick on a big dog!

Happy as a dead pig in sunshine!

You’ll wanna slap yer mama!

Can’t decide hon?

I do declare!

Aren’t you precious?

(now... he startin get on my last nerve)

Still...can’t make up your mind?

Well... I can’t do it fer ya!

(bout aggravatin as a rock)

You picky?  

(Lawd have mercy!)

Bless your heart!  

©  2019 Jim Davis
It’s a Southern thing! Had 3 pounds of mudbugs for lunch today at JuJu’s Crawfish Shak in Fannet!  Be sure and stop by if you’ve got time!
I swear this is word for word!
Jim Davis Apr 2017
In the last
three decades,
after we became one,
I touched
amazingly beautiful things,
horribly ugly things,  
unbelievably wondrous things

I touched nature's majesty;
hued walls of the Grand Canyon,              
crusty bark of the
Redwoods and Sequoias,
live corals of the
Great Barrier Reef,
dreamlike sandstone of the Wave

I touched magical and strange;
platypus, koalas and
kangaroos Down Under,
underwater alkali flies and
lacustrine tufa at Mono Lake,
astral glowing worms
in the Kawiti caves

I touched holy places;
Christianity's oldest churches,
the Pope's home in the Vatican,
Hindu and Sikh temples and
Moslem mosques in India,
Anasazi's kivas of Chaco canyon,
Aboriginal rocks of Uluru and Kata Tjuta

I touched glimmers of civilization;
uncovered roads of Pompeii,
fighting arenas of Rome,
terra cotta armies of Xian,
sharp stone points of the Apache,
pottery shards from the Navajo,
petroglyphs by the Jornada Mogollon

I touched fantastical things;
winds blowing on the
steppes of Patagonia,,
playas and craters of Death Valley,  
high peaks of the Continental Divide,
blazing white sands of the  
Land of Enchantment

I touched icons of liberty
and freedom;
the defended Alamo,
a fissured Liberty Bell,
an embracing Statue of Liberty,
the harbor of Checkpoints
Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie

I touched glorious things
made by man;
the monstrous Hoover Dam,
an exquisite Eiffel tower,
a soaring St Louis Arch,
an Art deco Empire State Building,
the sublime Golden Gate Bridge

I touched sparks from history;
the running path of an
Olympic flame just off Bourbon,
the last steps of Mohandas Ghandi
at Birla House before Godse,
******'s Eagle's nest and the
grounds over Der Führerbunker

I touched walls of power;
enclosed rings of the Pentagon,
steep steps of the
Great Wall of China,
untried bastions of
Peter and Paul's fortress,
fitted boulders of Machu Picchu

I touched strong hands;
of those conquering
Rommel's and ******'s hordes,
of cold warriors of
Chosin Reservoir,  
of forgotten soldiers of Vietnam,
of terrorist killers of today

I touched memories of war;
the somber Vietnam memorial,
the glorious Iwo Jima statue,
the cold slabs at Arlington,
the buried tomb of USS Arizonians,
Volgograd's Mother Russia  

I touched ugly things;
shreds of light in
Port Arthur's prison,
horrible smelly dust
in the streets from 9/11,
ash impregnated dirt
in the pits at Auschwitz

I touched oppressed freedom;
open ****** plazas
of Tiananmen Square,
smooth pipe and concrete
of the Berlin Wall,  
tall red brick walls
of the Moscow Kremlin

I touched constrained freedom;
heavy ankle and
wrist slave chains
in the South,
little windows
in Berlin's Stasi prison,
haunted cells in Alcatraz  

I touched remnants of madness;
wire and ovens of Auschwitz,
stacked chimneys and
wooden bunks of Birkenau,        
Ravensbruck, and Dachau,
the tomb of Lenin,
toppled Stalins

I touched hands of survivors;
of Leningrad's siege,
of German POWs and
of Russian fighters
of Stalingrad's battle,
of Cancer's scourges  

I touched grand things;
deep waters of the Pacific and Atlantic,
blue hills of Appalachia,
towering peaks of the Rockies,
high falls of Yosemite Valley,
bursting geysers of Yellowstone,
crashing glaciers of Antarctica and Alaska    

I touched times of adventure;
abseiling and zipping in Costa Rica,
packing Pecos wilds and Padre isles,
flying nap of earth Hueys to Meridian,
breaking arms in JRTC's box,
fighting Abu Sayyaf, and Jemaah
Islami in Zamboanga City

I touched through you;
wet sand beaches of  Mexico and Jamaica,
mysterious energy of the monoliths of Stonehenge,
rarefied air in front of the
Louvre's Mona Lisa,
ancient wonders of Giza,
Egypt's tombs and pyramids

We shared soft touches;
drifting in Bora Bora's
surreal waters,
joining hands camel trekking the
Outback's dry sands,
strolling along Tasmania's
eucalyptus forest trails

basking in swinging hammocks
under Fiji's bright sun,
scrambling in
Las Vegas' glittering and
red rock canyons,
kissing under the
Taj Mahal's symphony of arches

We shared touching deep waters;
propelled in gondolas
through the city of canals,
Drifting atop Uru cat boats on Lake Titticaca,
Swooping in jet boats
up a wild river in Talkeetna

Racing in speed boats
around Sydney's great harbour,
skimming in pangas in Puerto Ayora,
paddling the Kennebec for
East's best petroglyphs,
cruising Salzbergwerk's underwater lake

We touched scrumptious things;
Beignets and chicory coffee at DuMonde's in the Big Easy,
Hot *** with sesame sauce
in the walled city of Xian,
Peking duck, dimsum, scorpions,
snake and starfish on Wangfujing Snack Street

We touched delicious things
Crawfish heads and tails at JuJu's shack
and ten years at Jeanette's,
Langoustine at Poinciana's, Fjöruborðinus and Galapagos,
Cream cheese and loch bagels
at Ess-a' s in the Big Apple

I touched your hand riding;
hang loose waves of Waikiki,
a big green bus in Denali's awesomeness,
clip clopping carriages of Vienna, Paris,
Prague, New Orleans, Krakow,
Quebec City, and Zakopane,
the acapella sugar train of St Kitts

We shared touching on paths;
the highway 1 of Big Sur,
the Road of the Great Ocean,
the bahn to Buda and Pest,
the path to the North of Maine,
the trail of the Hoh rainforest,
and time after time, the way home

Yet,
I could spend
the next three decades,
in simple bliss,
having need for
touching nothing,
other than you!

©  2016 Jim Davis
A poem I wrote last year for my wife!  Posted now since it matches the HP' theme for today - "Places"
ShamusDeyo Nov 2014
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 **'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
*inspired by Historical basis...
true Story from the Bayou... The very first Zydeco Song ever recorded was "Paper in my Shoe" by Boozoo Chavez the Flip side was "No Paper in my Shoe" well Boozoo got a taste of Cold Cash And Cadilacs and he blew it all on horses and **'s, While he was partying it Clifton Chenier worked hard and played long nights ending up the King of Zydeco
both had songs in 1953 both from Lake Charles Loisiana

All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"

The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"
Robert C Ellis Aug 2018
Hades escaping the first leaves of virginity
The realm of Io scattering molten silica
In degrees
Water drops from God’s shoulder burst and buried
Her eyes at my scar;  she stops the bleeding
Sucrose sun whetting the crest of a bee
The dutiful molecules of my shirt sleeves
Zaccheus in a sycamore tree
Her words on a southerly trajectory
Crawfish in my grandmother’s stream
The Battle of Moon Sound beaching infantry
A northern gannet nesting her babies
The decibels of smoldering wood beams
Flesh constructing hairs in the breeze
Molecules muddy as I try to breathe
Ghosts approaching the Andromeda galaxy
Stars floating to the top of the stream
I      N      F      I      N      I      T      Y
Colt Aug 2013
Now sit there, just a minute, hold on, hear my tale
for just a minute.
One of humanity, sincerity, tragedy
Of when I was there, live from the square.
Jackson Square.
Not the one of Coin Coin, the Nevilles, the Toussaints,
Allen or L’Overture.
This is one of a momma and her baby
in 2008.
Three years, three years,
three years after the flood, three years after the storm.
Let me paint you a picture of Orleans as it stood one day in 2008
as it stands today.

2008, NewOrleans:
What happens here, no one will remember in the morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.
Walking towards Bourbon
The lights, the sin, the history

New Orleans, where life ain't so easy.
There’s a family down there who don't survive so peacefully.
You can see them if you walk down Canal St., leisurely.
There, sleeping on the courthouse stairs,
A mother and her child who own only the clothes they wear.
The boy was young, elementary-aged
Curious too, I could hear him ask questions:
"Mama, why don't we got food?"
And her reply,
"Son, that's just the way it is, life's just hard for me and you."
Sitting there on the courthouse stairs.
I take my place on the opposite side of the stoop,
Watching the crowds go by.
The women in their high-heeled shoes
The men with their shirts half-open.
Grenades in hand, ***** in the blood,
Pockets full of cash and hearts full of lust

New Orleans
What happens there, no one will remember come morning.
The buskers, the tunes, why, even the voodoos get the blues.

There’s a family on vacation there
In such a sinful city, a family.
White, middle-class, suburban, all too WASP-y.
mom, dad, a daughter and a son,
elementary aged, with a pop in his cheerful step,
On the way to a nice restaurant
gon’ eat crawfish, gator, red beans and rice, jambalaya.
They’ll forget to tip the waiter.

New Orleans,
What happens here, no one will remember come morning.

That happy family, walking down Canal St.
Like walking out the gates of hell
Where the lost souls sit on the stairs
Begging for something, anything at all
The happy family had ‘bout reached the courthouse when the young boy asked
"Daddy, why don't they have any food?"
His father covered his son’s eyes with his white hand and replied,
"Here son, let's go and find a toy for you to buy."
And the kid shrank after seeing this mom and her son
His innocent eyes died and he said,
"I don't want a toy.  I don't want anything"
They walked on by, the happy boys' head turned the whole time,
those eyes.  Stuck on the family that was stuck on the stairs
Mom dad, a daughter and a son,
Elementary-aged with a slump in his sunken step.

Now, in my mind I wonder:
was it more monumental that my life changed
or that a had life changed before my eyes

New Orleans, two thousand and eight.
New Orleans, today,
what happens there, no one will remember come morning.
Barkley Layne Nov 2014
An old town that escapes the reality of today. 
I'd trade anything to see it in all of its glory. 
No cell phones, everyone smiling and waving.
Everything peaceful and happy. 
The sun peeking through the pine trees.
Do you hear the mockingbird's song? 
The summers are hot and humid,
the creaks are filled with crawfish,  
The banks filled with frogs and
Us playing cowboys and Indians.
A summer love and
A Mason jar of cold sweet tea. 
"Thank you Mrs. Maybell!" 
We giggle and run to our hiding place near the oak trees.
"Tag your it!" 
We all scurry barefooted through the woods. 
Screams, shouts. 
We forgot how we are still here, 
In the same town over taken by the sounds of silence. 
You may think this story is over; 
The truth is, it’s only just begun. 
"Back when I was a child" 
maybe seem boring to some, 
but if you listen-
You may be surprised how you will want to go back 
to a time when we could play near the creaks
and pay five cents for a coke. 
Life was simpler back then,
Back when; 
This town was small and simple, 
but it was home. 
And always will be.
I wrote this listening to my grandmother tell me stories of her home town, she did not think I was listening... but i am sure glad I was.
topaz oreilly Dec 2012
Crème brulee, a careless mind,
singeing, burning albeit caramelized
like a politician never normalized,
crawfish should never be apologetic
there's an avaricious  food chain
in there somewhere,
gun shot without hardly knowing
right from wrong
conceal that  powder trail
dig down to Bayou.
Lawrence Hall Apr 2021
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

               A Polite Response to an Invitation to a Crawfish Boil

Aquatic roaches
Foul, malodorous decay
Exoskeletons
Lucky Queue Dec 2012
Know what I hate?
That feeling of disgust at myself
For eating a little more than usual
The happy-sadness for gaining 2 (needed) pounds
That tiny prodding in the back of my skull
Telling me to skip this so I don't gain a half pound
I need to eat, and love the different types of food
Sushi to curry to crawfish to funnel cakes
If its good, I'll eat it.
But I won't feel great about it.
I don't want to worry about it anymore
Stomach, please be quiet, you're not helping.
Brain, you too.
Friend, at least I've got this promise to keep.
That helps more than you know.
Plus I just really can't stand to throw up
Or not eat.
I hate this feeling.
This problem isn't as prominent as it used to be, but it crops up as little mental pokes sometimes.
Brandon Sep 2013
I stood out in the middle of the flowing creek on a rock slicked with moss. My Timberlands soaked from walking in the water to the rock. My boots claimed to be waterproof and were waterproof in that once water works its way in, it does not come back out unless the boot is removed and shaken violently to poor the water out. But the boots could be dried out later in the sun so this did not worry nor bother me.

I studied the landscape and watched the clear brownish water weave its way thru the obstacles in its way as if there were nothing that could impede it. I listened to the wind blowing and felt the breeze cool my legs until they were dry and no longer wet. I watched the crawfish, some the size of a dime, others bigger than a dollar bill, swim their way against and with the stream from one rock to another. I saw frogs leaping on the shore, frightened by movement in the bush and the random noises that nature and man can make.

I steadied my balance, gripping the rock thru the moss the best I could with the worn soles of my boots and with my left hand I grabbed the fishing line on my rod and pulled out a good two feet and with my right I flung my rod backwards and snapped forward with my wrist casting out the line until it was a good thirty to forty feet in front of me before I snapped the reel closed and began reeling the line in. I started off slow and picked up the pace, feeling the lure do its little dance beneath the water and I continued altering speeds and slightly lifting the rod to mimic the bait to make it look and act alive so that some fish might go after it, get tempted, bite it good and clean, and get hooked.

It's been days since I've had a meal and I could feel the hunger pangs rumbling in my stomach and my mouth salivate as I thought about my attempted catch and how good it would taste and how good it would smell being cooked over the fire that was still burning nicely a little ways from shore at the small camp I had set up for the night.

My line was about fifteen feet in when I felt a tug on it and I stopped reeling and fingered the line just slightly waiting to feel the pressure of a bite. As I watched and imagined seeing thru the water I could see the fish circling the lure and I did my best to continue making the bait seem alive and to keep the interest of the fish. There was a right tug on the line and I snapped the rod back, feeling the hook catch in the mouth of the fish who immediately began to fight being caught and took my line out another ten feet before I locked the reel and began the struggle of pulling him in.

My rod bending in a strong arch, I continued to pull in the line slowly giving the fish time to wear himself out. I had now regained the ten feet that the fish took but there was still plenty of fight in him. I could tell he was a good fish and weighed near thirty pounds by the struggle in him.

Suddenly he broke the surface of the water and I saw him clearly. He was a carp with the dull light green scales etched neatly along his body. He was about three feet in length and had a body thick like a small tree. He would make an excellent meal if I could finish bringing him in.

We fought back and forth for a good forty five minutes with my pulling in and him finding every crevice in the creek to entangle himself and pull out more line despite the reel being locked. At one point I nearly lost him as he pulled me off the rock and into the water. I hit my back on the rock and out of shock let go of the rod and watched it begin to drift down stream as the fish pulled away with it still caught but I quickly gathered myself and lunged forward, grabbing the handle between my thumb, index and ******* long enough to pull it back and get a better hold. I cursed and spit and reeled in harder watching the line go taught and the rod bend in an almost perfect arch. I started walking towards the carp while reeling in, closing the space between us.

He was now five feet in front of me and the fight was leaving his body because the line lessened and the arch lessened and I could see him clearly in the murky water laying almost calm, giving in to his fate.

Three feet.

Two feet

Almost there.

Suddenly he leaped again out of the water and twisted and thrusted himself about strong enough so that the hook ripped clear thru his mouth and out. He splashed back in the water and was gone before my hook landed back in the water.

He had got away and I would not be having him for dinner tonight.
CK Baker Nov 2021
he wasn’t so much a peddler
(as many had quietly assumed)
more of a rural shuffler
or social inchworm
than a mover and a shaker

but boy
could he dish out those jabs
and ad lib on a whim
and draw sweet melodies
from that broken 6 string
all night long

carving out reflections
oh, those deep intuitive divinations!
steadily preaching
on the breathtaking joys
and fruits
of the vibrant land

grow your own
seeds to be sown
clean and green
a nourishing machine!

silver linings (straight from truth room)
clearly seen
from those uncompromised
garden views

casting his baited lines
from softly pebbled shores
(his nanna, and poppa
were there, years before)
giving grace…
and basking deeply
in the bounty of the fenua

his love of life was insatiable
moving from town to town
to nourish his soul
digging way beyond the deep
for that shrouded purpose
that soulful existence
that many spend a lifetime
looking to find

three boats settle
in the quiet harbor
a net shed basking in the sand
peaceful and serene
(with a hint of emerald green)
Sunset red
with crawfish (and lemongrass)
to keep us
bountifully fed
Shay Ruth Aug 2013
Oceanic floor beckoned her last peculiar thought
As she breathed in seaweed, crawfish, and eel
She whispered, begged the silk to cut her free at last
She reeked of potential
Gentler creatures watched her final attempt floating North, a sign of her success
Revival in the cracks of her gills and the spaces between teeth, they grinned at the smell of her stretch
Spread over warm shortbread ,
a drizzle with molasses and cornbread
On a fresh baked apple , a dabble on a **** ,
a spoonful over your corn on the cob
Hoecakes , pancakes , johnnycakes and
hushpuppies
A crawfish boil , a 'smidge in the stew , *** liquor , fresh hominy in the fridge ,
drop biscuits , catfish breading and Columbus
grits
Grandmother's frosting with a -
Mason Jar
The Old Red Rooster sleeps in PawPaw's car
Barn Owl hoot 'n holler
Two York's in the afternoon wallow
Blackberry muffins on the rack
An afternoon stitch on Uncle Joe's back
Three legged pup in a red clay ditch
Mother whipping okra with a hickory switch* .....
Copyright May 2 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Sarah Spang Jan 2018
Of all things I remember
I'll always recall the sunflowers;
Benevolent guardians that kept
Whimsical treasures from the wandering eye.

There was a slick magic they harbored
Bottled in their rich, sun darkened faces;
The surrendered seeds
We gathered against the wishes of the jays.

I grasped them, granted access to the castle on the creek
Lighthouse in the wood that beckoned back after
The last crawfish had wriggled free
The final apple was plucked,
And the birds had sought refuge.
My written, unfinished effigy to the only father I knew.
I apologize for another hiatus, the well has run dry once more
Still digging around for more.

Thank you, all.
Fire Fox May 2015
When you're lost in the wild, and you're scared as a child
And death looks you bang in the eye
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To **** your revolver and... die
But the code of a man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred
In hunger and woe, oh it's easy to blow
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now, that's a shame
You're young, and you're brave, and you're bright
"You've had a raw deal!" I know-but don't squeal
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit; it's so easy to quit:
Its the keeping-your-chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten-and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl
But to fight and fight when hope's out of sight-
Why, that's the best game of them all!
And though you may come out of each grueling bout,
All broken and beaten and scarred
Just have one more try-it's dead easy to die
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

-Robert Service
Mike Hauser Aug 2017
Just North of South Carolina
Is where this country boy was born
All I really cared in those growing years
Was the running through woods kind of fun

Those days I fondly remember
There's no way you can bad mouth the South
With water up to our knees chasing crawfish in creeks
And anything else nature would allow

Even squirrel hunting as younguns
So my Granny could make us a pie
No secret better kept than eating straight off the land
Whether it was squirrels or apples to find
Granny always made delicious pies

Always in church every Sunday
Paying the Lord his due respects
For all that we have and all that he gives
Plus for the forgiveness of sins

Then after church when there weren't no chores
We'd kiss and tell our parents goodbye
They'd not see us again till we heard the bell ring
Come about supper time

There's something that's to be said about being a kid
Growing up down in the South
Where there's no better time below the Mason Dixon line
But that you'd have to find out for yourself
tracy Jan 2015
i miss the sound of your voice.
the rain against my window almost suffices for tonight--
i'm a little drunk but i count the miles between us like a mantra;
take i-20e to us 190. take exit 19. for 506 miles, don't look back.
we are directions on a map with a destination to each other.

i'm calling because sometimes i forget what mile i'm on.

when i'm done with miles, i start counting days--
65 days until i see you next, 23 days since i've seen you last,
and on the 27th day, you told me you loved me.
if love was a garden of sunflowers on a dallas spring morning,
if love was a crawfish boil on a new orleans summer night,
then i'd spend every minute falling in love with you.

i never run out of things to say but my gas is running on empty,
and i've still got 3 more hours to go because
i accidentally missed you so much that my foot stepped on the pedal
and instead of turning left, i turned right since going home
meant going straight to you. i only meant to grab lunch,
but i had to have you by supper.

the last thing i wanted to tell you before i tell you what i really need
to tell you is that i'm not afraid anymore; no longer afraid of
unlocking this heart and throwing it miles and miles away with nothing
but a good pair of pants and a folded up address in its pockets.

the address is yours, so open up. i'm here.
to the one who makes my insides blossom with sunflowers, i love you.
spysgrandson Oct 2017
for me, the creek may as well have been the mighty Mississippi

too shallow for canoe; mostly carp and crawfish called it home

no great novels were penned about adventures there

though I had my own tales to tell:

sand squishing between my toes on a sultry August day

a water moc I decided to let live

the time my grandfather taught me how to clean the catch--fish guts given back to the sluggish current

most of all, the arm I found on a Sunday afternoon, one attached to a body

who turned out to be a man who had cheated my grandpa

and vanished only days later -- assumed to have absconded to avoid John Law

my uncle the sheriff fished him out and planted him again, without a doc's scrutinizing eye

never was the man mentioned again, even by his kin--whipped white trash

such was Texas in 1940, questions not answered because not asked

drought dried the creek to fetid puddles
the year my grandpa passed

the very spot I found the arm, one of the last places to dry

a stagnant pool with minnows and memories colliding in death throes

and my grandfather buried spitting distance from the man I had found

both now above the creek where it joined
the river Brazos, it too a victim of the sun's relentless sear

though not so willing to give up secrets, to
cast doubt on legends, or let ghosts rise from the mire
It’s s’posed to be ironic
You drawled,
Over a pale green t-shirt
With the faded stain
Of the letter “T,”

That syrup-smooth tone
Even the bees recognized as sweet,
Buzzing around me as if
To catch what dripped out next.

Who would’ve thought *crawfish

Could make my stomach flip?
And could anything sound more exquisite
Than fishin’ **-wels and gaytah tay-els?

And when you paused,
For too long,
To catch your breath,
I held mine,
And prayed that you’d keep going.
- Mar 2016
I’m unsure of why everyone is here.

I’ve always wanted to see Louisiana,
with its cobwebs and crawfish,
the distant yells of Marlon Brando
Still throbbing faintly in the night
Who proctored the marriage
of water and shore , filled
the morn with songbirds of
every color , placed top water dancers , filled the murky depths with
magic and romance , aligned the trees
along her shining banks just so ,
adjusted her loving tributaries , calculated
their timely flow , created crawfish , shell ******* ,
rock bass and channel cat ,
pink and blue flowers , otter and muskrat
Who drew men into blue eyes , focused their
gaze into March sky , placed their naked feet
in her cool dominion , created a love never ending* ...
Copyright March 8 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The tomato soup and the onions
are committed to the sweet potatoes
destruction
Ramin Noodles have nothing but revulsion
for a container of raisins , a box of aluminum foil ,
a pack of crawfish boil
The oven pursues the death of the microwave ,
the refrigerator turns on a bottle of cheap Kroger wine
The toaster oven whines , the kitchen faucet continues to
shine , the asparagus awaits the end of time in a salted
brine , the full sink resembles a modern shrine
Paper plants gather dust , drain pans rust , the garbage is left
untouched , the ceiling fan is in a diehard , unbalanced rush
The house occupants are post vacation slovenly , piles of
clothes are where they want to be , dust bunnies will be handled
another day , a chilled goblet , an old movie , the dress code
pajamas , its residents lie exhausted and anonymous* ...
Copyright February 25 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Dishes Nov 2016
What a drop,
To fall from this height what a drop indeed,
To fall from up here would be foolish.
Mortal, perhaps.
As just before u splat u remember exists those imaginary boot straps,
And that knot you learned in 1st grade way after everyone else,

And those wings you grew yourself.

You flapped those little wings in formation with your mother and brothers goose by your side till one day by some miracle you stood on one foot per day and danced a Macarena around a cage of crawfish.
trf Feb 2018
Que voulez-vous de plus de la New Orleans?
Nutria sniped from shotgun shacks,
Horseradish hand grenades, get out of jail free charades.
Oyster forks in Lafourche talk the Trinity,
Those poor boys preceded Sal's Snowballs.

Papa Q raced the tracks; trains and thoroughbreds.
We were pubescent pirates, deck hands for hired luck,
Trifectas bribing our age, thirteen.
'Buted up' horses breaking down, their chalk line finite.

Late Spring, the Jazz rains for dusty crowds,
Like groundhogs gorging crawfish bread in Gospel tents,
Smelling of spices and creole sweat, a serenity treat, home.
Mom's Monday red beans, stirring since Sunday, salivating glands.

Rear view Blues light, chasing 23.8 miles,
Causeway, 'laissez faire' attitudes over Lake Pontchartrain,
When bedding the D.A.'s daughter is my convenient, corrupt plea.
Heir to Napoleonic code, law fallacies And
Alligator alleyways rush youth's normalcy.

The Dr. & Professor bled on all eighty-eight, resonating
From Frenchman to Tips, black and white keys turned red,
Tuning out race or nomenclature, lower wards up garden districts.
Second line's ancestors, parading dead down Marigny, joyfully.
Que voulez-vous de plus de la Nawlins?
How ya mom a dem doing baby?  Happy Mardi Gras, ya heard me!
Charles Sturies May 2017
The line - I never promised you a rose garden
and with me finishing it I added "at all"
The line - I'm here for the party - and me even
though they didn't put under my name in the high
school yearbook, "Where's the party" like a
hoody dropout buddy of mine got!
The line - Take her she's all I got - I added
"she's more than enough"
The line - I'm just an Okie from Muskogee with
my addition "obviously"
The line - Jambalaya crawfish pie - my addition
"sounds good to me even"
The line - Smoky Mountain Rain - I add on
"when it rains, it pours, of course, but when
I'm around it comes down in torrents."
The line - When my baby loves me -my add on
"when, though, I think".
That's all for now.
1- a Tammy Wynette song

Charles Sturies
XIII Nov 2019
Let me introduce to you, HP,
AB!
My MUse
The one who've seen my unspoken truth

She was my shot to the blue moon that hit
The pig that grew wings and flew
My albino crow
That one moon who heard the wolf's howl

She's my warmth even when hell froze over
The dragons of Cressida Cowell
The celebration day of Saint Never's
The rising sun in the West

My rainbow unicorn
Even the salt lightens and glows
The rain of leaves from the oak
The donkey on top of a blossoming flagpole

Hers is the bite marks of hen
On my hairy palm
The wind caught on my net
The calves dancing on ice

You can hear the cow cough
And see the snake smoke
The crawfish' whistle from up the mountain echoes
While the long-haired frog croaked

She's my improbable
My impossible
My fantasy
Now a reality

So let me introduce to you
The reason why my fingers are poet-blocked no more
The proof that broken hearts can still start anew
Beat again, and open a new door

— The End —