FLOG

A Roundelay of Golf
By GC SMITH

Surely my brain is scrambled
Yup, for sure it’s rent
Because I’ve gambled
Without a single cent
For that reason I scrambled
And won so was content

Because I’ve gambled
Without a single cent
You’ld sure think me addled
Believe my mind is bent
For that reason I scrambled
And won so was content

You’ld sure think me addled
Believe my mind is bent
Yes, of course I must be nuts
Of that there can be no buts
For that reason I scrambled
And won so was content

Shakespeare never ...

Hey Bartender
a sonnet
By GC SMITH

If there was a talking dog by golly
Such a dog as that would sure be a gas
A big old dog perhaps a merle Aussie
He'd help me get free beer poured in my glass
On the club barstool I'd set down my ass
Wager with you barkeep for a pint of cheer
I'd tell you man my dog has got some sass
That I'd bet that you would surely want to hear
I'd surely wager much, much more than beer
For less than a hundred bucks I'd damn well balk
Cash on the bartop and doggies fans to cheer
For me to get that Aussie pup to talk.
Cause I may be stupid, damn I may be dumb
But come to wager bucks my brain ain't numb

HO! HO! HO!

*
**
****
A Christmas Poem
By GC Smith

Christmas comes but once a year
So sit down, listen, be of good cheer
Ma’s nightie is off and so are my jams
We’re under the covers doing wham-bams
When up on the roof I hear a great bump
It sounds like round Santa fell on his rump
So Ma rolls from the bed, dons her robe -as I do
We’ll check out just what's interrupted our screw
We go out with flashlights to shine up on the roof
And there stuck in the chimney is that red suited goof
So we’ll call for some firemen to come and pull him out
And hope when he is free he’ll remember what Christmas is about

Cause he had a long hard evening stuck up there
And that could sour even Jolly Saint Nick

Fa lala la la lala la la.

comedy - tragedy and sum-bitch

Comedy -- Tragedy
By GC SMITH

Is my conceit
full comedy
of the fool?

Ah, but the fool
can make dark days light
and maybe worth the living.

Should there be no fool
that could indeed be tragic
'cause we need respite from the dark

If I lose what
I never found,
is that tragedy?

If I look and look
and finally find nothing,
comedy will have been my life

But perhaps I'll stumble
upon something worthwhile
and avoid comedy or tragedy

Perhaps I'm simple enough
not to know what's comedy or tragedy,
perhaps I'll wander through life not knowing

Sum-bitch
By GC SMITH

Sum-bitch slipped the hook
while I was gathering wool
stripped bait and swam away
left me standing here the fool

I know that he was very large
that fish what shook the hook
'cause ripples in the water
keep expanding as I look

So I guess my tonight's supper
is beef jerky from a box
it sure won't be that salmon
smoked, sliced thin as lox

'cause, that sum-bitch got away,
it's still swimming up the stream
where it will live another day
to spawn young to take my bait

Those offspring fish won't get away,
I'll pay atention to what I do
when those fish come back to spawn
I'll damn sure catch me one or two

Splat

Pie-O-My

The fat kid sat alone in the school auditorium reading a book while the rest of the kids ran around getting yearbooks signed. He didn't hear the sneak who reached around from behind and slammed a pie in his face.

He held tears back, licked his lips and said, "yummm, Lemon Meringue, my favorite."




Nothing There
by GC SMITH

I never had a notebook
nor a single piece of paper
upon which to write down
my redneck lit-rat-chur

My stuff floats inside my mind
ideas there are slow fermented
until cast out to cyber-space
for yours and other eyes to see

I hope for wisdom in my words
but doubt that wisdom is there
'cause this ol' boy ain't Solomon
so I'll settle for what ain't wise

You the reader can pass my stuff
or you can stop to read my words
I assure you it ain't deathless prose
but I hope pray it will amuse

So when upon my verse you stumble,
pause and take yourself a look see;
'cause my muse tries for lively words
that won't fall flat like old cow ...

Today, tonight, I'm at wit's end
I simply don't know what to write
for once I'm at a loss for words
my muse must have took to flight

Some oldies.

HANDS
By GC SMITH

I hate my hands.

Stubby fingers:
sausages that can't
palm a basketball or
snap a smart smooth spiral
from a NFL's football's laces.

Fuckin' stinkin' little hands,
goddamn: I was born with brains,
and with reasonable coordination,
and drive to play the games men play,
but I'm cursed with these stinkin' little hands.

I've spent most of my life on mind things:
analyzing this and that and concluding sharply,
making pronouncements: profound, or at least payed for,
but I've been thinking that I would have lived a different life,
but for the curse of these dammed chubby, short fingered hands.



It Ain't Twilight Time
By GC Smith

Perhaps autumn's breath will chill me,
but not just yet, it ain't quite that time,
'cause, damn I'm havin' much too much fun

Sixty and nine years upon this green earth
will be my time in just a few more months;
hell, that ain't long, I'm plannin' on a hunnert

There is so much left to do, I still gotta play,
and take my boat on out to gulf stream waters
and test my strength against a trophy marlin

Then there's books to read and poems to write,
all the good old stuff that makes my life so fine;
all of the stuff for which there ain't enough time

My gal and I still wake up each and every day
and hug and kiss and look out at the blue sky
as sun comes up over marshland and the river

Then there's all the shrimp, the crabs, the fish
taken with line and net from my tidal creek
that go so well with a balloon glass of good wine

There's lots to see and do that I ain't yet seen or done
so this autumn time is just gonna have to wait its turn
til somewhere way down the line I find my season's gone

That autumn time, by gol, it ain't near upon me yet;
tough it's true I'm no longer in the springtime of life
nothing in my earthly time tells me it ain't still summer

This old guy intends to stick around God's green earth a while;
enjoying every minute of these glorious late summer days
and doing each of the many, many things that fill my life


OH ME
By GC SMITH

Pride is a sin from which I can't hide
'cause most everything I do is vanity,
but is being prideful so very wrong
when one has liked himself all along

Then there is envy, especially nasty
when finding neighbor's goodies tasty,
though envy's not a tempting sin you see
'cause all of what I have pleases me

Now gluttony, is a super sin,
while gravy dribbles from my chin;
this gourmand can eat for two;
chowing down is much of what I do

Lust is a sin of which I'm guilty;
it comes from watching lovely ladies
barley covered by those string bikinis
so damn revealing 'cause they're teeny

The road to anger is not my path;
I just don't have a sense of wrath:
I'd sooner forget, I'd rather forgive:
It's simply a much better way to live

Greed, like envy, ain't for me
I've better things to do, you see;
greed can entangle one, like in a weed;
from entanglement I'd rather be freed

But there's still sloth, dammit
and I sometimes am guilty of it,
but, heck, you know, I am retired,
so it ain't sloth, it's how I'm wired

I'm in Layfayette LA this morning.

Cajun Gumbo
By GC SMITH

I row my pirogue on the bayou, me
and catch da crab and shrimp I need
'cause tonight I'll cook a seafood gumbo
to make you mouth water, yes indeed

First I'll make a dark brown roux
a medium flame is what it takes
stir flour an' oil through an' through
so's to make sure dat stuff don't burn

Now I boil a big pot of water, me
an' kick it up with a spice hand free
I toss in bay leaves and thyme an' salt
an', of course, five or so hot red chilies

Cook the crabs in the spicy water
then cook the shrimps in the same
then clean that seafood with a knife
an' set succulent meat aside for later

I take some onions and chop 'em fine
an' to that chopped garlic cloves, me
I won't forget to put in sliced okra chunks
that give the gumbo a thick rich body

A bunch of celery cut up small
chopped green pepper adds a lot
cook all the veggies in the roux
makin' sure you stir it constantly

Add stock from the shellfish boil
with Tobasco an' ground red pepper
throw in a lot of cooked picked crabmeat
stir the concoction through and through

Cook it all for about an hour or so
then toss in lots an' lots of shrimp
simmer the mess for a coupl'a minutes
And serve that fine gumbo over rice

D'at's how I make a seafood gumbo
it's a taste treat that's very, very good
a cold beer with this Cajun repast
will make the evening meal perfect

________________________


What I found
By GC SMITH

Me, I haven't lost a gol durned thing
In fact I've found a nearly perfect world
But, the fact that world is on an island
Means that all could be gone tomorrow

Left from pre-history

Ain’ Getting’ Too Damn Close
By GC SMITH

There’s a gator in the pond outside my door’,
he’s a big old bull , king of the space he owns;
he’s been around here since I don’t know when
seems sometimes he’s been here since time began

Yellow eyes watch me closely
from just above the green duckweed cover
while the rest of that big old boy
lies hidden under dead still water

Prey is what is on his pea brain
honed to that one thought by time
he’d like to stuff me in his hole to ripen
but if not me my dog will do just fine

He’s quite a creature that old bull gator,
lying there so still, stalking unwary critters;
he’s fascinating, well worth some close study,
but believe me you, I ain’ gettin’ too damn close

I'm in Galveston and winter winds are wistling in from the Gulf of Mexico.

Wantin' Winter's Winds
by GC SMITH

'effen springtime with damn perfection
flowers bloomin' like pastel confection
I'm waiting patiently for winter's freezin'
where I'll wallow in misery beyond all reason.

G.D. summer sure is a bummer
not a thing could be dumber
than a ninety-eight degree number
where we all sweat and cannot slumber.

Fall is for what we wait
it's the portal, it's the gate
time which I think is great
prelude to winter, don't be late

Huffing and puffing
winds a howling
winter's absolutely where it's at
and that my friends simply is that.


Believe this baloney and I'll tell you more.

Takin' it easy

Learned From Mama Maybelle
By GC SMITH

Upside down,
backward,
inside out
the world has
gone awry

What to do?
what to do?
drown sorrow
with high proof
booze?

What
would
that
prove,
anyhoo?

Nothing,
nada,
not a
thing
says me

Better to shrug,
simply say
what the hey
tomorrow is
another day

So look
to the sunny side
of your life;
it’s my Rx
to relieve strife

Travelin' tommorrow

so I put this up early.



CAJUN TANKSGIVIN'
by G. C. Smith

November an' Tanksgivin's a-comin'. We gonna have us a feast, yes siree. About two days before da Tanksgivin' dinner I go out to the coop, me. Select a big ole fat turkey, an' a plump duck, an' a roastin' chicken. Chop they head off, me. Den I debone dem buggers, 'ceptin' for they wangs, an' dey legs, an' dey thighs. I take an' shove da duck inna turkey and da chicken in da duck. Gonna be tasty.

Now, dat main feast o' poultry ain' quite ready for da oven yet. Gotta stuff him. Tink I'll use dirty rice and boudin wit some chop mudbug tail meat for da stuffin'. Cousin Jacques got him a Lafittte skiff and he kin get me some oyster. Shove dat fat mollusk meat up the part of da chicken dat go over da fence last and nestle it deep in da rice and sausage stuffin'.

Now we got what da CA-jun folk call da "turducken". Take a lot a slicin' trough alla dat meat and stuffin'' to finally get to da special treat. But it's gonna be wurt dat trouble. Ow-whee, I'm gonna enjoy dem succulent oyster, me. Wash him down wit a glass a homemade wine. Might even share some wit da wife, and da granfolk, an' da kids an' da cousins. Maybee.

Happy Cajun Tanksgiving -- stay well. Laissier les bon temps rouler.


Bouree
By GC SMITH

Been hangin' at LeBlanc's place for 'bout forty eight-forty nine years now an' I seen plenty, me. Drunk Cajun boys fightin' over the flirty girlies, not ta mention da fights over da cards. An' I seen plenty o' ol' men in here sittin' an' sippin' their long neck Jax, dem guys long past their fightin' days.

In da back room there's a game goin' on mos alla' da time. Bouree, cajun five card game wit trump cards an' tricks. Times da stakes get way up high and da boys are tempted to cheat some. Dem's da times if you gonna play Bouree in LeBlanc's back room you betta unsnap the haft o' dat thin blade fish knife you allas wear on your belt, 'cause, boy, you juss might gonna need dat knife, maybe.

I been in dem card games plenty, but I ain' goin' near dat back room no mo', me. Gonna sit at da bar wit da ol' guys and sip my Jax real quiet like.

I'm way past dem fightin' days, me.

Turkey Day

Thanksgiving
By GC SMITH

Plump turkey
golden brown,
moist, succulent

Thanks for good things
that make our lives
worth living

Thanks for
our armed forces
and their sacrifices

Here’s to optimism
toward our future
in coming years

Thanks that our betrayers
will soon leave office,
next time we just might vote wisely

Thanks for all
that’s good and decent
and for our hope for better times

It’s not only the bird
it’s the symbol that’s
worth the sharing

Poll closed. Fiction won.

Twenty five votes

fiction 13 (54%)

fact 1 (4%)

factual fiction 4 (16%)

whole cloth lies 7 (29%)

What should the next poll encompass?

On silence and solitude

Off Walden Pond
By GC SMITH

Jingle-jangle
damn that phone
why I'm
never
left alone
is the prime
question of
my life
I don't need
this modern
strife

No noise please

Like Walt
I'd rather
be
just me
beside a
pond
where fishes swim
or sitting
near a brook
to read
my book

Quietly, all by myself

The sound of
silence
is just what
I need
not loud
street noise
not blasting
horns
and I'll do fine
without those
screeching brakes

Quiet please, man thinking

Just let me
sit here
with my book
and please
no blare
from the
TV
with its
crappy
sit-com
shows

Turn it down

I just want
some
peace and quiet.
Shhh
shush
no noise
please
I'd much prefer
my silent
solitude
if you don't mind

Put a sock in it.

On Being True To Your Muse

A Favorite Poem
By GC SMITH

A favorite poem
ain’t what I own
‘cause poesy
goes in one ear
goes out the other

There may be a poem
I wish I wrote
‘cause the poet
spoke to me
so clearly

A clever line
a super strophe
some cool enjambment
or nifty rhyme
can sure enthrall me

I’ll look again
to find
the poem,
that favorite
that eludes me

When I find
that favorite poem
I’ll do my best
not to try
a copy

Because, you see,
to emulate
would rob from
that poem its
essence

Whom the Gods ...

Fishin’ in the Gulf Stream

The gas gauge reads below the half way mark
maybe enough fuel left to get back to home port;
the storm’s howling winds and the currents and
the battering wave action dictate fuel consumption
and headway made toward safety or lost toward death at sea

Our boat’s deep vee slices through turmoiled sea,
we hang on as its bow rises, climbs the back of huge rollers
and then it dips as the boat slides from this giant wave's apex
and crashes to its trough only to climb again on the next wave
and the next, and the next and the next, and the never ending next

An ice packed blue marlin shrouded in a plastic sheet
lies dead on the deck, its huge inert eye stares and admonishes
our searching for adventure and foolishly challenging nature’s Gods.
Eerily, it is as if the murdered sea creature could judge and render guilty
we puny mortals who would take to the sea with temerity to challenge the fates

But wait, in the distance a slice of blue shows against storm skies,
a break in the weather that has tossed our twenty foot center console
like a child’s toy boat or a rubber ducky whirling in the jets of a Jacuzzi.
The storm abates and giant waves begin to settle as wind’s current slackens
the prop digs as I throttle back to swing the boat west toward home and safety

At the dock we take the scale to weigh our trophy marlin,
it is a large one but not quite enough to challenge the local record.
Still we slap each others backs and raise our beers to toast our catch
to toast our skills with rod and reel, to toast undying friendship forged in peril,
swearing one to the other to go out again to the stream and catch the record fish

For the truckers

Southern Boy

I got
A 20 oz Co-Cola
An’ chicken fried steak
A eighteen wheeler idling
It has recaps on the wheels
An’ pine straw in the trailer
I'll be hustlin' down the road
Elvis an’ Dale an’ Jesus my company

I’m a Southern boy.

published in Dead Mule

Don't get caught by winter

My Winter Solstice
By GC SMITH

I don't give a hoot if it snows or freezes
an' I sure don't need no dashboard Jesus,
I got me goodies laid up for the cold days.

I threw the net and caught me lots of shrimp.
I set the traps and caught me lots of crabs.
I bagged those goodies and stored 'em in my freezer.

There's bottles of wine lying on their sides,
beer in the extra fridge in the garage outside,
a litre of Irish whiskey for coldest of cold nights.

I don't care about the sunshine shortened days
my home is warm and I'm fixed up for winter,
cold times to come don't hold any fear for me.

That's why I don't give a hoot if it snows and freezes,
why I know that I don't need no plastic Jesus,
time has treated me good and I'm all set for winter.

But there are other folk that ain't so lucky
and I hope the winter will be short and mild
and springtime thaw comes soon again for them.

Soup's on

Pasta Fazoole
by GC SMITH

Grab a big ol’ heavy cook pot
sauté one inch chunks of beef
with olive oil till they're brown

Now chop veggies for the pot
lots of celery, onion, an’ carrot
and cook for twenty minutes

Add 1 can of diced tomatoes
then one of drained red kidney beans
and another of drained white beans

Put in three cans of beef broth,
one can of plain tomato sauce,
a twelve oz can of V-8 juice

Then goodly shakes of Tabasco
an’ 6-8 ounces of good red wine
with four-five more for the cook

Spice up with two bay leafs, oregano,
an’ then a bunch of chopped parsley
with many grinds of fresh black pepper

Gotta simmer for two hours or more,
then toss in a pound of small shell pasta;
cook a bit, turn off, let it sit all afternoon.

Come suppertime just reheat and
serve with crusty French bread,
an’ Italian salad, and good red wine.

There, that’s Jerry’s pasta fazoole
A good old peasant dish updated;
cook it, eat it and say Yummy!

Poetry Contest (courtesy of Martin Heavysides)

Poetry Contest

Roadhouse Redneck Roughnecks

Somebody's Baby
By GC SMITH

The crowd here at Sonny's Country Lounge is humongus. Stampin' their feet and yellin' for more. The pretty little blond gal throws them kisses and comes down off the stage. She ain't bad lookin' in her miniskirt and fringed leather vest, white cowgirl boots. Nice rack, she looks kinda like a young Dolly. But, I don't get the crowd wantin' more of her. She ain't got the voice. Hers is kinda thin, reedy. She's just okay as an opener. Ain't gonna be a hard act to follow.

I wrote a new piece an' I got a three piece country band backin' me an' my guitar. Aaron Priestly, Bass Guitar, Hank McCoy, Pedal Steel, and Lester "Moon Pie" O'Shaunnesy, Percussion. We got our music pumpin' through Mesa-Boogie amps. Dim stage lights set the mood.

Me and my boys get up on the stage to take the little blond gal's place. It's a perfect night for me to debut "Somebody's Baby”.

I take a slug of Bud from a longneck, hit a few licks on my Telecaster, turn to the boys, and nod. Lester lays down a beat and Aaron comes in with the bass line. Hank brings on the melody, takes it up tempo, and I count time until I can pick up with the lyrics.

Okay, now.

Someday soon I'll be somebody's baby
Have a woman to rock me all night long
Love words will pass from her cherry lips
She'll carry me on home with her sweet song

Won't have to be lonesome alla of my life
Cause I know just what's in store for me
Someday I'm gonna be somebody's baby
When someday comes I'm gonna be free


I din't think we'd be needin' this chicken wire cage but, damm, they're throwin' empty longnecks an' all kind of other crap at us.

"Crank it up louder boys," I shout:


Someday, I'll be somebody's baby
Have a gal to hold me in her arms
I'll look up into my sweet lady's eyes
I'll tell her all about her many charms

Someday, I'm gonna be somebody's baby
Soon, I'll be singin' and it won't be long
Country boy singin' the words she wants
Croonin' the verse to our fine love song

Cause,
Someday soon I'll be somebody's baby
Someday soon I'll be somebody's baby
Someday ...

I thought tonight was the perfect time for me to introduce "Somebody's Baby'. Them beer bottles, Bar-B-Que rib bones, dirty plates, an' other stuff flyin' toward us guys up on the stage is tellin' a purely different story. Seems this here crowd's done decided Somebody's Baby sucks.

Now the crowd's yellin' for the little blondie. Yup, on second thought, maybe she does have a good voice. I pull the mike toward me and say, ``Come on up here darlin'," and wave the little blondie forward. Then, quiet like, I whisper to her, "sing sumpthin' 'bout hurtin' hearts or trains or pickup trucks. Any damn thing that'll sooth this 'effen' beast."

Maybe that sweet gal can turn the trick. Calm these wild bastards down. Just maybe, she'll get us out of this joint alive.

In the groove

Alimentary Jazz
By GC SMITH

Hiiiiiicc. Hic, hic, hic
hickory on snare drum rim
parraddidle - flamaddidle
Cozy Cole's Metropole beat

Burrrrrrrp. Rup, rup, rup
brought forth with gusto
gassy repeaters repeating
like Bird's sexy sax riffs

Braaaaaaap. Bup, bup, bup
muted through underpants,
fart music, improvised
like Armstrong arpeggios

Music of the gastronome
farted, belched, hicced
presented for your enjoyment
fueled, of course, by beans

Southern poll

Graciousness won hands down. So much for high cotton, fish jumpin' and easy livin'.

Which?

This or That
By GC SMITH

I could be a knight of old
doing daring deeds so bold
saving damsels from their fates
making sure dragon fire is quenched

Then, I could be an absolute horror
like tyrants Saddam, Pol Pot, or Hitler
committing heinous crimes against humanity
self justified as much needed for mankind

Or, perhaps, I could be a helping hand
extended toward others when they’re down
a hand outstretched to lend what’s needed
when dire straits rule someone’s life

But, I might just be a criminal in mufti
disguised perhaps as a man of the cloth
or as a leader of a gang of boy scouts
or perhaps a teacher ensconced in a school

Mankind, I know, wears many faces
some straight out showing one what one gets
others may hide behind a guise to fool you
it’s isn’t easy to know which is true

Yet we must sort good from bad
we must deal with our fellow man
we must avoid those who mean harm
accept others who’d be true friends

The sorting process is not easy
it takes separating words and deeds
it takes observing human nature
it takes an open yet cautious mind

So remember all the could have beens
when making choices concerning people
but in the end do not walk fearful
because you can figure out who is a friend

Chapeaus

Fav Toppers
By GC SMITH

I got me a Harley hat
a gimmee cap with a logo
that says:
"RIDE LIKE THE WIND"
but the embroidery
ain't so good
it looks more like:
RIDE LIKE THE WINO

The hat's rolled brim is frayed
an' that makes it special
you'd have to pay extra
to get a like hat
but I done frayed it myself
through years of wearing
that faded old hat
what
covers my bald spots

That faded grey hat
is damn near my favorite
it's right on up there
with my black beaver Stetson
and almost as good
as the hat with the logo

"IF IT HAS TITS OR WHEELS
IT WILL GET YOU IN TROUBLE"

New Old Chow

Trendy Horses-d-Ouvres
By GC SMITH

Veggie crisps and Pita chips
hummus with sun-dry tomato
spinach dip with mashed garlic
I'm coming around, you see

They say this stuff
is very good for you
I really wouldn't know
But, dang, it doesn't taste so bad

I ate it at our kid's home
I went and got some at the deli
I'm really getting very modern
with foodstuffs from ancient time

It's good to acquire new tastes
to try exotic treats for one's palate
but that does not mean at all
that I'll take a pass on meatballs

Norman Mailer "shuffled off this mortal coil."

REST IN PEACE OLD GUY
or, Bedevil the Devil
if you will

Article from USA today

by Bob Minzesheimer, USA TODAY
Norman Mailer, one of the last surviving literary lions to roar out of World War II, died Saturday morning.

Mailer, 84, died of acute renal failure at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York, said J. Michael Lennon, his official biographer.

In a fiesty career of highs and lows, Mailer wrote more than 40 books, won two Pulitzer Prizes and managed to be mentioned in everything from the TV show King of the Hill to John Lennon's Give Peace A Chance.

As a novelist, essayist and reporter, he took on celebrities, war, politics, boxing, God, sex and perhaps his favorite theme, the battle between good and evil.

He had hoped to write at least one more novel.

Gettin' Unstuck of the Pluff Mud

Can There Be Another Way?
By GC SMITH

Wha?

Change my poetry?

Think?

Do sumptin’ different?

Ol’ stuck
in the
lowcountry
pluff mud
Smith?

Gotta be kiddin’.

Not write
of estuaries,
of shrimp,
of crabs
of fishin’ poles
an’
of Boston Whalers.

Not write about
blue skies,
hurricanes,
nature’s treachery,
green
marsh grasses,

Not write
of tall pine trees,
of mistletoe way up there,
of live oaks with resurrection fern
an’
of SC palmettos.

Not write of
of wood storks,
of hawks an’ eagles,
of ibis,
of heron an’ egret
of painted bunting
an’ of
Carolina wren..

Not write
of Gullah-Geechee ways,
of Frogmore stews,
of Oyster roasts
of Seafood gumbo,
of Savannah red rice
and
of the
laid back life.


Hell no. I can’t
change.
I won't

’cause
I’m mired in
Lowcountry lore
not to mention
quatrains
and
iambic pentameter
and
lettered rhyme schemes
and
all sorts of
crap
like that.

I don’t know
how
to break
the mold;
to do
neato
new stuff
like
free verse
with
enjambment,
loose structure,
whoopsy-daisy
rhyme schemes
or none;
an’
with
all the
accompanying
unfettering
of the
muse.

I think
it may
be
to much
for
me.

Nope,
I don’t
know how
to break free.

But then
again
...

Perhaps foolish idealism?

Toward A New Politic
By GC SMITH

Not lying.
Now there's an idea.
Not pushing idiotic ideologies.
How novel!
Recognizing a world of disparate interests.
Impossible?
Not trying to harm the commonweal for personal power or gain.
Huh?
Using common sense re complex issues.
Oops, complexities call for the uncommon.
Dealing with realities not political chimeras.
Who could ever possibly think that possible?
Caring.
Umm, maybe. Just perhaps.
Doing unto others as ....
Ok, return to the tried and true

Here's a circus poem.

The Story of My Birth
By GC Smith

Stars twinkled merriment
Shouted, look a fool is born
Sucker for the fleecers
Circus child will live forlorn

Moon smiles and laughs
He’s sure one for the books
Silly foolish circus child
With his deformed looks

Clouds say they will part
Reveal for all to see
Circus child and his art
Fooling you and me

Circus child has a mind
Much like a steel trap
Isn’t bothered by the taunts
Or any other crap

Circus child lives alone
Visions in his head
Doesn’t give a hoot
If you’re alive or dead

Circus child is not torn
with or by his mind or looks
And he isn’t hurt by taunts
Cause he’s one for the books

And you, you stars and moons
Who shine above the earth
You should be ashamed
Of your mocking of his birth

Da Cool Kid on Haloween

Yum!

Estuarine Bounty
By GC SMITH

Tide's in,
boat's ready;
I think I'll go
catch dinner,
redfish, filleted,
sautéd in lemon garlic butter
served with cole slaw,
sliced 'maters,
roast corn,
hush puppies,
and of course,
a col' one.

Chow time

A Pantoum From the Backyard Tidal Creek.
By GC SMITH

You were in the tidal creek today
Then suddenly, you were in the net
You're one pissed off wiggling crab
An' there's more crabs I'm gonna get

I was swimming free this morning
Then suddenly, I found me in a net
Along with some of my buddies
Damn, I guess that we'll al be et

They're arrayed on the platter now
All those pissed off wiggling crabs
Cooked to a rosy glowing red
Atlantic blue crabs will be et

We've now enjoyed the repast
Atlantic blue crabs have been et
We've burped and wiped our chins
Surfeit with crabs who no longer swim

Salt Marsh Flash Story

Of Time and Tide
By GC SMITH

Shrimp are runnin’ and the Jimmies are fat. Living off the land and the bounty of the estuarine system is the Lowcountry summer.

I filled the cooler with ice and beer and a couple of plastic bags full of sandwiches. I toted the load to my boat, a sixteen foot Wahoo with a fifty horse outboard. Boat draws less than a foot of water with the outboard's foot up. She’s great in the shallow flats and the small back creeks.

A half hour on the intracoastal and I took the boat into the Whale Branch at red marker number two-o-six. About a half mile in I cut the engine and let her drift. I ate a sandwich, baloney with tomato and onion, and drank a cold beer. That done I dumped some ice in a bucket and got the cast net from the well at the back of the boat. I drifted for several hours, throwing the net and sorting shrimp. Twenty count went on ice in the bucket, smaller ones went back in the water for another, later day.

The sun was lowering in the western horizon. An osprey headed home to its nest winged past the boat. Great white herons in the marsh began to make their guttural evening calls. I’ve always imagined they were calling out goodnight to each other. It was time to head for home. I tidied up my gear, pulled the cap from a beer, and cranked the engine. Tried to crank the engine that is. The battery was dead. It looked liked like I was going to spend the night on the water.

Off in the distance evening sun-shafts glistened off Spanish moss that draped massive live oaks on a fair sized hummock. I poled the boat toward a sandy beach. As I got closer to the beach I could see a faint outline of a cypress shack behind the trees. I beached the boat, tying her off to a tree. That precaution is necessary in the Lowcountry where ten foot plus tide-swings at flood will submerge the beach and at ebb take an untended boat away. I walked toward the shack.

She was on the porch. She wore a light cotton shift and when she moved it was clear that the shift was all she wore. She smiled. “It’s been a long time, stranger.”

“It has been that,” I said. “What are you doing on this hummock?”

“It belonged to my gran’ daddy. When he passed it fell to me. My home now.”

Her name was Esmerelda and we did indeed go back a long way. We played together as small children. Memories flooded, her sauciness and how she was always ahead of me. Things she taught me, or tried to teach. But then we grew to adolescence and our playing together was no longer to be countenanced. My mother and her mother ensured our separation. Still, there had been experiments before we were parted.

She smiled, perfect white teeth glistening. “You here to finish what began so many years ago?”

Tongue tied, I stammered some unintelligible gibberish.

She stepped back a foot or two into the room. She stopped, lit by the setting sun, framed in the doorway. She laughed softly. “Well, come on in. Could-might we’ll find what wasn’t.”

R & R inspired poem

A Lynyrd Skynyrd Saturday Night
By GC SMITH

"Saturday night down to at voodoo lake
this here simple man simply asked
an innocent question, "so you tell me,
sweet lady, what's your name, what's your name?"

"Bernice" she replied, "and I know no shame."
"Now, I know a just a bit about the fast women,
so, bring it on you fine sweet thing
and, oh man, YAHOO, man did she ever."

"I smelled his anger when he came through the door.
damn, that smell, sulphur straight from hell
Bernice stepped away", mouthin' aloud, an uh-oh!
You gotta look out for his Saturday nite special."

"I looked up at that giant and nearly did swoon:
Never gonna be a Freebird if he don't give me room.
Says, I, though I know that you're on the hunt,
believe me, I'm leavin' here right soon enough."

"Right then I decided to be a travelin' man
heading myself out of here for sweet home Alabam;
cause he didn't know that I never kissed her,
fore sure I'm gone, give me three steps Mister."

On Poetic Muses

I Won't Climb That Mountain
By GC SMITH

I don't know 'bout no muses
Livin' up on upon that mountain
Eating feta cheese and olives

Them muses always do elude me
They leave me to my own devises
For writin' deathless lines of verse

Screw 'em all is what I say
I don't need no muses any day
To tell me where the good words lay

Why listen to the Greeks; I'm Irish
Blessed with the gift of blarney
Come straight from the stone to me

I'll not climb Parnassus's heights
To commune with any ancient muses
I'll find my poetic words myself

With verses skipping rhyme or reason
Nonsense stuff penned purely for my amusement
I'll darn well please myself without a muse

________

This one is an oldie that I resurrected.



A-muse-ing Pals
by GC. Smith

I am surrounded with my pals
They help me think to write
They silently encourage me
And help me find the words

First is my Teddy bear
With lotsa soft brown hair
And a great big pink tongue
With which to lick at honey

Then there’s Spike, my doggy
Spotted black and white
You better treat him nice
Or he will bite your ass

After Spike is my gargoyle
Who sits atop my desk
Watches carefully over me
My humpback friend for sure

My raven is made of tin
But I know that he’s alive
That raven does inspire
Amusing Poe-tic muse is he

They are all my good pals
Who help me when I write
And if I didn’t have them
It would be a sadder life

When I finish with writing
I go and whirl in the tub
With yellow rubber ducky
Who’s been with me forever

Goodbye Joe
By GC Smith

Hank Williams in a Cadillac
Never made that Canton act
He lay down his head and died
Fans by the millions cried

Back seat of that Cadillac
Sure wasn't a heart attack
It was livin' wild, livin' fast
Shootin' up when he passed

Ole Hank he had his fill
Of lonely mansion on the hill
No jambalaya or crawfish pie
On the day he chose to die

Hank lived the honky-tonk life
Cheated some on his wife
Swilled quarts of brown liquor
OD on horse made it quicker

I was a kid, about fifteen
When old Hank quit the scene
Went to the devil that’s my bet
It's mine too says daughter Jet

So old Hank went away
Not to return another day
To row a pirogue on the Bayou
He tipped his Stetson and said bye you

Or maybe it was goodbye Joe
got a row to hoe, gotta go;
I’ll tell it straight, tell it level
I gotta go and meet the devil

So we lament that Hank passed on
We could not believe he was gone
That country songs he'd write no more
Old Hank's locked behind devil's door




Note: Nineteen hundred and fifty-three, country singer Hank Williams Sr., 29, died of a drug and alcohol overdose while en route to a concert date in Canton, Ohio.

Published in the Coyote's Den

Blackie
By GC SMITH

Going back some sixty years
I walk Blackie on his leash
That is until he saw the cat
Then all hell broke loose

I was a kid of just five years,
that dog weighed more than I
With the leash around my wrist
There is no way to get me free

Down I went onto my knees
As Blackie chased that cat
I bounced behind Blackie's tail
Ker-bump, ker-thwack, like that

The cat went racing up a tree
Blackie slid to a full stop
To whine and howl at being foiled
While me, I howled with pain

I was skinned from head to toe
My clothes were ripped to shreds
I got untangled from the leash
And turned and ran toward home

Painted up with Mercurochrome
I licked on a chocolate ice cream cone
While sitting on the porch to wait
For old Blackie to come home

'cause you see, I didn't blame him
For doing what a dog must do
When tempted by a kitty cat
I'd chase it, wouldn't you?

Alt ending:

When tempted by a pussy
I'd chase it, wouldn't you?

published in Lamoille Lamantations

Louisiana from Flush Fiction Magazine, 2002

by Gerard C. Smith

dis ol' boy he hearin' wimmen tawkin' 'bout sumtin' they callin' flash fiction, an' dat get him confuse. dey tourist wimmen, come out onna de porch of the general store carry'n' dey co'colas an' tawkin' high falutin'. Dey be sayin' stuff dis boy ain't never hear befo'. I ask 'em, me, wat dey be talkin' 'bout. Dey say, lit-rature. a writin' style, dey say, kndna snotty like. me, I doan care no mo' ta unnerstan' what dey be talkin' an tellin' me 'bout so, i ain' lissnen' no mo'. Dat flash fiction soun' like showin' a pecker. flash fiction jess nonesense anyhow, i tink. so, i sip a lil' bit o' whiskey, me, an' i turn to think about sumpin' other than dat flash fiction stuff them wimmen be talkin'. i tink 'bout old times in la. what i maybee unnerstan, some, maybee.

n'orleans. spanish moss. catholics. st louis cathedral. artist stalls. mardigras. octoroon ball. tipitino's. coco & ialya. two sisters. k-paul. martini gazpacho. etouffee. cafe de monde. galatoire's. doctor john. tchoupitoulas. antoine's. fevre dream.

preservation hall. dixieland. barker at the door. marchin' saints. marie le-veau. nevilles chants. voodoo. tombs on top. bignet. hurricanes at pat's. whitey's pool rooom. earl long. blaze in dishabille. sweet honey dripper. fiyo. big easy.

salt smells. crawdad gumbo sno-cones. roe shrimp. file powder. tur-duk-en. deep fryd. cotton bolls. sugar cane. cottonmouth swimmin'. mississippi. paddle wheeler. atchafalya. spillway gate. pontchartrain. bayou. cajun folk. dancin'.

cypress knees. antebellum. cherry lips an' a flutterin' eyes. creole lady. cajun queen. flirty-girly. thibadioux. terrebonne. beaux bridge. mulate's. zydaco. mama got a squeeze box. cajun fiddle. new roads. false rivere.

fish pole. pirogue. parish. huey long. river road. feliciana. redbone. armadillo. carville. leprosarium. angola. convicts. road gang. shadows on the teche. evangeline. tabasco. salt domes. jambalaya. cookin' pot. squirrel stew.

roseate spoonbill inna salt flat. duck flight. fish warden. lafitte skiff. mud flat fingers inna delta. gulf waters. oil rig. alligator. nutria. ducks in vee. pump shotgun. cast net. fishpole. buck knife. cold jax beer. liv'n off de lan'.

lassier les bon temps roule. louisiana. magic. wonderland.

flash fiction? doan know 'bout dat. i ain' hearin' no more o' dat stuff, me.

WHITE LIGHTNING

I'm looking for a literary agent.

I am the author of a novel, WHITE LIGHTNING, a murder mystery set in the world of championship stock car racing. I've almost been successful in placing the book with several agents, but unfortunately not quite. Here, for example, is the text of a rejection letter I received yesterday.

Dear Mr. Smith:

Thank you for your submission, White Lightning. I thoroughly enjoyed reading your novel. It's paced well with great character development. I sat on it for a little while as I'd like to take it on, but I don't think I'll be able to find a good publisher for it. As you know, I'm representing a cozy NASCAR series and the feedback I've gotten on submission has been negative. There are already two publishers who have similar books coming out, and another has said that the NASCAR audience doesn't translate to books. I believe they are wrong, but because of the feedback, I am afraid I won't be able to find it the publisher it deserves.

Thank you for considering us. I do wish you the best fortune in placing this book.

Sincerely,

So, I'm close but no cigar. And I'm asking for help. Does anyone have any suggestions as to an agent who would be interested in representing my book? Any suggestions provided will be greatly appreciated.

Charlie
1905-1983
by GC SMITH

Charlie's gone these twenty-four years and
I still miss our infrequent get togethers;
just my old man and me chewing the rag,
solving problems, thinking' up new ones

He'd laugh aloud, blue eyes twinkling
and lay an index finger aside his nose,
nod, touch his lips, then say something wise;
his some things were things I was happy to hear

So, he's not here now and won't be again;
he was the first in the family to be cremated
and we carried him out back in a Quaker Oatmeal box,
dug a hole with a posthole digger and poured him in

Ashes to ashes done immediately with the flame
was the way he wanted it and so was how he got it;
then we all gathered together, family and friends,
tipped a few and told tales (no lies) about Charlie

Charlie's gone these twenty-four years
he isn’t coming back, but we'll follow one day,
meantime, I'm not about to forget a single moment
of the good old times my Dad and I had together

My apology. I accidently deleted my BLOG in its entirity. Here's a re-do.

Gone Mad
by GC SMITH

Who is to know which way is up
or, conversely, which way is down
in this world that's helter-skelter
miscombobulated the globe around

All is what not what it seems
even though you may read reams
of the discipline called logic
geared to prove comic isn't tragic

But dang, the Bard wrote topsy-turvy,
tragi-comic stuff so groovy
still current to the modern ear
but oft misinterperted, I fear

So what's today's poet to pen
that wasn't done as well then
back when chivilary was in flower
and fire breathin' dragons did glower

Maybe celebrate freedom's ring;
ah, but that bell has done got rung
no more will freedom at all be heard
because mankind corrupted that word

Alas, alack, I'm sorely put
to figure out what is what;
the world's confused, gone awry
and surely I do not know why

If I knew I'd try a fix
if for no reason but kicks
but I don't, my mind's empty;
vacant, a vacuum, lost to me

And you, do you have a clue,
about what mankind must do
to steer us all from there to here
so we won't have to rend our hair

I'd hazard me a guess
that even if you say yes
you'd not have the right prescription;
to right madness defies interdiction