"dixieland" poems
Hang on, hold on...
...we get the fiddle out,*
Now the old Ban-jo...
here comes it now,
clap tune with us...*
America went in the can when Hollywood then brought-in,
The good feelings sneakin' 'round as Old Times never for-got-ten.
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
Real T.V. got your goat as poli-ticks snake your vote,
I guess that's how, guess what's now, -rock that boat!
LOOK AWAY! LOOK AWAY! T.V. keepin' Dixie!
Take a knee you N-F-L, NBA you go to Hell!
Still not same, as Me 'n Me, with money, life is swell!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
Demo-cracy was thrown a hand, when Dixieland lost it's stand,
Oh live and die for T.V.
Keep your eyes down now, -boy don't look around...
...Our way, -T.V. -is Dixie!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
Gotten out? The Great Gar-den? Then we shot your Mar-tin.
And ole Jay Z we'll mow him down, every time he hits our town,
oh you'll see, catch a grave, as God T.V. keep y'all a slave!
Not the same, as Me n' Me, in spite of all your New money!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
HOORAY! HOORAY! America, still Dixie!
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 8:05 AM UTC
Beat the rhythm
empty hand,
Iron cast chains
rattles command.
Ol' Boss Hogg,
baton raised
Self righteous fool
has need of praise.
In order that
he gain acclaim,
thinks with hate,
acts with shame.
Human beings,
commodity,
ships hold stacked
with those once free.
Bodies piled
upon high
you will not see
the strong ones die.
Scars embedded
on their backs
chained and shackled
to the racks.
We deal in branded
breathing stock,
Unload black vassal
from our docks.
Beat the rhythm
empty hands.
Iron cast chains
in far off lands.
We keep our skivvy,
wired hair blacks.
We work them hard,
we score their backs.
They do for us,
they work the field.
Grow the cotton,
pick the yield.
Keep the body,
take the mind.
Labour whatever's
left behind.
And if demeanour
does ever flinch.
We'll introduce you
Willie Lynch.
Beat the rhythm.
Empty hands
Iron cast chains.
Unfair demands.
Beat the rhythm,
shackled feet.
We take their worst
but can't be beat.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
You just don't notice
The wrinkles an' lines
She's covered them in fun
Coz her easy smile
Will her airbrush be
Until her race is run
Gold trainers
Worn with blue jeans
Are the icing on the cake
As she boogies
With her old man
With the bar-room in her wake
An' the dixie-band
Don't miss a beat
Black jeans, black shirts, deep south
'Cept the double-bass
On whose poker face
Someone's stuck a smiley mouth
And the clarinet
Awaits his cue
Eyes shut in swaying bliss
While Goldie,
She's gone freestyle
And the front-man gets a kiss
So the trombone slides
An' the susa-phones
Just as cool as a cu-cumber
And the 'Judges rocks
as the chorus rolls
“Your Age Is Just A Number”
Mar 20, 2011
Mar 20, 2011 at 2:21 AM UTC
Welcome to the South,
where we teach
Christ's compassion,
rather than put it into action.
Where we honor the
Red, White, and Blue,
but only want to share it with a few.
Welcome to the South,
Where our values are just as backwards as our deep fried diet,
and our minds are
just as closed as our hearts.
So pull up a chair,
or a double-wide,
Grab a peach
or a pecan pie,
'cause ain't nothin'
gonna change,
till DixieLand dies.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 5:40 PM UTC
Send me away to some Dixieland town,
to some one-bank, water-tower, small-time town,
with simple backwoods thinkers,
and boys playing hooky with sinkers.
Send me away from these weak city girls,
with their sleek plastic looks
and their chic, stylish curls.
Give me instead those natural ladies,
in hand-me-down calico skirts.
Give me the girls who brush their hair twice,
then frolic with dogs in the dirt.
I will always strive to impress
a woman in a home-made dress.
But I will never apply my modest ploys
to the wooing of ladies
who thrive on city joys
and the jive of city boys.
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
12/10/2012:
A very mellow day,
A day that makes one’s golden years actually golden.
Happy in retirement?
There’s a joke:
You slave like Spartacus in the Libyan salt mines for 30 or 40 or even 50
years, and now you’re supposed to re-calibrate the machine, re-gauge
one’s anatomy and metabolism for a habitat so far and away grindstone
gone.
The muckrakers Studs Terkel and Barbara Ehrenreich remind us:
Work is the only thing we can do for 8 hours, other than sleep.
Perchance even to dream out that Roman **** or Bacchanal.
No, alas, 4 hours is the legal limit for an ******** lasting that long,
During all our joy-juiced carnal desires,
Be they under the elms or elsewhere.
**Cialis! ******
Names already living it up in infamy.
A simple truth about Retirement:
Stop working and die.
A most intense public service announcement,
A vast digital image out of Yeats,
A very special Spiritus Mundi P-S-A.
Targeting Baby Boomers, especially:
“You better find yourself something,
Or someone to occupy your mind.”
Brought to you by the good people at
OCCUPY BRAIN STREET,
First a national, then a veritable global movement,
However so short-lived;
Like all the others.
Oh, Boomers, your attention span is down to 8 minutes.
Your mnemonic links are frayed and tattered,
Your hard drive noodle fragmented,
Yet still whirring white noise jazz.
A New Orleans Dixieland funeral,
And Al-Zheim trumpet blast to go out on.
Well, I don’t know about the rest of you,
But I am relatively well adjusted in retirement.
And today—previously mentioned as a mellow day--
Today is one reason why.
As is medical marijuana and the sultry voice of Chrissie Hynde,
With or without her band of Pretenders.
And let’s throw in a lovely bottle of Temecula red wine--
Doffo, if you’re going to get fussy on me,
Another blithe distraction cultivated and custom-made for old age.
Indeed, a very mellow day.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 3:21 PM UTC
We're living out
the greatest paradox
known to mankind
going all about it
from the wrong side
Obsessed with self-expression
we customize our face
and facebook
Look at any college student's
music preferences and see
the same ten things
in different orders
What is music
but the confluence of a billion
inspirations
starting from before we began
Go to any live show
and you'll experience
the penultimate
compilation of all music
known to man
Unless its a pop show
cuz I heard lots of those
are mere recordings
Any jazz gig
has slave songs
Coltrane
Dixieland
and Louis
all at once
even if the performers
and audience
don't realize it
Every musician can list
a long line of influences
All these inspirations
were affected by countless
other musicians before them
and it goes on and on
and on
All music is the result
of all music
that came before it
and will become and influence
all music after it
And this does not apply
only to music
but art, poetry, any writing
politics, economics,
language
Everything
We are the direct, indirect
product of all history
Look at the word history
His Story
Its our story
And not just mankind
We used to be primate rats
surrounded by towering
Dinos
Think about that
next time you see
road ****
Millions of people are abused
every day, we're only abusing
ourselves
Drinking ourselves silly
Smoking our lungs out
We're too lazy or ignorant
sometimes
Too caught up on getting rich
to realize we made money
to make life easier
Trade is best
with a common currency
and that should be
Love.
Sep 16, 2010
Sep 16, 2010 at 11:09 PM UTC
in infancy,
vienna waited for me.
before bedtime,
i stood on my father’s feet
and put my tiny hands
in his large ones
as we danced around the livingroom
to billy joel.
i learned to read at two;
while young, my father taught me
how to gently set a record on the turntable,
move the arm, set the needle down
and i read the lyrics, memorizing:
war child, dark side of the moon, sports.
we made our fingers walk on a thin line;
we made our faces angry with grins.
he, via ian anderson, showed me
how to carry a sword and take a stand,
told me to be who i really want to be
and taught me what to do
when i join the good ship earth.
older yet, we sang duets,
his deep “by the hand, hand, take me by the hand”
to my “i wanna hear some funky dixieland—”
his “no sugar tonight”
to my “new mother nature.”
now, at fifty-six and twenty-five,
we sing about shiny teeth and having
nothin’ but a good time.
we teach the midwest
not to mess with a son of a *****
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
"My name is Ligion , for we are many"
Luke 8:30
Every Sunday we went to church
Never really thinking what was it for
Always wore our best shinny shoes
***** slacks , and who was it for
After church we would always eat out
Get lucky and have trout Almondine
Spanish Mackerel fresh off the grill
It always gave me a thrill
Couldn't wait to jump out of those clothes
Put on shorts and go outdoors
Collect toads right about dark
Put them in the bathtub
Mother looked so stark
Everything was going just fine
Then we moved to the heart of Dixieland
Home to more Bible Thumpers
Than a toad bops his ***
Told my ways must change
Or I hadn't a chance
So I was graced by the light of the Lord
Baptized in the holiest of ghost
Dwelt on a heavenly high
But things changed for the worst
In the by and by
Once saved always saved say they
That's not true oh by the way
I fell into repute , became angry at all
I no longer heard the voice
Of God and his call
I got worse , let evil come on in
I became gaunt , more bone than skin
An evil presence I projected like *****
People stepped back
They didn't want any of it
I was one ot the many
I was surely destined for Hell
But like a new copper penny
Two sides are there to tell
I was struck down
And my ways were clipped
My boat was cast out
Someone had cut all my slips
I floundered on the fast rising seas
God had knocked me down onto my knees
I remember you as a boy
Captured toads and did so much more
Then you changed and walked out of my door
Have you ever even thought about
Coming back for more
You became evil , deep in wicked sin
Over and over you sinned again
You mocked me , my son
And sacred holy of ghosts
I ought to make you into
Blackened burnt toast
But I see one glimmer of hope
If you return to your former post
And repent , no need for forgiveness
It's already spent , come now it's all for the best
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:35 PM UTC
I want to
Hear your voice
As clear as I
Can hear
That Dixieland
***** Voice
Of Hers
And The Acoustic
Set
Behind Her
Chanting The Rythm
Out Of Words
That Held Meaning
Only Two
Years Ago
But If I hear your
Voice
It would Have
Changed
With
Time
And Age
And I would
Have to Strain
To Remeber
The Little
Boy
I met long ago
Once Upon
A September
Jul 11, 2010
Jul 11, 2010 at 2:37 PM UTC
Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew,
ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle’s spout
we tilt to basking faces to breathe out
the ordinary, and inhale perfume ...
Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,
wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves
that will not keep their order in the trees,
unmentionables that peek from dancing lines ...
Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights:
the constellations’ dying mysteries,
the fireflies that hum to light, each tree’s
resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight ...
Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,
as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.
"Love Has a Southern Flavor" has been published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse, Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India), Victorian Violet Press and Trinacria
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 12:44 AM UTC
I will ask only once:
In all the 36 months
We danced around each other
Did you ever want me as a lover?
Did you dream of holding my hand,
Of sinking into me like quicksand,
Of romping with me in Dixieland,
Of making plans with me beforehand?
Did you?
I did.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 3:44 PM UTC
Rise Dixieland Rise
Rise dixieland to fire our gun once more.
Let the shout of the south ring once more.
Let's protect our southern heritage and god give rights.
Not to fight our kin, friends but those that hate for which we stand.
To arms to arms my dixieland and shall we bring the north this time.
Fight those from other land that hate us too.
Rise dixieland rise And, this time we shall win!
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
You popped up when my life was complicated.
Instead of the spirit of depression, your spirit followed me around.
I needed you
Just like three meals a day;
HardBop for Breakfast,
Fusion for Lunch,
Ragtime for a mini snack,
Swing for an evening meal,
Dixieland for a midnight party.
At the time, I never knew you were there.
I just knew it was okay for my soul to hurt.
It was okay to be ******* up and to never be perfect.
You weren't perfect.
Both of our messes collided with each other and it fit.
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 8:17 PM UTC
God bless the future of Dixie
May they have Southern grit
To stand strong for Dixieland
May they NEVER forget
What an honor it is to say
My Southern Roots Run Deep
So when I die bury me with my feet in the south.
That way I'll always be in Dixieland.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
I saw Monticello
A foggy Appalachia
And learned that day
Thomas Jefferson owned slaves
Those angered spirits
Hallowed howling souls
From within the worm-torn earth
Left low-vocalized debt-cords
Tied around a guilty frame
Two centuries ensconced in brick
A time fondly forgotten
When the radicals sung their starling songs
To a land of gin and cotton
There will probably not be another Whisky Rebellion
With the **** beat out of Dixieland
Instead
Watch the T.V dinner-pan out
A Social security check
to every Pioneer.
Down go the statues and mountains
There will be no old memoriam here
It’s time to return these borrowed things to earth
Now that their end draws near.
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 10:50 PM UTC
In the South. Deep in the hills.
There is a forgotten town. Of a war past.
On a clear night you can see an old schoolhouse.
Next to a grave yard of soldiers from the past.
When the moon is full and all is still.
A light appears From a window in the old school.
At the stroke of midnight you hear a scream.
One that could curl your toes.
Then on a Whitehorse in the grave yard.
A soldier dressed so proud.
the school he did go. Riding fast as he could go.
In the window, you could see him as he rode the halls.
A scream once more and then a yell
The South will rise again and God blesses dixieland
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC