Polka dotted toadstool boogie was on ice today
Frilly and fancy, important in every kind of way
Are they putting on airs? Asked a prissy fellow fey
Not that I know of I said, scampering straight away
The frogs were croaking as if it were Saturday
In back of them I heard a large ugly bull frog bray
The bog is getting crazy, I said to my friend McVey
He said “That’s how it is down here on Bijou Bay”.
The Bijou Gift
David J Walker
Lifestreams from mountains
Into pools of liquid blue
From heavens golden fountains
On paths that we once knew
The sun shines on halos
A prisms filtered awed
A mystery Incognito
Reveals the face of God
Clouds part the heavens
The fog must surely lift
consultation sweetly leavens
Reveals the Bijou gift
"Bijou"
Let me count the ways
Love translates in waves
108; Lovers duplicate
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
"Blue & Green" / Virginia Woolf
https://youtu.be/csgUaZKtY7U
108
https://www.thezenlife.com/blogs/news/the-significance-of-the-number-108
Bijou
https://www.collinsdictionary.com/dictionary/english/bijoux
https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/bijou
Blue & Green / Woolf
https://interestingliterature.com/2019/08/a-short-analysis-of-virginia-woolfs-blue-and-green/
Big Foote Dan Dancing At The Louisiana Bijou
There was a man named Stephen Dan
a truck driver from San Diego
His nickname was Big Foote because he had big feet
He wore size 16's shoe
He couldn't run but he sure could dance
Big Foote Dan traveled back and forth from Texas
To Arkansas then back to Louisiana
There is no other truck driver from here to Tulsa
Big Foote Dan was a truck driver
He delivers peaches from out of Atlanta
No other man can dance like nor handle
The dance floor like Big Foote Stephen Dan
Who dances at the Louisiana Bijou
Big Foote Dan Dancing At The Louisiana Bijou
11/01/17
by James Edward Lee Sr
Welcome to the Bijou
Sometimes the creepiest places are old.
There’s a smell to them of stale nicotine
and rancid oil.
The denizens are often as ancient
as the peeling wallpaper.
The plaster cracks mirror
the wrinkles on their faces,
stale faces with
down dropped corners.
Layer upon layer of age
ground in dirt flecked, peppered
perpendicular
boxes and scaffolding
sucked dry by time, tasteless;
their visual appeal long gone
to celluloid.
The walls don’t talk
and few ask the opinions
of the bone sacks
wandering in and out.
The untold and asked for stories
hide like ghosts, shimmering
in the ancient incandescent lights
liver spots on the skin,
fish hooks in the eye floating
suspended
and powerless like flies in amber.
There are those who have always been
mesmerized by age
absorbing filmed content
wallowers in times leftover scraps,
those who bring their own infusion.
They are the catalyst of forward motion
pendulum pushers, who spew curiosity
into the dark corners
for those who follow this path
there is beauty, most certainly,
in the crinkled planes.
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