For My Next Valentine, Part 2

Why am I thinking of King Cake
Wreathed in a tether of flowers
I much prefer being on my iphone
I could just stay on here for hours

Oh there’s that boy from New Orleans
He’s been here for quite a while
He’s not all that bad looking
Maybe should put him in the Maybe File

Isn’t there someone out there for me
Who too likes long walks and talks
A guy who’d love me for being me
And not a toy to be kept in a box

Oh such a silly text from Sally
About that party last June
Yes, we should get together
And it probably ought to be soon

LOL, TTYL, and LUMOA.
Now time to say hi to Dad
Tell him I’m making the next Dean’s List
I love how he’s so supportive, and glad

That I’m my own true person—
Talented, thrifty, and pretty nice;
Cuz today’s awesome women
Are so much more than sugar and spice!

And still there’s that boy from New Orleans
He’s been here for more than a while
He’s not all that bad looking—
Maybe I could hazard one smile?

Advertisement

Passion’s Wreck

Another wink inappropriately sent across the room
As I savor the dream of the salt at the base of your neck
Though there is no way this goes ever anywhere
Adrift in the Acadien gutter of this passion wreck

Swirling skirts reel to a hot cajun beat
The Artsmophere swells with Sebastien pours
Wanna go home with me, my belle jolie?
The answer is always: mais non, tous le jours

She glories in the morning, then rules the night
But my quiver emptied long many years ago
But Love never wearies as longing grips ever tight
Though my sad offer would hardly sate a wound so

So unreconstructed in Alexandria, my tall glass half full
Dreams and wishes mingling in a nice vigne rouge
Grateful for my morning porridge and café gratuit
Let’s get to it, cross that bridge at Baton Rouge

Scream down the 10 all the way to New Orleans—
A quarantino not quite following these isolation rules
65 and dying even before comes this Chinese bugger
Not sure anyone knows, besides, they’re all tools!

Again, still half marveling at the sweat beading about your neck
Dreaming in an Acadien gutter fouled by Old Love’s passion wreck

There’s Doins

There’s doins down in Lafayette
Time for some has beans
No chardonnay in CenLa
No lover in New Orleans
Friday growing older
Rains chasing the sun across the day
Only 80 minutes to a Wilbry sunset—
What will the neighbors say?
Need to hear a Weasel solo
Pierce another load of complacence
Need to find something real
To make any of this make sense
Sidewalks in the glen crest—
Where will the trees go?
Are you still drinking bad red wine?
Ha! Wouldn’t you like to know?
There’s something at the Artmosphere
And at the RocknBowl club too
Can you teach me to be discerning:
So, why is the sky so blue?

Headin’ Home

Seems I’ve lost my mind
Out past the point of caring;
I’m sitting here quietly,
So why is everyone staring?
I need’ve have yelled,
And I hate to shout,
But can someone please direct me
To the door that leads out?
Putting this house on the market,
Gonna get back to the parishes;
Find that bend in the river
And live in a light that nourishes.
Maybe find that creole girl—
The one with a heart of crawfish and gold!
She’d be settling to take me on,
The real sad truth be half-times retold.
Seems I’ve lost my mind
Somewheres way over there;
I’m sitting here so quietly,
But man, how the arresting officer does stare.
He don’t know I’m heading home,
Once I get the next clear chance.
Hey ti’ fille:
Wanna dance?

A Winter Southbound

The fallen leaves scattered across the tracks,
Southbound 53 would push these farther on.
A love that was empty as Ashland’s winter trees—
A hard weight was lifted now that she’d gone.

No tears, but also no joy, would be found here.
Yes, may the very best find its way over to her;
And should any good be left over hanging out
Perhaps might could entertain here along with Jack’s purr.

Santy Claus is due to arrive in a few days
And we’ve all tried to be and to do our best;
But sometimes it’s never close to good enough
And you cancel flights along with all the rest.

Maybe in the new year happiness real will come
And everyone can breathe and let it all just be;
Festivals and dances return for our lives renewed
And I can get back to that crescent bend in the Mississippi.

The southbound blew its horn passing thru Ashland town
And the online chatroom railfans counted up all the cars.
The empty trees shimmied in the rolling winter wind;
The resettled leaves looked up and counted up all the stars.

Double Dressed

Didn’t die for my country:
Would it help if I were more Hispanic?
Seems we’re all supposed to hate trumps;
Should I need to be more trytophannic?

Mad at me, mad at you—
Not the least bit “Chosen”.
Forget you, it’s not about me:
How long has your heart been frozen?

Let’s converse.
Find a way inside.
Do you still sleep alone?
Is there room by your side?

So many “fat-is-cool” shows,
And the stars’ car’s windows are all blacked out.
Define for me small-n Normal.
All cogent sides seem to have little doubt.

And a lady goes to Mexico;
Fishheads mingle in the sweet surreal.
Wanna live next to some boiled crawfish:
Why sucha big freaking’ deal?

You can have me with a dance at the Columns
Or a double oyster dressed from Domilise’s.
Let’s zydeco across lawn at Cyprimont Point.
You’re so pretty, so say all your nieces!

Who’s That Old Man?

Looking at Sixty-two
Right in the face
Reminds me that soon
I gotta get out of this place
Back to the Crescent City
To ride a streetcar or two
Hang with my brother apes
Pay full cover at Audubon Zoo

Looking at Sixty-two
Who’s that old man?
Gotta dance some Cajun
Just as soon as I can
Meet John at Da Leaf
Then relax with David at the Columns
Then real beau coups soon
I can let go all these little problems

Looking at Sixty-two
Born in the magic year 1955
Wanna prove them all wrong
And gonna get out of here alive
Just one more beignet
And/or a Merlot-filled glass or two
Then it won’t be all that special
That tomorrow I turn sixty-two

Dark Chocolate Covered Cashews

Dark chocolate covered cashews,
But that memory of how you smiled—
Cajun two-stepping waiting for the drawbridge to repair
As our young moment passed as away the nighttime wiled

And then how we drove slow on back to NOLA
After a gig lovely in bonny old Lafayette
As a southern full Moon stole peeks out of the clouds,
But that was the best that things would ever get

Even dark chocolate covered cashews
Cannot pause the runontape in my mind
Of the passion, the loss, and the lingering rancor—
Leftovers of a certain thin, hard, sad kind

Love arrives hot quick and ends up a wreck on the coast—
The pounding memories: a waif on a beach missing her shoes;
And the only thing one could right now want the most
Is drown out the empty with dark chocolate covered cashews

Number 62 In Blue

The candle sputtered
Then guttered out
The wick a speck in the wax
The old poet looked
And suffered to stand up
The last present wrapped was Jack’s

A fresh Christmas candle
Striped Santa red and holly green
With its new flame warmed the room
Placing presents about
A tree to shame Charlie Brown
The shards of wrapping left with the broom

The cat’s tail flicked serene
The poet reached for his quill
As words soft filled a new page
A chance Winter memory
Spurred the poet on
Thoughts neither steep nor very sage

She bought him skis for a gift
Though “cross” country would mean something else
Tears of laughter with every tumble and spill
He wondered where she was now
A score of years have long passed
When meeting on Concourse B was such the piquant thrill

Chinese Five Spices
Floated upon the solemn merlot
The poet paused to let the tightness pass
Tomorrow the two-state drive
Back to his beloved Crescent City
Though this year without his own wee lass

Daughter would be skiing
Off out with her Mother and half family
Cross country over in the mountain West
He’d be with swiftly aging brother
And a Christmas with the family Creole
But things always work out for the best

A meow and a sigh
The poet let Jack out the door
A cat in search of secret nocturnal meetings
The candle blew out neat
The cold front had as promised arrived
As the rain pelted out its Season’s Greetings

Waxing and waning here came Christmas Number Sixty-two
But he yet looked ahead brightly through this Yuletide in Blue

Sure As Felicity Follows Terpsichore

The Ice Queen turned from the window
The curtain folds draped back into proper place
She was again content in her Keep
Having begun to forget his absent face

While the snow salted the pines
Squirrels burrowed deep in their nests
The Ice Queen folded into her chair
Dinner as ignored as her discontents

She recalled his rude voice:

“Please give me back my delta—
Any seat on any levee on the Mississippi,
I gotta get back to Nawlins,
Sure as Felicity St. follows Terpsichore.

So take that cork out of vin St Francis
To go where we’ve been before,
Sonoma will have to do
Waiting for my Crescent City encore.”

But the Ice Queen felt a shiver versal of her own—

The ghost of a loss lingered lumpen there
Left hard upon her heart of gold
A tale one could tell of mind, body, and soul
If ever one was to be so bold

She’d been that comely lass with golden locks long,
Lovely as the dawn in the Spring;
Now she kept to her Keep,
Love a scoffed-at trifle, a mere unknotted string

But a heart-twist pulled her up short—

Where am I going?
Who will lead me there?
The fog isn’t lifting
And I fear the very air!

Are you really in love?
I know I would like to be;
Could we soon catch up somewhere?
Could you tarry with someone odd like me?

A dread expanded where certainty fled—

One day without you
Is a rainy day at the zoo;
Another night without you:
A starless, moonless night too blue;

She allowed: Come on over….

My Lady combed her silken, yet gold locks
And made her ministrations for bed.
She remembered her lists for the morrow
And made her solo cooling path to bed.

His eyes and tossed locks followed her to her dreams—
He to his beloved Delta, She to her duty and schemes.
The curtain folds draped back with proper straight lace,
She again content in her Keep and all in its correct place.