"etta" poems
365Nectar #8 Crescent City Blues
Tues. Oct 1,2013 10:21 P.M.
In the deepest attic
the thumping blues
paint pastel portraits
of the Crescent City
In burning ripples
words slap strangers
taking refuge in Armstrong Park
Slender, **** and Shorty
growl muted tones that ravage old bones
whip thru Mid-City
and saunter thru the Garden District
all just practice to sizzle in a wild tap dance in the Quarter
High steppin Indians
march toward God
and defy gravity.
Roaring second line
being led by woman powered Pinettes Brass Band
hold rush hour traffic hostage for days
belting greasy mingling tunes
in the eye of the dusty moon
A pitch black struggle
with the old moon
liberated old souls
entangled in soaked strings
and sobbing fingers
A quintet churns and
challenges the loneliness of pain
Strumming fingers
make out with
humming strings
under a starry blue grey sky
Stomping down long black Oak-lined roads
blowing thru shotgun homes
like winter cold howling
lifting heavy weights
from shoulders
like the sun shifting against bad weather
the blues lady
open the veins
of drunken roses
Lungs full of tears
Irma holla's, cries, and moans remedies
north south east and west of a street called Desire
Oh Etta
At Last
Dim Misty light
cast a heavy shadow
on wiggling spirits
as they cast off pain
Allen Toussaint
in smokeless blaze
tips the night air
Kermit blows
Dusty blues
seducing suffering souls
bounding them to each other in bliss
Whispering around town
in a perfect velvet midnight
sweet exhalations of song birds from corner joints
dance the Ruffin groove
fiery trebles wave at people passing by
Down right ***** blues
muzzles twilight
trombones,tubas, and trumpets
lay harmony
under the harmonious thunder
of the Marsalis Masters
and low down deep
in a musty sleepless corner
is the missing Bass-man..
hung over.
Copyright ©2013 Crescent City Blues
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 11:41 PM UTC
Cool kid euphoria with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on is what we all are in the basement of the 50’s house.
Our phones blowing up while we sip whiskey and wine.
Trying to get the attention of the cars on the main road
By handstanding and flashing and cheersing our beers
And we receive our victorious honks.
Guitar clock radio with numbers around the fretboard and Sir Paul smiling and crooked, acid-trippin’ guitarist/violinist/celloist looking product of orange and gold look down upon as our patron saints.
Swingin’ low, Sweet Chariot words stares up at me from the 70’s floral carpet.
Ralph Stanley and Eric Clapton singing solos and duets in my head keep me company as the boys play and figure out key changes.
Painted screen hiding the Etta James microphone stands forgotten in the corner—
As I take in the teals and roses and golds.
Give me a heart shaped box where I can store my love
I fly so high in the world above
I’ll come back down eventually.
Lava lamped water stain engulfs the ceiling. As fingers go up frets
And they go down frets
And they go up frets
And they go down frets.
As you don’t enunciate when you sing.
We all mourn our fallen brethren, the base of the telecaster with no strings and no head and it weeps silently from its place on the water pipes, hearing his cousins WAAAIIIIILLLLLL.
As Cool kid euphoria is created with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on in the basement of the 50’s house.
We work all day so we can drink all night
Getting high off the drug that is each other
Chain-smoking Pall Malls like it’s our job
Listening to oldies as we shoot the eight ball in the corner pocket.
Garden tools and Lawn Mower parts as a sweet, creepy décor in the dank basement
As we breathe in mold and dust and cigarette smoke.
We are gloriously young.
So **** off.
We still think we can change the world.
Not through politics or through fear or by means of war
But by doing just enough to get by and loving everybody for who they are, even the parts or religions or particular ways of life we don’t like,
Because people aren’t what they do or what they believe
They’re who they are.
We still think we can change the world
And Maybe one day, we will
But for now
We’ll just be here,
In the basement of the 50’s house with our pastel colored pants and our Raybans on.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
Chasey calls them the dead mama blues.
There's sadness, she says, mine has a scent to it;
Despair, a shabby **** who mugs me under my covers
On winter days at dawn,
Catatonia, which only a messy bed,a bong,a bag of Cheetos and a boy can cure,
And then way down from there,
Squatting *** close to the ground,
Smoking Gauloises in the dark,
Live the dead mama blues.
The only cure for the dead mama’s, Chasey explains,
Is a blood rare steak and Etta James greatest hits on vinyl,
Played quiet through the sweet spot of the night,
All the lights off, the dishes done and dry.
Helps if a sister has a slim hip man to dance with, she said,
So if you ain’t runnin’, the grill’s on me.
Come by sober any time after moon rise, Chasey yawned,
Cause this girl could use a shoulder and a polite hand.
And bring your slippers, she said
Easier to shuffle over **** in sheepskin, plus
We might go up on the roof later on
And smoke some of my cubans for a while.
Door will be open, so please don’t ring,
Hell what am I saying, you know the path.
Chasey yawned again, a big one,
Waited a few seconds because there was nothing else to say
And hung up the phone with a sigh.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 9:33 AM UTC
*On horseback, they chase you,
But you are light and you are gaining distance. On horseback, they chase you, and you laugh along with the hoof beats.
Your smile catches sun, and you have never been scared of bullets.*
I wanted to remember your smell
Even after we stopped having
Anything to talk about
I wanted to remember how your
Skin shivered, warm and desperate
Even deep into my dreams
There was a day when you rode on my
Handlebars and we moved like
Water through canyons
There was a day when we traced
Each other's shadows as big as
Gallows in the dust
I keep having this dream of the spring of 1887: I go out to bring the cattle in, but they are all dead. Frozen to death. And floating down thawing rivers. I keep having this dream of Bolivia: we are cornered after robbing a payroll and I am glad you are not with us.
The last thing I remember is your smile catching sun
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Etta James, singing “At Last” behind me now,
lights turned low, two fingers of Drambuie on ice
the air carries the aroma of desert roses,
green fern and damp mossy bark; the gift of a posy.
The scent reminds me of the quick light rains
tapping in the afternoon, making love to thirsty
new greens, coaxing them up to reach for more.
My body reacts to the thought, arching up.
Sips of warming golden liquid, the cold ice
a give-and-take of restrained contrast,
until the liquid has all been consumed –
and the ice remains, bearing the spirit upon it.
Contributions to reflections in sensuality,
The ice, captured up quickly from the glass
held in deft fingers, neatly, to paint their
cold upon my lips, sipped within a warm mouth.
The cold, diminished cube, dances on the tongue.
I rise; the glass left behind, and come to you –
Face to face, eye to eye. The kiss shares the cool
as the ice passes between us, to melt in loves flame.
Eyes close, now drinking in another kiss,
I feel myself surrender to the flame that rises up.
Once more I am arching within your arms,
strong, gentle hands contain me, stoking the fire.
I am released, free to feel all that is within –
to bring it to the surface; without question - to share…
The heady scent of longing fills me, fueling passion
The ice, a forgotten prelude to love’s rendezvous.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:36 PM UTC
I wonder what the inside of your head sounds like.
I don’t care for the look of it, figure
it resembles the inside of my chest when my soul exploded. Coffee stained walls and lipstick kissed ceilings. Liquor drenched carpets and frantically ****** fingerprints all over the fogged windows. Yeah,
I know what it looks like. But what does it sound like?
I want to know if makes the same sound our hearts would make when we’d lay side by side.
Hand in hand. The way otters sleep, so we’d never float away from each other in our dreams.
Or maybe,
a long pitched scream.
As sweet as a child’s happiness on Christmas morning. Or as terrifying
as a woman under her lovers fist, as he pounds his insecurities into her stomach.
Nobody can see the bruises there.
His ego is intact – their secret is safe.
I bet it smells like laundry detergent.
The generic kind – the one that mimics a summers breeze and a springs bloom.
At least, that’s what the label says. But there’s no label for the sound.
I need to know what it sounds like.
I need to know if my voice is on repeat in there.
Me saying I love you, on our best days or,
I hate you from our worst; perhaps, a combination of the two.
Is that why you left? To clear your head of the bittersweet melody of my emotions running amuck.
Were those words pressed against your temporal lobe? Is that where the temper came from?
I’m sorry. No,
I’m not sorry; I want it to sound like a sorry.
Whether whispered from the darkest corners of your cranium or
shouted from the top of your brain. I just hope it sounds like sorry.
For promising me the flowers and teddy bears and county fair rides.
For promising me a love so fierce and so strong. A love so true and so brave.
And for giving me just that.
Then leaving me to the sounds in my own head,
which sounds like the inside of a jazz club,
by the way. As Suggie Otis and Miles Davis and Etta James and Nat King Cole and Louis Armstrong croon about a fierce love, a strong love, a true and brave love.
And I can see it as well as I can hear it.
You, front row centre, sipping warm apple cider and holding hands with a woman,
who’ll leave no sound byte in your skull, and me, in the back,
with my voice box in my hands.
Maybe I’m sorry after all.
Jan 7, 2013
Jan 7, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
As the crew cheers on my death
I'm thrown out to sea
While having an achor tied to my feet
Falling into the depths
Losing each breath
As I swallow the sea
Lifelessly closing my eyes
A recurrence
Flash in front of me
Days before sailing away
Another heart beat strikes
To the lovely Paula Etta
She was married with kids
Our lusting last till dusk
Spoiled by the appearance of her husband
Words were hardly any
Violence was preventable
To plead my innocence
Judgement was merciless
Sinking underneath the ocean
As I arrange
A burial of plunder
By fools who discovered me
Jan 22, 2010
Jan 22, 2010 at 5:29 AM UTC
Jack: as so many of us yearned to know him,
Still knocking down 90% approval ratings,
50+ years dead: we still approve.
Dallas recognizing the event . . .
Cue Etta James: At laaaaaaaaaaaaast . . .
The City of Big D,
Dallas in the Sixties,
Still wide open,
Still Wild-Wild West Wild,
Still string ties & Stetsons.
Hizzoner/Da Mayer–Now,
Recognizing the venue, at last.
Finally, it was time
To take ownership of the crime scene.
Non-stop memorial coverage,
On CNN and MSN, of course.
Fox, meanwhile,
Doing agribusiness updates;
This year’s Carolina turkey crop &
Wuzzup in the cranberry bogs?
Dec 9, 2016
Dec 9, 2016 at 3:54 PM UTC
An overcrowded bus;
my elbow touching yours.
Pretty-eyed gem,
I say to myself as you look up to me.
In the background I can hear Etta James singing and teasing--
At last, my love has come along...
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Cue Etta James: “At laaaaaaaaaaast . . .”
I’ve racked up over 50 followers,
50+ www.hellopoetry.com fans,
Fifty shades from cyberspace,
Dedicated disciples,
Devotees of my work,
An apostolic cadre of
LIKE button true believers.
Time, I think, to start a cult.
Enslave the men.
Fleece their bank accounts & IRAs.
Polygamize their women.
***** their mothers, wives & daughters.
Mix up a little Kool Aid.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 3:37 PM UTC
No sleep leaves
Him sleep deprived,
He hides beneath
His drooping eyes,
And comes home to dwell
Within the silence of the night.
Before spreading across the bed,
He places his patched jacket
Above the ground, on a hook,
To hang, suspended for the flipside.
A glance at the clock tells him it’s three,
Plus a quarter turn to the right.
It’s always before dreams, it seems,
That he feels the need to pull
Out pen and paper, to write.
Very soon, he knows,
It will be bright.
And lights will shine in,
To wake him up, again.
Sometimes, though,
He likes to pretend,
That there isn’t an end,
To this nocturne world.
So while he…
His, mind dances along the moon,
With a little more wandering,
His thoughts seem in tune,
To a jazzy
Twilight atmosphere,
And he hears -
The quiet orchestra
Of his thoughts,
Amidst the dark.
For a short time,
He’s moaning with Mingus, absorbing Etta.
At last, his sleep has come along,
As he dips into the Milky Way
Until his thoughts are gone.
Aug 31, 2011
Aug 31, 2011 at 1:41 AM UTC
Oh Johnny,
tell of how you fell into that
Ring of Fire.
Oh Elvis,
tell of how you
Can't Help Falling in Love
Oh Etta,
tell of that love you found
At Last
Oh Marvin,
tell of the time you said
Let's Get It On
Oh Prince,
tell of when you saw
Purple Rain
Oh love,
tell of how you inspired
the hopeless romantic.
Feb 9, 2018
Feb 9, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
It's the night times that are the hardest.
The image of that cute couple in the coffee shop from earlier flickers through my mind.
I look up at the TV for a distraction, only to see a tender embrace, loves first kiss.
I search for the remote on the side of my bed where a body should be,
brush a hand across the cold fabric.
I put on some music.
"And all I could do was cry"
Crying, Etta, is futile.
Each tear hammers down on my hollow emptiness like a drum,
a-lone, a-lone, a-lone.
Alone.
The alarm clock on my bedside table ticks and ticks,
waiting
and waiting,
ticking
and waiting.
What are you waiting for?
Time to go to sleep.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 7:54 PM UTC
It's two in the morning,
it's always two in the morning
when nothing seems right
and your smile haunts
and lingers in my periphery.
It's two in the morning
and one candle flickers
in the corner of this
dark and hallowed room.
Etta James plays on repeat
and any stranger looking in
might attribute this scene
to something like love.
Maybe it's halfway there,
as he says my name
in between breaths that take
most of my air, and heartbeats
that drum staccato.
Maybe, just for a moment,
as I shut my eyes
and scream into the darkness,
filling the spaces beneath my nails
with the flesh on his chest,
and my whole body is aglow
with inescapable pleasure-
maybe I love him in that
brief reprieve.
It's two in the morning
and I'm rolling onto my side
over sticky white sheets.
He looks at me
as the singular flame
dances and casts shadows
that paint the arch of my hips
against the stucco,
and he tells me
that he loves me,
and I can't figure it out.
Maybe it's because the light
is so forgiving,
softening this look
of bone deep sorrow
and sickening nostalgia
into something like affection.
Or maybe you were always right
when you called me a sociopath
or a shameless narcissist.
Maybe I like playing with fire-
getting as close to love as possible
before disappearing, before
committing one more satisfying
act of self sabotage.
It's two in the morning,
and he's looking at me
like he means it
but I can't stomach it.
I've been asking for it
and now the words
just sit there, shining
in the candle light
and they're sickening
and nothing feels right
because he's made the same
mistake as all the others-
he isn't you.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
Oh, it's been such a long, long time
Looks like I'd get you off my mind
Oh, but I can't
Just the thought of you
Turns my whole world misty blue
Oh honey, just the mention of your name
Turns the flicker to a flame
Listen to me good, baby
I think of the things we used to do
And my whole world turns misty blue
Ooooh baby, I should forget you
Heaven knows I tried
Baby, when I say that I'm glad we're through
Deep in my heart I know I've lied
I've lied, I've lied
Ooooh honey, it's been such a long, long time
Looks like I'd get you off my mind
But I can't
Just the thought of you, my love
My whole world turns misty blue
Ooooh, Oh, I can't, Oh , I can't
Oh, I can't forget you
My whole world turns misty blue
Ooooh, Oh, my love
My whole world turns misty blue
Baby, baby, baby, baby
Baby, I can't forget you
My whole world turns misty blue
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC
Happy birthday, Dad.
You're …. 54, 55, 56?
I think I'm still jealous that you get to share your birthday with the earth.
I think I'm still a little sad that I never asked you if you enjoyed that.
I don't know why I am talking about you like you're gone; when you're only 17 steps down the stairs in your arm chair with the news on your lap and a glass of indonesian tea on your left.
I walked by you and you were standing there and I almost hugged you.
Almost.
You were proud that I listened to Etta James.
That made me beam but I didn't let you see it.
So many people take my light from me.
I think the only place that I can go to rekindle that light,
is the notion that maybe one day you won't be disappointed in me.
Or my lack of ability and motivation in school.
Or my lack participation in this family.
Or the notion that I won't be scared of you, scared of everything anymore.
Scared of loving people and then putting too much of myself into that person because I don't know how to love properly.
I didn't even know how to breath properly.
I had to go to a doctor and they had to tell me to take deeper breaths because I wasn't getting enough air.
Ever.
My breaths were shallow, and guarded, and hesitant.
I have invested hope in the day I won't exercise for an hour and a half every day for a week straight until my body can no longer function properly.
That I won't take a long shower, with water too hot and knees pulled up to my heaving chest.
Or maybe I won't drink too much and try to feel something with someone.
Or even stop tanning because I am literally burning from the inside out.
Maybe that way people will see how I truly feel on the inside.
Burnt out.
Tired, fatigued. Unworthy.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:50 PM UTC
Dear Etta,
I will stay awake for you.
And as you sleep my prying eyes
Will keep the silence and the stillness.
And when you wake I will take your hand in mine,
We will walk and you will lead.
And, oh, I have seen your chest rise
Again yet again and, oh, I have seen
Your subtle movements before.
But there is one who now knows you better than I,
We had such a short time together
I will not be able to forget and still,
I will stay awake for you.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 1:47 AM UTC
the butterfly blues
is when you've got just a TOUCH of the blues
no Ma Rainey or Muddy
just a touch flitting about
your favorite restaurant has shut down
or your picnic got rained on
that's the butterfly blues
perhaps you're considering lighting up
a forsworn cigarette
or going on a shopping spree
to escape the little weights
clipping your wings just a TOUCH
no Etta or Billie Holiday
just the butterfly blues
flitting about
until...
up pops a pretty flower to land on
supplying you with
answers to settle
your unsettled mind
and Presto! you'll soon notice
those butterfly blues have
been left far behind!
Mar 6, 2015
Mar 6, 2015 at 1:48 PM UTC
Create a playlist of your favourite soothing numbers.Dim the lights of your room.Lie down on the bed.Close your eyes.Blank your mind.Forget about the day.Put your earphones on and start listening to the music.Slowly take it all in.As the music takes over your mind,body and soul...bit by bit,layer by layer,song by song...you will have completely surrendered yourself to this powerful hypnotic effect of the music.You will experience optimum relaxation.Let go of all the negativity residing within you.Now just travel through the timeline of your memory and try and visualize the face of that one person whose face you always wanna keep seeing...think of some of the best moments you've had so far with this person.By the time the process ends you will feel this incredible sense of calmness within you.You have never felt so relaxed.After this you will one of the best sleeps you have ever had.
Music has the power to calm your restless soul and heal your aching heart.Do this process every once in a while.
My personal recommendation of songs:-
1)Classical Ave Maria-Maria Callas & Mozart
2)If you go away-Shirley Bassey
3)At last-Etta James
4)Clocks-Coldplay
5)Fragile-Sting
6)Beautiful smile-Dj Sammy
7)Electrical Storm-U2
8)No ordinary love-Sade
9)Come undone-Duran Duran
10)Riders on the storm-The Doors
11)Any John Denver track
12)Any Don Mc Lean track
13)Any Michael Buble track
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
There are some thoughts, moods, and songs I save only for you.
Like Etta’s At Last. I picture our first dance... dancing in the moonlight. Making love to the tilt of the sun. And bathing in the flicker of candle and laughter. My hopes and dreams are etched in shadows, as if God Himself were asking me to wait. To wait for the man, that shapes and curves the landscape for walking. Builds rhythm and cadence with the beat of his heart. And lives life half best with me tucked in his hold.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 12:03 PM UTC
Picasso was an artist
So am I
I pour ink on paper
in a style
that'll make you wanna cry
I can paint her smile
using similes
and describe her
eyes with a sonnet or three
Mozart made beautiful music
So can I
I string words together
that'll make you wanna sing
kind of like lyrics
I write all about love
and everything.
Ansel Adams took photos
So do I
I use words to show pictures
of all kinds
and project them to my readers
in their minds.
Etta James was a singer
But I cannot sing a note
but what I can do is
pour out my heart
in neatly typed phrases
with cleverly penned quotes
I'm a poet
I love words the best of all
come join me while I write
of lost love, new love
and all the above.
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 3:47 AM UTC