"dixon" poems
I'm a simple man
A country boy north of the Mason Dixon
I don't look for much
There's only the little things I that I yearn
Like the love of a good woman and a smooth whiskey
Maybe a reliable old truck and some folks that would miss me
I'm comfortable anywhere I go
From the corn fields of Illinois, to the mountains of Tennessee
I travel light, some blue jeans and some shirts
Perhaps with a few bucks for a little fun
I listen to some old country every day
Like No Show, Hank and Mr. Conway
I'm cut from old school cloth
Just like my folks before me
Yeah, I'm not fancy
I just am who I am
A lover and a fighter
A son, brother, uncle, and lover
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 8:43 PM UTC
Memaw & Pepaw ..Mason Dixon Saturday night,
Just sippin' muscadine wine by the Tennessee moonlight
Rockin' chairs...Zenith Black and White
Roy, Buck, Minnie Pearl a Hee Haw delight.
Crickets a chirpin' and a Frogs a croakin'
Toe tapin' rhythm's got em all in motion.
Corn fields swaying like a metronome
Watching those two dance to cotton eye Joe!
Sunday mornings best at the Church of Christ,
Me, I'm Thinkin' bout Memaws country gravy, my fav-o-rite!
Fried Chicken, taters, eggs sunny side right,
These are the memories I like to recite.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Alway with a "How do ya do?"
And a please and thank you
Oh' Southern Queen
If you know what I mean
So kind and lady like
Reading poetry on the back of a motorbike
Greeting strangers as ol' kin
Treating rudeness as a sin
Southern hospitality's her life
Winks at all, yet a loyal wife
Strong in the face of fire
Humanity's her true desire
Can get tough when needed
Her warnings best be heeded
She is handsome as well
A true Southern Bell
Oh' Southern Queen
Thanks for enhancing our scene
You treated my family as your own
Making us feel right at home
For that I give this humble rhyme
You're welcome across the Mason Dixon anytime!
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
The Oppression of my people
can not be summed up in one word
A word that flies
Flies like a hummingbird
He eats soup
As I cry
he prays
As I sigh
You Do not KNOW ME
You only know my struggle
How Dare You come to me?
In your time of Need.
You need a fixin?
God Bless Juan Dixon.
Oct 21, 2014
Oct 21, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
a lick to the ******* up my *** glowin' a white
boy on Jim Beam and nitro screams hell yes! without
the benefit of an amplifier ebony and ivory together
brings the old south to her knees
she begs tell me 'fore you **** I say yes then oops
sorry black betty
take a grain of salt with that
for twenty bucks
on the Choctawahatchee banks so way below
the yellow rivers
Mason / Dixon look out jealous
with crosses burning ten miles further south
we are in limited territory, look out
for the man,
and swallow.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 1:21 AM UTC
"Hello there," said I to the stranger beside,
"I'm Cari, and this is my boyfriend."
The stranger looked past, with some side-eye and sass,
And said, "You must be overjoyed, then."
I tilted my head to the side then and said,
"I am, we've decided to marry!"
The stranger just frowned and then said, his voice down,
"I was being sarcastic, he's scary."
I frowned then, in turn, and my boyfriend, face stern,
Said, "C'mon, babe," in dirtied apparel.
With his crossbow in hand he led me through the land,
Snuffing zombies and bandits-- oh, Daryl.
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
*Dedicated to
dr. B. Dixon, Ph.P (Philosopiae Poeta).*
You, Poet, define yourself as a
"'Meat and Potatoes' -kinda guy."
We were speaking of food
But I see that you eat
With your writing-hand.
You, Poet, write like a
Quitting smoker
That stands with his very last
Smoke in his mouth -lighter
In hand. Frozen; carving a statue
Of the moment. For himself.
From himself. For all to see.
You, Poet, are the wind thrusting
Confidence from under the wings of
Angels, down to assist the
Flapping of little, pen wielding
Ducklings at take-off.
You are a devil of a gentleman; an
Arms open welcomer
In this realm of written renderings.
You, Poet, are an agent of king
Poem Himself.
As convincing and encouraging as a
.357 barrel imprint on your forehead
To remind yourself to keep writing
*-Just always keep writing; just
Write.*
If you guarded the Gates of Hell,
You'd still give good meaning to
Words like 'Warm Welcome'...
You, Friend, make poets feel
Like the true
Rock Stars of the Universe
That they all
Truly
Are.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 12:41 PM UTC
There’s nowt like some rapping
To get my feet tapping.
Alesha Dixon’s the *****
That got me mixin’
Today.
Saw her on a recording
Doing rap for Piers Morgan.
That might be pararhyme –
At best -
But who gives a dime.
Just feel like rhyming
With impeccable timing.
Let’s shimmer and shammer
And give it some hammer.
Alesha’s sure got glitter
There’s no gal fitter
No wonder she is
All over Twitter.
She’s as smooth and silky
As a pint of bitter.
These rhymes
Like chimes
Make me feel so fine.
Well that’s me done now
I don’t quite know how
This mood came over me.
It is infectious
She leaves me breathless
But hey I’m out of time,
What a crime.
Paul Butters
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
Don't you call me Bubba
Don't ever cross that line
I may be somewhat redneck
But, don't you ever cross that line
Don't call my sister Buehla
Don't ever cross the line
My sister, is my sister
And she's on my side of the line
Bubba, Buehla, Bobby Sue
To us they sound the same
You've crossed the line
this time, Bud
Those aren't our ****** names
I may be a redneck from
Below the Mason Dixon Line
But, Bubba is my cousin's name
It sure as hell ain't mine
You may say that you're sorry
To some that may be fine
But to me, you're only sorry
Cause you got caught across the line
Don't cross the line with me,, no sir
Don't make me hunt you down
Don't cross the line with me, no sir
I'll run you out of town
Bubba, Buehla, Bobby Sue
To us they sound the same
You've crossed the line
this time, Bud
Those aren't our ****** names
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC
Of course
when your southern tipped - tongue
drips out the words
"I want to move up north"
everyone whose roots
reach deep below the belt
of the Mason Dixon
will ****** your face
in their gaze
and warn you bout
that Northern Disregard.
But don't listen to their tales
of discarded homeless
people plastered cross pavement.
Tell them bout those
who find home amongst
the clutter of 125th
with warm eyes
that search the cold
looking for laugh lines
and loose change.
Tell them
how they maintain
an open hand
good for grasping
and an open mouth
good for un-gourging
their gapped - toothed grins
of wisdom.
You tell them
that these people
with the wrinkles
of a wise man
may not have much
but they share
what they got.
You tell them
that no matter
where we're from
we've all got a little
Southern Hospitality
stained in our smiles.
Tell them
that you'll be fine
and pray you're right.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 3:04 PM UTC
Down in the Hills of the
Mississippi River Valley
Between the Bluffs and
The river bank in Lansing
Is a Friend named Joe Price,
Born to Play the Blue's
Raised on Farming as a Boy,
Yet was a need he could not lose
He listened to Muddy Waters
And ran out to buy a Guitar
An old 1947 12 String National
Resonator with the Steel Core
He rapped his fingers around
Till his blues skills got honed
He was Destined to play with
Legends like John Lee ******
Willie Dixon and Clifton Chenier
Sonny Terry & Brownie McGhee
Along with Muddy Waters and Me
I know I'm no legend but I can't Refuse
When Joe ask me to Sit in on a Knee Slappin'
Hand Clappin version of the Hobo Blues
His work boot stomped a beat
On an old flat piece of wood
As that steel Slide made that Guitar Cry
A Legend behind the Scenes he's
Played from the North down to
The Louisiana Back Bayous
And everything in Between
You'll Never Know that feeling
As the Hair stands on your Neck
This hardly known old Hobo
Was a Legend what the Heck
Till you get a chance to listen
To his Train whistle slide Moan
That 12 string Steel Guitar Tone
That sounds so very Nice
From an Unknown Legend
Name of Joe Price
His Music can be found on http://www.joepriceblue.com/
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
Driving along
What's that I smell
The daily delight
Of the latest roadkill
From raccoons to possums
In this flattened cuisine
As vultures take lunches
On this finest of dining
Call us the critter getters
Crossing over our paths
Taking them out
As they scurry this way and that
From Bambi to Thumper
And all their forest friends
It does make you wonder
Who you'll run into next
We'll even take out the curious
Who wander on
To that portion of blacktop
To see what's going on
From teetotaling turtles
To slithering snakes
There's not a creature out there
That we won't pancake
So check out the roadkill
If there's still twitch after the thump
Hurry in back
And toss it into the trunk
Because down in the South
There ain't no one can say
That any of us country folk
Let a thing go to waste
Below the Mason Dixon line
If it's fresh enough
We'll take it home ya'll
And have it for lunch
As long as it's fried
There ain't a thing
With cheese grits on the side
That we won't eat
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 7:48 AM UTC
Never Far Away
I wonder what he would say
If he were sitting here today
Would he tell me all the things he's seen
Would he say it was okay
Would we talk about the past we shared
Or of what the future holds
Will he give a glimpse of what's in store
And say he's met the Lord
Will he know how much I miss him
And miss the friendship that he gave
Tell me that although he's gone
He's now in a better place
Will we sit and talk for hours
Maybe write a poem or two
Will he play guitar and sing his songs
And say this one's for you
Will he tell me that he cant stay long
But his journey did not end
That he looks down from up above
To guide me as a friend
Will he say he knows I look for him
He hears the prayers that I say
That he will always be my friend
And he is never far away
In loving honor
of
Edward M. Dixon
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 11:52 AM UTC
Our thoughts of time travel
burnt-up when Junior
sang The Blues.
Foreign creature.
***** voodoo muppet.
His spaniel’s moan,
a call to mud,
digging deep like
“woo-woo-woo”
Smacking the past in the chin,
he dipped a laden lead melon
in a barrel of black molasses.
A slow lowering,
tender sinew slackened.
Unclawed-
the orb traversed his finger tips
nicking his nails on the way earthward.
The black drink parts then
floods back where it once was,
coating the cold round load
as it sank down below
the Mason-Dixon line.
Junior gurgled in slow-mo
dipped his Gibson
and stirred the stew,
made the black brew dribble over
the barrel’s shoulders
and puddle in the thick sticky
corners and cracks of
the Juke’s oak planks.
He fished it out then
-bladaplowplow-
-WHAP!!-
split that melon in half,
no knife, they used the trap,
then Junior took his break
to take a nap
in Baton Rouge.
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 4:53 PM UTC
There are things you come to accept when you live in a small town south of the Mason Dixon Line,
not being able to speak out about liberal policies is one of these things.
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 8:57 PM UTC
(Song title from Howlin’ Wolf’s catalogue, by Willie Dixon)
Red sky,
Blood red with dark clouds billowing out on high,
A shadowy troupe approach,
Closer and closer they begin to encroach,
Four stallions and their riders strong,
The devil on their shoulder whispering evil wrongs,
The fear in my eyes turns to tears on my cheek,
My legs crack and I forget how to speak,
I stumble and stagger and try to hide,
This is what imagined on the day that I died.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:33 AM UTC
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
Aug 18, 2017
Aug 18, 2017 at 5:30 PM UTC
Down at Mary Lou's,
There's a Venezuelan *****
I'd have married her at 16
If we were south of Mason Dixon,
She's as sweet as cotton candy
She's a Venezuelan fox,
She has all the right ingredients
To be unorthodox.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan momma,
She looks hotter than Hell
And knows nothing of Obama,
She has a way with coffee beans
A special way to grind,
The brew so stimulating
Oh baby; What a find!
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan beauty,
She blends outstanding coffee
And she really is a cutie,
Whenever I stop by
I feel her Venezuelan heat,
I get an overwhelming urge
Just to have a bite to eat.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan girl,
She makes the finest Latte'
With a little mocha curl,
Her steam is hyper-pressured
Milk frothing to a frenzy,
I think I'll wait outside for her
To perform an apprehenzie.
Down at Mary Lou's
There's a Venezuelan dame,
She prepares an awesome beverage
While I play a little game,
It’s called watch the Coffee Maid
Tamp the grounds and make some steam,
Oh, this Venezuelan Coffee chick
Is an old man’s sweetest dream.
There's a Venezuelan princess
Down at Mary Lou's,
If I had done the hiring
She's the one I'd choose,
Her charisma is intoxicating
Her aromas even more so,
And when she wears that skimpy T - shirt
I'm just nuts about her torso.
Down at Mary Lou's
Things are heating up,
I keep dropping in for coffee
At three bucks a cup,
And while I'm on the subject
Regarding a Venezuelan Barista,
If she isn't available.........
Might she have a sista'?
A vacation too short
But the views were **** good,
Thanks to a Venezuelan beauty
Preparing coffee as one should,
I'll return again a year from now
And stop at Mary Lou's,
Will the Coffee chick come back again?
If not I'll sing the blues.
May 22, 2021
May 22, 2021 at 12:29 PM UTC
Pedophiles in Westminster
All nicely covered up
Now it's the royal family
Will it ever stop
The thin blue line is broken
It's more like dot to dot
Then insult to injury
They give one of them a gong!
We earned the right to wear blue serge
With blood sweat and tears
It isn't cosplay for us
The uniform is real.
You say crime is falling
Your figures aren't real!!
So lament the passing of Dixon of Dock Green
You sold out to the Joker
there's no laughing here.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 2:48 PM UTC
for Kitty Prr
there is no boundary,
Mason Dixon Line, 49th parallel,
uptown, downtown grooves,
separating human from poetry,
but there is living, daily scorekeeping,
push/pull of taking each breath
in a right mannered way
sometime you gotta dig a ditch
to learn to climb a mountain,
pay dues and even get paid back
for living in a wrong mannered way,
which requires laying down of the pen,
doing shovel ready projects
needy for completion,
yet-to-be plans needy for
formulating details,
forethought and caring, putting the
poetry aside,
on top of the dusty piano
sometime you gotta drink it black,
pass on the milk, cream and the sugar,
even if the waitress just brings it,
pour ice water on top.of your head
just for yourself alone
the how-to-cleanse the eyes and head,
sometimes you got to let the
poetry stand aside
sometime you have to open that
black briefcase^ treasure hoard of
all things soured and soliloquy of
missteps and judgement errors,
letting the
poetry stand aside
sometime you gotta do the laundry,
rediscover the bottom of the sink,
watch the washing machine movie screen
picture making,
asking for its very own poem,
but you know this day,
gotta let the
poetry stand aside
and you stand up
and climb,
straighten up,
back creaking,
joints cracking,
first find the place to rest the body safely,
and when the chores of living crossed off,
then only
ready and somewhat good,
dust the piano,
dig out pen and paper
from the kitchen drawer of miscellania,
and let the reign of poetry
rekindle the Phoenix's ashes
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
Its almost been another year
Of excruciating pain endured
Once again
No one realized my fear
I thought you'd always be there
But without you knowing
What happened in my world
You left me out in the cold
Tanya, you were always my number one
That's the one thing I thought you knew for life
Yet, when my world came crumbling down
You left my side without me knowing why
Still sitting in the dark
I lost All my old friends
Never knew getting clean would be this hard
I'm going through hectic changes
All coming from inside
I came to pta
And lost another friend
I was left on the side of the road
With no where to go
No one to phone
Dixon drove by
he felt like my little angel
Tears rolling down my face
He held me close and arranged a hotel
Funny how life turns out
He saved me that night
Even arranged my flight
Going back to PE now
To start my new life
Aug 25, 2011
Aug 25, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
The sun
it burns
my eyes
my skin
Like a long lost love,
our reunion
bittersweet
Winter above
the Mason-Dixon line
simply spells defeat
Back down south I'll go
& I'll take my bare feet!
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
I was born fast and moving in the back of a bus 8 ½ miles outside of New Orleans. I was not noticed until my ***** cries wafted to the front of the bus, heard by a 50-year-old transvestite named Is-he-dora trying to homestead in Kentucky. She put me her manicured under arm and carried me off. You see, mom pulled up her ******* quick, smoothed out her cardigan, and popped a Quaalude before the driver could realize she climbed out of the emergency back exit.
My first drink was bourbon through a ****** I teethed raw leather, the heel of an old boot, and a mannequin who was named Dolly. She only wore red satin and peacock feathers. The gals only bathed her in sesame oil with almonds floating in the jar. She smelled of mom. My school was on the laps of the people in the back of racetrack stables. I take my learning fast paced with a side of jockey.
I took to the streets half paved by the beats. Cassidy may have had the road, but I had the words. I was thrown out of every Mormon congregation south of the Mason-Dixon. I made it to New York in a bathtub in the base of a pick up truck for the purposes of shoplifting for fun and profit. I vogued my way through Harlem, and at night I slept with Dolly’s sister in the bedding section of bloomies.
Here I am. Right in front of you. Can you see me? Can you smell me? Can you feel me?
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
You make me seek out sharp Dixon Ticonderoga pencils
with thick dollops of pink cream on their tops,
to write in the smudged lead;
as words dance across starchy parchment,
smeared by more than the base of my hand.
I want to see the thin, bold lines of black ink
from a satisfactory pen;
loop and curve into the twisting characters of your name.
I want a sharp pencil, and a good pen.
One in each hand;
to clear my mind.
Jul 10, 2012
Jul 10, 2012 at 1:10 AM UTC