Crawfish Poems | Examples

Return to Bourbon

"Return to Bourbon" (The Gritty Underbelly of New Orleans)


 I left my soul in a crawfish boil
 And my transgressions in a taxicab, Where the driver was blind in one eye
 And the meter was stabbed.
 The gutter gurgles like a gospel hymn
 Also, the rain comes down hard, like a drum, But Lord, I’d give up my rent-stained mattress
 Just to feel that voodoo hum.
 The Quarter ain’t what she used to be,
 I, on the other hand, am not— I got a scar where my halo was
 And a suitcase full of lies.
 Mama called it the Devil’s playground,
 I called it home with a grin—
 'Cause even the rats tap dance down Chartres
 When the bottle lets the jazz back in.
 The hotel's wallpaper contained apparitions, And prayers scratched in the stalls.
 They don’t ask where you came from,
 how far down you fall. I sleep next to regret and rust now,
 In a city too clean to trust—
 However, I'd give up this silence for a good howl. in a shotgun residence with damaged ductwork. Yeah, I miss the roaches in the beignets,
 The smell of blood and rain—
 You are not forgiven by the city, But she’ll always know your name.

Alaskan Hairy Man

reclusive hairy man is shy
hides out in secluded parts of Alaska wilderness
lives on mussels and crawfish
part of an ancient cryptid race
creeps up to igloos at night
peers in at children
inserting his ways into their nightmares

I Am From

I am from fast-food,
From paper plates and dinners in front of the t.v.
I am from the stale stubborn silence,
Eating away at smiles
I am from the Lily flowers, resting in the corner
The Willow tree begging to be climbed by the laughter filled children
Whose long limbs I remember
Ripping in the wind, but inviting you in during the calm
I’m from Sunday night dinners, and reading in the dark
from Crystal and Wesley
I’m from the know-it-alls and the class clown
I am from avoiding our problems like the dust under the rug
I’m from be quiet Lillian and where's my dinner?
and reckless love echoing in my bedroom
I’m from Conroe and America
From Whoop- up and crawfish
From the explorations of my dad around the world
Looking for unexploded mines, like it was treasure
From smiles trapped in pictures of the past 
Necklaces with fingerprints of those we loved and lost
Recipe books filled with meals of reminiscence

Critterature: Concerning the Crafty Crayfish

By many aliases they're known:
Crawfish, crawdads, mudbugs, yabbies.
They abound in brooks, and streams, and swamps,
As well as roadside ditches and rice paddies.

Their astacology has shown
They prey like scavengers and mobsters,
While some, more taxonomically aloof,
Try hard to pass as mountain lobsters.

Throughout the world as food they're meant,
Both from the wild and from the grocer,
But not as a substitute for meat at Lent
Because they're not considered kosher.

And so the cunning, craven crayfish,
The ones that didn't get away,
End up in boils, or bisques, or soups,
If not served up as étouffés
In swanky overpriced cafés.

Crawfish Cornbread Stuffing

It all starts with the cornbread
buttermilk, of course
seared in an iron skillet
crunchy outer crust
southern tradition
slap-your-mom
good!

Crawfish, Andouille sausage,
crumbled up cornbread,
onions, celery, apples,
cranberries, pecans,
cinnamon and sage,
moistened and
baked!

Shellfish Ken

There’s crustaceans in my rations,
And the krill are in my pills.
There’s a prawn on my lawn,
And all this gives me chills.
There’s an oyster who is cloistered
With a crawfish in a dish,
But the shrimp is on the barbie,
And that’s what gives me thrills.

My Cajun Backyard Nest

When it rains
the grass grows greener
and thick like a forest of trees 
in my back yard
Mr. Bojangles, the housecat 
slowly stalks its prey 
of wizard-like lizards scattering away.

With nothing but the sounds of
crickets and cicadas
heard humming now and then
as the sun begins to settle down
here in my hometown again.

Cajun land with bayou bands
alligators and crawfish pie
Sugar cane and hurricanes
enough to make one cry.

Down here south of New Orleans
near the Gulf of Mexico
where Great Blue Herons spread their wings 
in a splendid, stupendous show.

Where cypress trees sway high in the breeze
and fishing is an artful dream    
and turtles resting on floating logs 
aren't always what they seem
 
If you're lucky 
enough to catch a glimpse 
of all these natural wonders
we're blessed  
if you don't mind more rain this time 
here in my Cajun backyard nest.

Finally Home

For love of night I claimed my fears released them to the moon 
like a crawfish in the sand I sifted through my magical runes 
seeking symbols and answers but only finding the quiet croon 
of a lonely seagull, over trees shaped like big black balloons 

The ocean resembled tempered glass reflecting stars above 
foamy sea spray, a roar, a wave then, silence... 
leaping into the deep I probed the mysteries of my living essence
and found a kindship with the creatures of the sea 

Watching a lighthouse from a distance I heard the foghorn go
three blasts from the lighthouse, "going astern" 
returning to the amniotic fluids of my mother's womb 
then reborn by the stability of past virtues, soul accepted day 

For love of sleep I dismembered before the sea 
diving into its partitions like a mermaid longing to be free 
claiming meteors and shooting stars as my very own 
I sailed away without a life jacket for I was safely home.

Mardi Gras Mambo

That season comes and go,
The parties in the streets are hot.
Balls are held in name for the Krewe,
The Crowning of the King and Queen.

 Crowds are gathered down the cobbled roads.
Parades are rolling through,
Food cooking through the day,
Crawfish boiling in the pot,
Those spices wafting in the air,
Drinks pouring everywhere.

New Orleans and all of Southern Louisiana.
Dancing away to that Zydeco music.
Beads and treasures thrown overhead,
Catching them as quick as you can.

Hearing the bands and seeing the dancers dance
Colorful costumes in the night.
The masks covering their faces.
Again, the season has come and gone,
But till next year, we will party on.

A Wall In the Woods

The wall would not hinder my fall,
the tumble i take for memory’s sake.
Childhood sees fairylands, vast —
but as small as a neighborhood lake.
The woods with its creek and crawfish,
an older kid pinching friend’s shirt, kicking
breathtakingly loud over the ground.
The girl ought not get her feet wet,
too sensitive and shy, not a tomboy.
We’d run back to the consoling wall,
with bunny paws, spring to our mamas’ ground,
never speak of tattletales…
after all, it was my friend’s fault
for perusing the big boys fort.

Surrcomming Sours Salads Wishes-

Smelly zucchini 
Disappears like Houdini 
Only this 
And crawfish 
And my mind straight to potatoes 
As I'm stepping on tomatoes 
I discovered artichokes 
Swallowing carp fish bones makes my throat hurt
 I wash it down with muddy dirt 
Cycling stewing over beef steak 
I tripped a d fell off tossed salad
You warned me about the salad hoax 
As I know plummet puke and throw up close out my throat Take this eggplant
 and let us out of my heart 
Succumb so-so I vent sour salad



5/28/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr  2020

Turnip Greens

Turnip Greens

Yesterday times were hard.
In October '29.
The mills "cut out" depression came,
The economy declined.

Stocks fell down and rich men died.
Black Tuesday brought disaster.
They jumped from windows on that day,
Cause money was their master.

In the embattled south folks starved,
The barefoot masses cried.
Men rode the rails in search of work;
And honest people died.

But in the winter grew a leaf;
A bit of hope it seems.
It fed the simple country folk,
The noble turnip green.

It is a hardy little plant;
that can stand both cold and rain,
The more you pick the more it grows
The farmer was sustained.

You boil the turnip in a pot;
Accompanied by it's greens.
A little fat is also nice,
If it's within your means.

My Daddy lived a good long life,
And ate things fine and nice.
He had both steak and crawfish,
And also beans and rice.

But he was grateful to the thing;
That saved his life back then.
Turnip greens were more than food;
They were his dear sweet friend.

Somewhere there on heavens shore,
If these are things we know;
He's got a little patch of greens;
To watch, to tend, and hoe.

Ne Jamais Repliquer

5 cups of heavy cream
3 cups of pureed shrimps
2 cup of crawfish
2 cups of crab meat
1 1/2 cup of cooked polish sausage( minced)
5 cups of chicken stock
1/2 cup of olive oil and flour roux( 1/2 c of flour and 1/2 olive oil cook tannish brown)
2 tablespoons of cayenne pepper
1 cup of sauteed onions
1  cup of minced celery
1 cup of red bell pepper
1/4 cup of chopped garlic
1/4 cilantro
1/2 cup of lemon juice
1/4 sherry

in a pot add roux and garlic and vegetables,
bring to a simmer
add sausage, shrimp, crab, crawfish
add sherry
add stock and allow the stock to thicken
add cream and remove from the heat.
serve with egg noodles or rice and yeast rolls.

Gumbo

Gumbo

When the cold wind blows in the evenings;
And the black snake can't be found.
When the rain falls on the pine trees;
And there's frost upon the ground.

When the rooster sets a'stewing;
And there's crawfish in the pot.
When Momma's busy stirring;
Can you guess just what we've got?

Dark and rich and tasty;
It smells so awful nice.
On the back of the stove there's waiting;
A pot of long grain rice.

When the sky turns grey and cloudy,
And school kids hope for snow.
Momma checks her spices;
She's gonna cook a big Gumbo.

Onions, leeks and celery;
And a bit of chicken fat.
Seafood, game and sausage,
But the Roux is where it's at.

Warm, dark, awesome gravy;
A gift from God above,
It carries precious memories;
Made with a Mother's love.

Time flows on like a river;
But this we can conclude.
For bringing us together,
There is nothing quite like food.

Growing Up Down In the South

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

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