Best Mississippi Poems
Mississippi Moments
History journeys along with its meandering flow as
a wide birth from bank to bank has eyes straining
trying to see across to the other side, far too wide.
Muddy rivulets stirred up by the river boats drift by
and my dreams become intertwined with what
I have read and the sleepy house boats floating near
the banks that the river dwellers call home.
A huge stainless steel arch with its catenary curve
looms gracefully nearby as a gateway of welcome,
built as a monument to Thomas Jefferson and the
pioneers who braved making their way to St. Louis,
why it is fondly called “the Gateway to the West.”
I felt as if the Arch was paying homage to the mighty
Mississippi with its tall shadow falling on her erratic waters.
Children were waving from the banks at contented tourists
waving back as they drifted slowly by and time stood still
with the music of the river taverns mingling with the
contrasting sounds of riverboat whistles, and I drifted along
with them sensing serene pleasure into another time and place.
darkness approaches
your time is at hand!
bullfrogs arise!
strike up the band!
wild rice surrounds you
your kingdom awaits
guard and protect her
'till shadows abate
Her strong and mighty currents flow
From Ohio Valley
South to the Gulf of Mexico
Alligator Alley
Limerick: Once a mincing Mrs. from Mississippi
Once a mincing Mrs. from Mississippi*
Went to a bank for a fiddle-d-dee
But her girdle got stuck
And the “SS” came unstuck
That’s why Missis ends as a double P..
*No aspersions cast on Mississippians here;
the term refers to the Paleozoic era in North America,
following the Devonian and preceding the Pennsylvanian,
of course.
© T. Wignesan - Paris, 2013
Chapter 11: The Problem with Lakes
Canoes and larger lakes don’t mix well I’m afraid,
The rough equivalent of a margarita and a toothpick.
On the Mississippi a lake means a dam somewhere,
The scenic route buried now under dam water
Its prurient writhing now veiled from prying eyes
By puritanical hedonists more interested in flood control
And water reserves, than glacial art or Sculptor’s knife of water.
The placid appearance of a lake is modern quicksand
For a loaded canoe with its low running boards,
The wake of pleasure craft the worst as dilettantanti
In power’s limits, rush to greet you, cameras flashing.
The huge commercial barges pushed by true power craft
With opposing twin screws, create almost no wake at all,
But neither can they stop on a dime, so best stay clear.
Many Mississippi lakes cannot be seen across
And though the shortest path from entrance to egress
May be obvious to you, it may not be the wisest choice.
A day’s weather can change in minutes, who’s to warn you,
And some lakes can take hours to cross, what’s Plan B?
You’ve no flight plan, the lake may be deserted, who’ll miss you,
And a sudden wind’s waves on a large lake can kill you.
Brian Johnston
October 29, 2014
Sumac burns bluffside
White Pelicans unfurl flight
River fog cloaks me
Overflow of the waters of Lake Itaska
You carry your wealth to the waiting world,
Mighty Mississippi, half savior, half sewer,
Plant and animal wastes, dissolved minerals,
Venting prairie deluge, dividing a Nation,
Exposed aquifer of Great Plains, home of Buffalo ghosts,
And their equally threatened ancestor, the prairie dog.
Standing at your mouth I can wade your depths,
Even jump your width in places,
Though it is more difficult than the boy imagined,
And the winter's overgrowth problematic.
Your lightning like flash across the land (1)
Has haunted my dreams the whole of my life
And pulled at my soul like the moan of distant trains.
Now I am here at last, my dream becoming liquid,
Wooden oars, tent, canoe and provisions waiting,
Dr. Peppers stored in a sturdy ice chest.
I am more than ready to see the world through your eyes,
And to meet the sea as well in your company (if fate allows.)
My wife a novice and myself not much more,
We launch ourselves, glissando (2) toward New Orlean.
Brian Johnston
Sept. 19, 2014
Poet's Notes:
Everything in this poem is true as I can best remember. I was 28 at the time and my wife Kathy was 24 so it has been a few years ago that we did this. The eight chapters so far are not the end of this poem. I have at least 3 more chapters planned, one on portaging around dams, one on going through locks (beginning in Minneapolis-St. Paul) , one on leaving the river after traveling over 1,000 miles in 7.5 weeks, and then a final clean up including lessons learned and post trip consequences.
(1) 'lightning like flash' - I was imagining here how much the path taken by the Mississippi across the land actually resembles a lightning bolt's flash across the sky to earth.
(2) glissando - A musical word meaning a gradual sliding (transition) in tone from one note to the next note on the musical scale.
I went out to a bar last night
It was empty except for one
So I struck up some conversation
Askin “man where are you from?”
He said “I’m from Two Pillow, Mississippi
A small town, deep down South”
Clearly he was Southern
As he drew words from his mouth
“You mean Tupelo?”
I asked within a grin
“No sir” was his response
And where his story begins
He said “Daddy slept in one bed
Momma slept in another
I was eight years old
Knowing they didn't love each other”
“They never carried conversation
Neither kept too many friends
I'd always hoped they'd make up
You know, someday make amends”
“They never argued in front of me
That was a blessing in itself
But I grew up way to fast
My childhood placed upon a shelf”
“I suppose that’s how I came to be
The man I am today
I’ve learned a lot in my short years
And don’t let much get in my way”
“But the thing I cherished most
Slipped through my fingertips
As she walked away from me
I couldn't come to grips”
“So I sit here with this bottle
Telling strangers how I feel
Letting life get the better of me
As I slip between the wheels”
As he told his story
I stared down at my drink
The things he was saying
Really made me think
I thanked him for his story
Wished him best of luck
Pulled my keys out of my pocket
Headed for my truck
I drove home in a hurry
Hoping she was there
Wanting to tell her how I love her
And I’ll always care
"I may not be the best man
Yeah, most times I’m an ass
I’m yours for this lifetime
My love will always last"
~JJR 04/17/16
Extra weight no longer a problem for shallow water,
We bulked up for the next leg of our journey,
Water containers, even some canned goods
An acceptable luxury in our seventeen foot canoe,
A canvas topping lashed everything in securely,
Offered some weather proofing for sensitive gear,
Our sleeping bags, some staples, and clean clothing.
Cameras were kept in waterproof pouches
That stayed within easy reach of paddlers,
Fishing rods and car mounts for the canoe,
In case we burned out, topped the load,
With ice chest and Dr. Peppers easily accessible.
In high spirits we set out on the next leg,
Destination Cass Lake's Boy's Camp Chippewa.
I had traveled this leg before as a twelve year old,
By canoe, but with less luxury, until Bemidji,
Where each of our crew went to a late movie,
And downed a Paul Bunyan Special banana split
One banana and seven scoops of ice cream,
Camp four miles across open water long after dark,
With only a fire on a distant shore to guide us home. (4)
Poet's Notes:
(4) People die pulling stunts like this. In fact strong winds arose forcing us to shore shortly after we started, light rain and lightning flashes high in the sky! We had to pull our canoes wading in the dark along the shore for 3 hours to reach our camp. Our counselors pledged us all to secrecy for they would have been fired had management known the danger they put us all in.
My desserts not by special rules
The cause of many mouths of drools
My special pie is a` La Mode
Makes finicky taste buds explode
Now my Mississippi mud
Why, it brings a mosaic flood
Then there’s my Peach cobbler
Many a big tummy wobblier
Now there is my pie of raisin
Surely to draw much praising
Why not ice cream your Apple pie
Just go on to heaven and die
Let me tell you, my Cherry cheese
I never stump a toe, or sneeze
My cheesecakes, never a fake
My critics in their boots quake
Now let me proceed to make
You my German chocolate cake
For my dear Cherokee momma
Never did used store bought drama
I learn from mom, you all know
She brought my brown eyes to glow
The how of my special desserts
Pleases so very much it hurts
With my scrumptious dessert
Taste buds desire more than just flirt
Bringing your lust to a pitch
You certainly need bring a switch
For: Dreamy Desserts
Sponsored By: Linda-Marie Bariana
4th Placement
Mighty curving snake courses
Monstrous volume Mississippi
Like great dark horses
That in the spring feels zippy
Whose frozen waters now like ornithopappi
Contest entry:Five Lines Down
Sponsor: Brian Strand
You do not expect me I am going to describe the stands
Or the moon that is reflected on the river's water
Or the ghostly tribes running along Winnibigoshishi Lake,
Up to the Shakopee and down to the Sioux City,
But the holdings and the last fragrances
Thatt have been grown along my Mississippi Nights.
Since my childhood, no shadows, no scarlet
Has been broken, and back I go:
I was five years old, teeny and dark, so beautiful around my mother's arms,
All proud and bough, and I sung all summer
As I was watching my Mississippi Nights.
Long tales as they had been told through the stripped dance
And drowsy learning, yet it already has been told by wrinkled faces,
And by those toothless mouths, that arisen sun has gone,
In such fashion of pain and smoke,
But no one could tell me after the long ceremony
How beautiful and still my Mississippi Nights.
From the South to the North; from Granite Falls to
Prairies Island, I knew every stone and leaf, the flavor
Of the smokes and shine, the cute young Indian girls
Who were best known, that by June
I fell and hit -- even though I was skinny and dumb --
Every girl in delight but there was nothing like than my Mississippi Nights.
As a man now so unique and coward!
From whom I have got no Indian Blood Left,
Princely I bent. Not to risen against the Great Spirit
Even perhaps by pain and love I should say
But I was still looking at myself through my Mississippi Nights.
Graceful and healthful to the tradition I call you too my strong boy.
Along with my Indian woman, now fifty-two, and caring spring she has before;,
Through the lower Sioux, and the higher St. Cloud and beyond,
And somewhat south and north, I must demand
To myself to see once more my Mississippi Nights.
wow i've never seen such a small city with so many curves and hills
till i moved back down south to the town of coffeeville
alot of you might not have heard of it for it's not a very big city
just a small little spot in yalabusha county,,that's in mississippi
now it's the type of place where everyone really knows your names
and besides maybe a thing or to nothing ever changes
they dont have a Mcdonalds,a walmart,or even a shopping mall
not a movie theater a bowling alley not none of those things at all
but what they do have is hospitality that i can truly say
cause regaurdless of how many time you see a person they'll speak anyway
some will ask u how you are doing some will ask about your kin
you dont even have to know them and they act as if you're friends
and it's hard to do anything without everybody knowing
for some have nothing to do but gossip and you can find that so annoying
but talk about good eating there is food galore
you can buy catfish and chicken at any gas station or corner store
and if that's not what reall pleases you
there is somebody in coffeeville right preparing a cookout or a bar b-que
you can buy bootleg DVDs from just about anybody you wanna
you can always find nick or Bubba hanging out at rascals corner
it does'nt have much but one grocery store
but no ot really shops there any more
on sunday a bunch of guys hang at the under the tree hangout
or you can find some playing dominoes down at rolins house
cause the poolroom only opens during the week
and by nine oclock you're staring at just empty streets
we have two club one for the hip hop and one for the old
it's usally pretty late before both of them close
go to camelot and get the new of the day
and there is not many places where the kids can go and play
but for some reason everyone seems to just hang around
i geuss all and all it's a simple little town
A dirty old sidewalk
runs in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white-oak
Armed with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
we meander down to the levee
barefoot in careless summers
One low spot beneath
a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
We shuffle through and dig down
cooling our toes
'Camp Chippewa, ' its tennis and rifle range, X-Class sailing,
And classic 'Old Town' canvas covered wooden canoes,
Not the low-class aluminum canoes of a 'Camp Thunderbird.'
Cass Lake - garden of the Mississippi's hidden currents,
Nature's setting for Star Island's fresh blue berry thickets,
Brisk, though swimmable waters, still safe to drink.
Cass Lake - child of the first dam, city sewage dumped below.
Kathy and I were warmly received by Chippewa's staff,
And given a hot meal and tour by the owner's son.
Though it was too early for the new season's initiates,
The rustic setting and friendly staff made us feel at home.
Early afternoon found us approaching the dam's spillway,
Though Kathy thought me crazy, we unloaded the canoe,
And I paddled it alone through the one open gate, YAAHOO! !
How many dreams can you remember coming true?
This whole trip was a waking dream, a gift for me,
Including having a wife who was willing to share it.
Miles of river already, dust shaken from our gunnels,
Adventures of the days to come hanging like a white sheet
Strung between trees in an unwired, impoverished village,
Only imagination powers the projector of what can be. (7)
Poet's Notes:
(7) This wonderful image is the child of an experience from my American Peace Corps experience in East Africa. Once a month a VW Van would show up in even the most remote villages and they would hang up a white sheet across ‘main street' and show ‘free' older movies to the locals like ‘Tarzan, The Ape Man.' Villagers thought that Tarzan was quite a funny, if stupid guy. You don't talk to monkeys you eat them! Of course, then, between every reel, there would be ten minutes of hard core advertising for everything from toothpaste to cigarettes to alcohol and always girls hanging on the arm of the man buying these products! I always assumed that advertisers paid for these monthly films but I do not know that to be true.