Best Bayou Poems
"There are those to whom place is unimportant,
But this place, where sea and fresh water meet,
Is important ---"
From "The Rose", by Theodore Roethke
Chilly late October;
thin morning fog banks
the roadside, cloaks
a trickling bayou...
in the thickets of dense trees,
the wispy tufts
top man-high
goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace,
dried-out thistle stalks...
A school bus, solitary,
yellow, passes on
skinny black asphalt
where wet spots reflect
the newly risen sun.
Rustles of high,
green cane fields and
intermittent bird songs
interrupt pervasive quiet...
Timelessness, and solace --
calming, soothing --
a Louisiana bayou:
Bayou Sale.
Alligator with fierce but captivating eyes sometimes red glare
The Man with a title given by the High Priest of his Tribe
A man gifted at Birth for the World to be entertained by.
Though much more then the Entertainer inside ~
This Man a poet , a man of wisdom and power
Playing his cordless accordion or Guitar on the tiny Bar
Powerful stares , people dancing crazy underneath a moonlit sky
His trance , a spell on others , not to be denied
A Force stronger then you will know , be dared to reckon with
His name was given at birth for a reason , A Scorpio
Legacy throughout Europe and deep woods in the Bayou
Alligator loved by many , playing Jimmy Hendrix to Zydeco
Alligator , the man on fire , women can not help but desire
In Monterey Bay, California, he plays , magical surprise
be warned if you go with date to see him "Alligator "
At the end of your dancing to Zydeco and blues
your date will be in Trance , one glare into his eyes
she will be wanting He at the end of the night , your demise.
black-water canals
where alligators patrol
and moccasins wait
where starved mosquitoes
invade in hoards at twilight
thirsty for fresh blood
at morning's first light
dawn illuminates cypress
birds announce sunrise
perilous beauty
on display in the Wetlands
and all is at peace
Louisiana Bayou Spanish Moss
So pretty
Hanging from the cypress trees
It grows without showing its age
Never dying it controls the bayou
Hiding nest of the most beautiful birds
It has been home for countless generations
Silver grey by the light of day
It casts ghostly shadows by the light of the moon
Dreamers and poets write of its beauty
Others write of the terror in brings
It is a citizen of an ever shrinking ecosystem
Vital to the world around it
It is bound to die as the bayou shrinks around it
Does it matter to man?
No, but it does to millions of bayou animals
The ones who count on it for life
The others who use it for shelter
Where will they go?
Some folks believe it. Others do not. The legend told in the Bayou Cannot. The only witness who can swear that it's true, are the creatures who live in the bayou. The owl told the gator, the gator told the frog, about the horror filled night that changed their home in the bog. Far off on the mainland, miles from the marsh, in a large city, where living is harsh. A man's world invention sprang into life. A breath of fresh air to man's world of strife. A new deisel engine, queen of the line, would make it run for the very first time. The sunset limited it was aptly named. Gleamed in the station waiting its moment of fame. Boarded by folks going south, some headed out west, none mindful of anything, but each's own quest. New York to L.A. via the southern run. So it was, the trip had begun. Back in the bog, things were happening too. A barge made its way north with its captain and crew. The day had been hot. The night had turned cool. The fog roiled in, with its blanket of dew. The captain steered his tug, painfully slow, caution was key to safely deliver the tow. All of a sudden there was a scrape and a jolt the barge floated free, not held by a bolt. Panic seized the crew! "We've lost the tow!" "MAYDAY!" screamed the captain over the radio. Amid the chaos and moans of disdain, another great jar, "We've got it again!". Back on land not far down the track the Limited sped with a clickety-clack. Approaching the tressel no one noticed the shake. Who could blame the poor folks; the hour was late. Midway over the bayou came the tressels demise. A great shiver another great quake, tons of speeding steel, folks met their sad fate. Days went by weary and sad. Rescuers agreed none worked a wreck this bad. Twisted and bent the engine was pulled from the muck and the slime. "102" came the final count, the coroner spoke and noted the time. A weary voice shouted "Wait!" "Sir, I disagree!" Tired eyes turned, what did they see? A weary man held in his arms a child about three. Today believers say "an angel wanders." "A tiny spirit" Others agree. On foggy nights when no moon can be. A tiny light flickers so you will see. "It's a firefly!" Say the skeptics of haunt. The creatures disagree and murmur their taunt. They know the spirit of the child now lives in their swamp.
Written by my grandmother Sandra Burch
Wandering through the bayou,
wrapped in its eerie embrace.
Mysterious and strange--
a magical place.
Never seeming to change,
even as seasons come and go,
swampy waters ebb to and fro.
Like long-lost daughters,
gnarled courtly cypress trees
rise from black, murky waters.
Draped lovingly in Spanish moss,
swaying softly in the breeze.
Butterflies float across
as gentle winds ruffle their leaves.
Bouquets of wild hibiscus fill the air,
mingled with sweet azaleas blooming there.
Bullfrogs croak and crickets chirp--
the bayou is awash with soothing music.
As dragonflies flit the cattails, elusive,
water moccasins slither at your feet,
or lurk above you in the trees.
Just as the sun begins to sink low,
comes the faint sound of a fiddle and bow.
The gator comes out of hiding,
rising from the dark waters below--
looking for his meal and smiling.
With snapping jaws, a deer is caught,
then taken below, where he will rot.
The moon rises high into the night,
as fireflies glow in the twilight.
A voodoo queen slips into sight--
with gnarled hands, she rolls the bones.
Whispering cryptic words, she softly moans,
tenderly caressing her snake,
wrapped around and about her neck.
A coon hound whoops it up.
The gnarled trees cast spooky shadows.
Is that the ghostly apparition of Jean Lafitte--
who managed to escape prison and gallows?
Did you bury your treasure in the water or weeds?
As the wind moans softly, it’s time to turn home,
where you can fill your belly with spicy gumbo.
Alesia Leach © 10/2014
In my arms I will carry you
Feel no burden when I'm with you
Veins in my stems will follow you
I am your Tarlkin Bayou.
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
Louisiana Cajuns
Eatin' hot cornbread,
Chompin' aligator tail
And suckin' crawfish heads.
Eatin' jambalaya
And gumbo stew:
Gourmand, Sunday dinner,
On the old bayou.
With the song of the crickets and ballet of fireflies,
the Louisiana moon has nestled in the sky.
"Bonsoir, mon amour", she whispers so sweet
while watching from above as we drift off to sleep.
Nature poetry about the Louisiana bayou.
It's a good morning in the bayou,
as a breathtaking view of dawn's light breaking out.
Beaming rays of sun spilling all about.
The morning fog is gone and darkness washed away.
A spider spins a web of silver gleeming on display.
A mockingbird sings a bayou tune.
The rustle from the tree reveals a raccoon.
Under the pines, a snake shed it's skin.
Wild ducks soar above in the bayou wind.
It's a good night in the bayou,
as a breathtaking view of moonlight shining down.
A mole is tucked away in it's mound.
I hear a busy beaver construction sound.
Shotguns crack the stillness and set birds in flight.
Boats drop their nets by moonlight.
Crickets chirping notes of song.
Alligators creeping along.
Silkworms spin silk into a cocoon.
High above shines the big bayou moon.
He was from the Bayou
A southern boy through and through
And so young, but he had seen so much
He was the one they looked to,
While their corpses rotted on the snowy fields
He remained unscathed,
His beautiful portrait clean and intact
But he couldn’t say the same for his friends
And with the weight of the world
Upon his busted shoulders
He was calmness and care personified
Over there, he was not just the boy from the bayou
He was a traiteur
Hair as long as the Mississippi River,
Eyes as dark as a bayou on a moonless night,
kiss as sweet as a honeysuckle flower,
and as dangerous as a rattlesnake bite.
She's a southern sinful delight.
Baptized by fire,
she ain't like any other,
her kind of lovin'
makes the devil run for cover.
Dancing in the fire light,
by the muddy waters,
she's a Cajun goddess,
and a voodoo queen's daughter.
She'll steal your soul,
with the sway of her hip,
she will take you to hell,
and make you beg for the trip.
On the bayou, molded brick streets
circle docks of wooden backbones stretched
into black water, limbs sunk into seaweed
now catchalls for rusty abandoned fish hooks from
the "one that got away".
Old cement plateaus boast of jazz band days
when the water carried notes against the summer buzz
Insects, air dancing with a thousand eyes,
strung lights of pineapple gold glossed in evening ripples.
You in my arms, swirling in the shadows,
on the grass dance floor, no shoes, no socks
and nothing spoken in haste.
This was the beginning of life. The beginning of love.
From this day forward, the bayou took note of our names
Two of the many, unspoken, engraved on glass bottles,
and sunk to the bottom of the black water,
never to wander from home.
In our deaths, these bottles will rise to the surface
with puffs of stale air
and the bayou will finally cut them loose,
floating them out past the collapsing docks,
past the first bloom of love and life,
to sea.
As I watch the rain coming down in measured bursts onto the dark waters of the vast bayou.
My mind notes the watery circles and bubbles that trace alligators asleep in the slough.
I check my lines as the sun goes down. The wind fights me at every turn, causing my boat to rock.
I've got three dead gators in the skiff. For cash, I'll trade them when my boat shimmies up to the dock.
I snooze and wake to find that my boat has drifted to the bank where a bait line is stretched taut.
Thrashing sounds in the water let me know this one's big. Grabbing my gun, I aim for a sure shot.
It happens not. The muscular creature slips under the boat, then tugs on the line till he's free.
He crawls to land! I jump from the boat! Etched in my mind is, 'It must be Big Mel. This one's for me.'
I track him through sodden grasses, cracked twigs, fetid mud, until at the end, his swath disappears.
It's getting dark and I must return. Getting lost in a woods full of gators stokes my fears.
I arrive at the skiff, stepping carefully over gators and sad at losing Big Mel's gain.
Suddenly, Big Mel lunges from hiding and clamps down on my leg. At first, I can't feel the pain.
In the brisk of a minute, pain shoots through my body. My leg, as if on fire, feels burning hot.
Thank God for my rifle. Though trembling, I grab it and aim, bringing down Mel in a single shot.
One dead gator and one almost dead man! My mangled leg gushes blood as I get to the pier.
"Big Mel got me" , I yell, as I'm pulled from the boat. Willie gives me first aid, but is the end near?
Willie is my friend through and through, and he drives me to the hospital in his new seafood van.
The guys on the dock take care of my gators. In fact, Big Mel ended up in a gumbo pan.
The years have gone by as I retell this story. "Grandpa, tell it again" my grandkids still beg.
But the last time that I told it, the youngest one said, "Grandpa, Is that how you lost your left leg?"