Battle axe (For the 2nd Half) ... "At last!"
Way too fast past the rescue rascal hassling haphazardly mastered dastardly bastards' fractions of captioning cast iron spiraling wired wax on wax off golf cart Bart Simpson minced garlic cubes boob tube huge goober schooner dooms Days Taser taker wafer run stun gun NOT funny honey bun for one shunned lonesome wholesome quotient potion grunt of a stunt punt the ball into mid autumn leaves fall raking reiki draped date maker place mat patty whack hacky sack crap slapped happy tap dance romance slanted jambalaya riot spliced mice diet quiet cheese, please teases on both knees bereavement easing Fort Leavenworth girth that brings birth to twerk twerps slurred slurping squirts of hurting beef Jerky lurching around the church yard disbarred and charred crash cars 100 yards too far to see scars Mars rover Range Rover Red rover come over 4 leaf clover lawn mower seed Sower leaf blower as NOT just another voter devotional spokesperson swerving tertiary but too scary hairy fairy blue berry merry go round sage turns the page safe and sound clown town brown bag the sandwich fad dude and all of that...
Uh huh
Jambalaya
Uh oh
Crawdad gumbo
That spice
It’s Cajun nice
Girl there
With long blonde hair
She’s flame
and can’t be tamed
Legs long
Bayou beat song
So nice
Red beans and rice
Real sweet
With pepper heat
Hot day
Shrimp etouffee
So real
She makes me feel
Her eyes
Beautiful lies
Much more
Oh I adore
Love taste
Rush passion’s haste
Salt sweet
Such tender meat
De-sire
Swamp born fire
Hunger
Never sated
Give me
What she plated
Eat till
I’m full to burst
Need her
A voodoo curse
We try to do some local things
Whenever we’re away,
Although we’re clearly tourists
On a short and jam-packed stay.
So we signed up for a cooking class
And watched a chef prepare
Gumbo, jambalaya and pralines,
Some Cajun-Creole fare.
It all was most delicious
And Chef Austin was the best.
We left there more than satisfied
And happily impressed.
Not needing any dinner,
We checked out some local jazz,
Where Tom Hook, a piano player,
Entertained us with pizzazz.
It’s wonderful to have a chance
To try out something new
As a little break before you’re back
To what you always do.
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde
Jovial Dr Jekyll played for juvenile Justice
a just jaspered journey
jokingly jumped a joyride
to juicy jukebox jabbering
in jackal jackboots
from nearby jungle
Dr Jekyll clasped a jackknife eating
jambalaya to justify a
juggled juxtapositional
jurisdiction jamming
as jugular vein jingled jewels
joyfully jauntily jaywalking
to a jay named Jim Jolly !
Onward he jumped to a
Jungian junction
Jupiter jocund watching his
journeying joints
journalese seemed a jibe jig
but neither Jewess, Jesuit
or jeweller jiggled this job
So he jerked his jess
like a jape for Japan
Jejuning onto January for the
next jangle of jasmine
No jellyfish was Dr Jekyll in Jordanian jerkin
though sometimes Mr Hyde
with jeroboam swirling alongside !
Jovial Joyful Jolly jubilant J.
Jabbery, jitterbugging joyful jay
Jeepers, J, jibing and jiving, jollifying,
French Jay, Joie de vivre, joy of living
Jupiter’s Juturna could not have been here without you,
Twenty pages of J words in World Book dictionary,
I am amazed at how many of your words express some form of joy.
Jubilee, jestor, jokester, jackassey, jublilate.
Jeepers, J, you are so awesome!
Jingoism and jiggery pokery should have been re-named.
They do not fit your joyful jewel-laden jambalaya.
Jovial joyful Jolly Jubilant Jay, I am in awe.
MUSICAL PASSION
Music is the living soul
And beating heart of humanity.
It lights my fire of passion
Or tames my restless spirit.
Music calls me to live, taste, feel and see.
The spark of hope and change is ignited.
I hear the voice of the silenced and
Feel the anguish of the oppressed.
The soothing, soulful sounds of
Mangione’s flugelhorn makes me
“Feel so Good. “
The gritty, nasally voice of Dylan
Calls me to listen, for the answers
“Blowin’ in the Wind.”
The rich baritone of Cash
Warns me not to fall
In to the “Ring of Fire.”
Fogerty’s powerful voice
Invites me to dance with Willie and the Po Boys
“Down on the Corner.”
With Hank I can taste that
Home made “Jambalaya”
On the bayou.
Peter, Paul and Mary
Take me to that cherry lane
with “Puff the Magic Dragon.”
I can now call myself “Deacon Blues”
When I lose,
Becker and Fagan tell me.
I can taste the sweet
Tupelo Honey that flows
From the voice of Van Morrison
Jim Morrison said it for me
taking poetic license
music Light’s My Fire.
I’m predisposed to Italian food,
even when it’s bad
I’d rather live in a period house,
old windows poorly clad
I tend to favor contact sports,
over all the other kind
My mind was trained to like these things,
though better I would find
It wasn’t out of malice,
or a sense that I was best
I drank the open chalice,
never beating on my chest
With time my views have broadened,
and my edges softened too
My life a jambalaya,
—and the truth a changing stew
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2017)
When he walks – a jogging walking stumble,
Hands flap while moving,
Heavy feet plonk onto the floor,
The dull foot tapping of a toddler,
Where he wants to play, other toddlers live,
Pushing, frowning at those smothering what they target,
Why haven’t I got?,
Why? Why? Why? Want it now?
A noise he makes means something,
A noise like “ahh” or “ehh”,
Because he put his pinching fingers to his mouth,
It means dinner-time or “derrr” to him.
He didn’t eat as much as he hoped,
It is wiped a quarter onto his face,
In his hair, on his top, on his neck somehow,
On Daddys sleeve.
A jambalaya of interesting stimuli,
Cars, trains, planes, colours, noises, toys, people, lights,
Memories of desires, tastes, feelings and smells,
Too much can causes a brain electrical discharge.
The chapter of fun is ending,
He sees his bus and hears “home?” spoken with both request and instruction,
Bus wheels rumbling, the motion of movement, the background noises; dings and beeps,
The bus moves off with a heave of people.
He is quiet at the second bus stop,
He moves with only a twitch,
He banks his memories and falls asleep,
It’s a tough life being a toddler.
Jambalaya tastes so fine
With sweet plantains fried…
Serve this dish up nice and hot,
Sure to hit the spot…
Of course you’ll feel fine
Won’t you sit,
Dine!
Dive deep
into my inner place
once more, maybe twice.
Fly while standing still,
as I did before
I learned the truth.
Lose myself in painting
to the point of no breath
or thought beyond the canvas.
Write with abandon
about heart, butterflies,
and her fierce beauty.
Walk among white marble tombs,
eat crawfish jambalaya,
dance the zydeco.
One more glass of wine,
just the one...
Any more and I’m lost.
Never lose myself again
to the blackness
of no memory.
Abstemious!
Be cooking.
Don’t eat from gastronomic hotels.
Insist jambalaya.
Kindly live maximally nutritious, opt pawpaw.
Quench.
Revitalize strength to undertake vital works XL,
Yields; zeal.
Home Is Where The Heart Is
Oh my goodness
"Lets Party, Family Reunion"
Family of 10
Its all good, we stay close knit
Look forward to cookouts
Mardi Gras here is a big hit
Our seafood is the best, fresh from the bayou
My moms the best cook
Shrimp boulettes, jambalaya, just to name a few
Born on the bayou, its in my blood
Could never leave here
Louisiana is where I spent my girlhood
Written by: Debra Falgout
Contest by "SKAT"
visitors arrive
during Chicago’s snow storm—
warm fire inside
the Florida-boy
wearing short sleeves and jeans—
snow angels
mother and father
shouting, “Wear your jacket”—
pneumonia
ice on the front steps
beneath foot long icicles—
handrails
the oldest son
cooking jambalaya—
guests inhale deeply
the step-mother
staring outside from upstairs—
snow drifts
children and sleigh bells
laughing as they speed down hill—
sudden stop
The New Orleans Saints
playing on her wedding day—
Cajuns watch
the wedding party
lining up for their entrance—
the Saints won
© December 9, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
FORM: Haiku Series
Uncle Max’s lake house was a big one
On a private secluded lake
Dad could go fishing there anytime
The time we spent there was great
Right in the middle of the great room
Sat a Wurlitzer jukebox
It played without putting in money
Turned up, it knocked off your socks
Sometimes we spent the whole weekend there
My Bro, Mother, and Farther
I’d put my ear next to the jukebox
Turned it low, not to bother
Hank Williams sang the songs I liked best
I really did like his stuff
“Jambalaya” and “You’re Cheating Heart”
I just couldn’t get enough
The jukebox had those colored bubbles
That would rise up from each side
I liked to turn off all of the lights
Then sit and watch bubbles rise
When the grownups held a party there
Move all the furniture back
Then start dancing to the old jukebox
Sip from a jug in a sack
Don’t know what happened to the jukebox
After the lake house was sold
I do know the time I spent with it
Left memories of solid gold
It was all good a week ago,
Bourbon Street was full of energy,
The air saturated with laughter, Gumbo, Jambalaya and Catfish.
The wind whispering sweet nothings in your ear,
Farewell to the last days of summer.
But in my slumber, hurricane season was here,
The wind no longer whispered, but she cried for help,
And suggested that we do the same.
As God's fury swept across the delta,
With a similar rage that had driven Hitler during the Holocaust,
The same "Big Easy" that was adored and cherished,
Had become as uneasy as an upset stomach.
In complete emotional distraught, I pinched myself,
Hoping to awaken from this Purgatory... and I did.
Only to find the ocean inhabiting the streets of New Orleans,
Filled with corpses, that swam through the water like schools of fish,
The air saturated with death, hunger, despondency and lamentation.
With my faith paralyzed, I turned to look up at the broken sky,
Seeking an answer from God about what had happened.
As if he had sighed before answering,
The same wind that had once whispered those sweet nothings, daintily cried,
Katrina, Katrina... Katrina.
Sub Categories
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