Ah, warmth

Merry Christmas
by GC

I went North
I froze my ass
Now I'm back home
to Southern green grass
and warmth for my body

Christmas

Have a merry Christmas, you all.

Super review of White Lightning

5.0 out of 5 stars Great fun, September 23, 2011
By
Susan O'Neill (Andover, MA USA) - See all my reviews
(REAL NAME)

Amazon Verified Purchase(What's this?)

This review is from: White Lightning: Murder In The World Of Stock Car Racing (Volume 1) (Paperback)

I just finished the Kindle edition of White Lightning, and I'm impressed. G.C. Smith is quite the writer. And researcher: I don't know where he gets his information about NASCAR, the Carolina Low Country, or what a transvestite wears to hide his/her tell-tale bulge, but it all feels authentic and unforced.

This is a formulaic (no pun intended) tale about the hero-done-wrong who fights the corrupt good-ole-boy system to clear himself and a friend of murder charges by playing detective. But the writing sets it above the concept; it's skillful, wry and great fun to read, and moves the action along smartly. His characters are three-dimensional and enjoyable. And if the ending seems a bit too happy-ever-after, what the hell--it's NASCAR. Anything less would've been a disappointment.

The only complaint I have is my usual rant about self-published books: Smith needs an editor. The punctuation sometimes made me itch, and there are several typos that should have been cleaned up before this hit the stage. That said, even though I tend to get hung up on stuff like that, this was such a pleasure to read that missing commas and quote marks didn't throw me off my stride.

It's worth noting that if he'd published this with a big house--which should've happened--they would've done the editing.

Too bad. Their loss.

Susan O'Neill
Don't Mean Nothing

They would

Who?
By GC

Who would save the world?
zealots who have all answers

Those who would censor you and me
while loudly exclaiming love of freedom

Purveyors of political correctness
squelchers of the right to divergent opinion

The know-it-alls who brook no dissent
while cramming ideology down out ignorant throats

The self righteous flag waving, cross bearing keepers
of all that they consider inviolable while they violate you and me

Who would save the world?
the know-nothings who believe that they know all

And if they save the world
it will not be fit place for human habitat

See my new blog. The .99 cent E-book.

Yuuck!

On My Rhinitis
By GC

Nose drizzling
on a hot summer's day
Drip. Drip. Drip.
this is the song of the
Snufflegupolous
irritated by summer flora
and incessant heat haze
oh to to create a great
green hoccker
to spit across the creek
thus clearing my nasal passages
if only for an instant
if only for
that breifiest passage of time
until my head fills again
with phleghm

political theatre

The Commonweal Weeps
By GC

Ask any politician
left wing or right
They’ll shout out
fiscal responsibility

They talk a good game
play at political theater
then reality sets in
as calls from the lobbyists

Dire consequences await
if you close all our loopholes
dire consequences await
if you cut our entitlements

When push comes to shove
politicos all have constituents
who clamor for goodies
and there’s never enough

Rich folks and poor
have their oars in the water
and we folk in the middle
find ourselves up “Shit’s Creek”

Wake up

At Sunrise
By GC

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
I carry the weight of seven plus decades
and what I have done with that long time

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
I carry the weight of seven plus decades
and what I have not done in that long time

I don’t sleep the sleep of a child
mine are not the dreams of innocence
still I sleep pretty well for a wordly old guy
‘ cause my deeds/avoids have been mostly benign

I’m sure I won’t go to heaven
I’m sure I won’t go to hell
I don’t give credence to angels or devils
they’re myths, nothing more-nothing less

So you ask, why do I wake up early?
the answer to that question is easy to tell
it’s a mysterious world come each sunrise
and I think that living with mystery fits me well

Next book

THE CARBON STEEL CARESS
By GC

It’s an edgy serial killer--P.I. novel
its stropped blade carbon steel
an antique straight razor
weilded by a psycopath
assisted by his wife
altogether nasty
not nice

Coming soon
from Century Oak Press

Failure

No Can Do
By GC

I can frame a house
install floors
mud drywall
pull wires
fix a leak
cut trim
build cabinetry
repair a tractor
write a novel
pen a poem
captain a boat
throw a shrimp net
gig a flounder
trap a crab
cook a meal
stand up for me
charm a woman
but try as may
I cannot
play music
or make
a sock puppet

I’ve tried
I’ve failed

Hurricane

It Ain't The Storms
By GC SMITH

It's barreling down upon us once again.
What's that you say, hurricane season?
Yeah, that dread time from June to November
for the Caribbean, Gulf coast and Atlantic seaboard

Forecasters say they have a brand new model
driven by a supercomputer's lightning calculations
to pinpoint where and when and just how hard
the storm will hit and what devastation it might leave behind.

The guy's in the colleges say it's gonna be an active season
but they said the same last year and they where dead wrong.
Meantime after about forty-five years without a single claim
my bloated Insurance company makes certain to screw me.

pollution

The Susquehanna at Wyoming Valley
By GC

From the bridge
I bounced a carrot stub
off a four foot carp’s head
poor sluggish thing was all but dead
from swimming in the sulphur fouled river
in Pennsylvania’s anthracite region, circa nineteen-fifty

Celebrate

TODAY

For Independence Day
July 4, 2011
By GC SMITH

America, America
we once were
proud of you;
you shined
a beacon
for the world
to see,
people
flocked
to you

Your light was
that of liberty,
opportunity,
of embracing
disparate peoples;
you looked for truth
for better ways
for all of us
to live

Oh yeah.
there were the warts
the stops and starts
the imperfections
the injustices,
but
through the years
from founding days
till recently
you always
tried to
do much
better



But now,
You’re sadly,
badly worn,
you seem to have
lost your way;
but
I still hope
it’s temporary,
will we
soon see a
new born
better
day?

Perhaps
we will.
I hope
we do.

Do you?



JULY 4

Yum

Lowcountry Vittles
By GC

My purlieu
the SC estuarine
lowcountry
has heat,
humidity,
gators,
voodoo
lazy days,
sultry nights
and it ain’t
complete
without Perloo
a shrimp and oyster
one pot
delight


Here tis:

ONE POT SHRIMP AND OYSTER PERLOO

Several tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil for sauteing

Country ham chopped, 1 lb.
Smoked sausage or kielbasa, 1 pound cut ¼ inch
2-3 large onions
2-3 bell peppers, chopped
Several peeled, seeded, chopped ‘maters
Bunch of parsley
A bit of thyme (tsp)
Some cayenne (1/2 tsp, maybe more)
Tabasco (several shakes)
Freshly ground blacl pepper
6 garlic cloves
Cup and a half of long grain rice
Cup of chicken broth
Three dozen oysters, shucked
Reserve the oyster liquor
Two pounds of large shrimp, peeled
Bunch of scallions, chopped

Use a big heavy pot. Heat olive oil. Saute ham and sausage till lightly browned. Add onions and peppers, spices and parsley. Cook about ten minutes, stirring now and then. Add tomatos and garlic and cook ten more minutes, or until it thickens some. Stir in rice, chicken broth, oyster liquor. Bring to a boil and then simmer until rice is cooked. Stir in shrimp and oysters. Cover and cook about ten more minutes. Serve in shallow bowls and dress with chopped scallions.

Tabasco on the table. Cold beer. Crusty French bread for dipping.

Tipple

Non-sustaining
(or Bukowski's Lament)
By GC

John Jamison’s
swear by it
James Dickel
swear by it
Crown Royal
swear by it
JTS Brown
swear by it
gout,
shakes,
shits,
palpatations
swear at them

Chow time

Feelin’ Neglected
by GC

Get yourself
some
comfort food
meatloaf, gravy
mashed potatos

Get yourself
some
comfort food
shrimp and grits
in demiglace

Get yourself
some
comfort food
pasta fazoole
crusty bread

Get yourself
some
comfort food
rich buttery
pound cake

Get yourself
some
comfort food
bananna split
with a cherry

Get yourself
some
comfort food
Indulge
Don’t get on a scale

Ashes to ...

I think this is a hoot.

“In 1828 A man sat alone in a hofbrauhaus in Vienna, Austria. He drank for many hours and satiated, stumbled from the place. He staggered into a graveyard and fell down on a grave, his ear pressed to the ground. And he heard wonderful music. Not sure what was going on he sobered some and got up and read the headstone.

It read:

LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN
1770-1827


Both amazed and somewhat confused he went to hid friend the Mayor’s home and told the story.

The Mayor returned with the man to the graveyard. Sure enough he also heard the music. But neither could identify it. So the went to a musicologist who listened and said it’s Beethoven’s ninth, but backwards. The musicologist was fascinated and got colleagues to come and listen, They all agreed but cited different symphonies being played backward. The seventh. The fifth. The second.

And then the cemetery caretaker showed up, “What are you people doing, he asked? You’re damaging the hallowed grounds, you’re littering, you’re trampling the grasses.

They explained. He said, but of course. I knew about that.

They asked, but the symphonies are backward.

“Of course,” said the caretaker. “He’s decomposing.””

~anon

Pop's Day

Dad
by GC SMITH

He was a plain spoken man, not a lot of education, very little money, influential only in a limited and immediate but most important way.

He wasn't a mover and a shaker, he didn't hold high office, his wasn't vast power.

He went to work every day, he provided, he came home each evening to wife and children.

His was a wisdom, uncommon wisdom and uncommonly good. He took care of the important things. He was a moral compass. Steadfast honesty, fairness, decency, the hallmarks of his being, were as natural to the man as walking.

I knew him well.
I knew him from the time of my birth.
I knew him until he left this earth three decades ago.

His name was Charlie.
A plain spoken man.

My friend.
My mentor.
My Dad.

I remember.

Beat

SOC It To You
by GC


I was there
now here
come-go
who knows
where to
when
then
how
where
that way
what
the duece
why
don't know
don't care
a whit
do you

WHITE LIGHTNING

I won't get rich, but I'm coming up on 1000 copies. I'm pleased.

Hot!!!!

Umbrageous Sanctuary
By GC

Ninety-eight on the Lowbottom links
it’s whack the ball and hunt for shade
screw off the cap from your Gator Aide
‘cause for heat like this we wasn’t made

It’ don’t matter none it’s hot as hell
and we ain’t got a deep water well
cause we’re smashin’ the ball and all is swell
out here on the scorched Lowbottom links

It’s all about golf and playin’ some skins
tellin’ lies with the guys ‘bout alla our sins
so Hades hot or not it’s a bunch of frien’s
communin' with the golf Gods on the Lowbottom links

Usta be a pig farm these Lowbottom links
so when it rains the whole golf course stinks
‘cause years of pig poo mixed in the dirt
comes back to life causin’ one’s nose to hurt

So let us not bitch about this ungodly heat
‘cause it’s savin’ us from an awful treat
an olfactory assault that will leave us beat
out here on Sunday on the Lowbottom links

We can play in the sun and not be undone
so long as we seek us a shelter where we find one
and we’re more than happy it ain’t gonna rain
here in umbrageous comfort on the Lowbottom links

Cookin'

GC’s fried green tomatos.

Two Styles:

Basic

Slice green tomatos about a quarter inch thick. Fry them in bacon drippings. Make sure there’s enough fat in the pan to near cover them. When they get a brown edge and are cooked through drain in paper towels. Salt and pepper ‘em and eat ‘em.

Advanced

Whip up a couple of eggs with salt, pepper, garlic powder and drag quarter inch green tomato slices through the mixture. Dredge the egged slices in a prepared fish or chicken coating (I like Zaterain's) or a mixture of fine corn meal and white flower with some herbs and spices. Deep fry the green tomato slices in very hot peanut oil until golden brown. Drain on paper towels and serve with remoulade sauce.

Remolaude Sauce

2 cups of mayonnaise
2 tablespoons Creole mustard (or any piquant mustard)
1 small grated onion
3 goodly tablespoons prepared horseradish
2 tablespoons of catsup
a liddle salt
Juice of one lemon
A dollop of Worcestershire sauce
Several grinds of fresh black pepper
a bit of cayenne (quarter teaspoon)
a coupla shakes of Tabasco sauce

Mix ingredients well. Chill. Serve over deep fried green tomatos. It’s also good with cold shrimp, cold ham, or roast beef. Leftover sauce can be jarred and stored in the refrigerator.

Poof --gone

I Need A Notebook

I'm of Irish extraction and much given to words
with which I make magic, at least so I have heard

I sure hope that the readers of my poems will agree
but there are some of my poems that they'll never see

Poems that are lost, simply dissolved in the ether,
poems made of thoughts never put down on paper

Sometimes I make strophes that I should write down
but if I don't, then those verses are gone and I frown

Now, how in hell do I get my good stuff back,
it's a mystery to me, I fear it forever will be

Perhaps it's through the binary, boolean bits,
like yes/no, on/off, and simple one/two hits

They'll process the stuff that's run through my brain,
it's in there, yet, I'm not sure I'll find it again

'cause I'm sure not a computer, no, I'm flesh and bone
and if I don't put poems to paper then dammit they're gone

A Book

MAKING WHITE LIGHTNING
by
GC Smith

Making WHITE LIGHTNING takes a couple of bushels of corn, a hundred pounds or so of refined sugar, yeast, good spring water, a big old galvanized tub, an old car radiator, and fire.

No, seriously folks, the White :ightning that I'm talking about is a novel. A murder mystery set in the world of the National Association of Stock Car Racers (NASCAR). Better yet a murder mystery tied to big time competition, NASCAR's premiere racing.

NASCAR racing goes back to the late nineteen forties and booze looms large in NASCAR's history. Running illegal whiskey (white lightning) in souped up automobiles is at the root of American stock car racing, thus the title, WHITE LIGHTNING.

How does one come to write a novel about murder and stock car racing?

Well, first one beats his head against the wall writing two private eye novels that never sold. The books THE CARBON STEEL CARESS and IN GOOD FAITH got beaucoup reads and beaucoup rejections. Finally, a literary agent wrote to me and said -these are solid pieces of work and you know the craft, but.... Hmmm, another but. Another rejection. This time the agent said the problem was that an indescribable something that he couldn't put his finger on wasn't there.

Wow! What a rejection. Indescribable. Couldn't put his finger on it. It wasn't there. The guy had no idea what he was talking about and at the time neither did I. So I tossed the books in a drawer and did other things. Diversions. Designed a house and had it built for one. Subcontracted with the builder and did the trim carpentry and the painting myself. Bought a boat and went fishing and shrimping. Took my golf game to new levels of competence. Went into home remodeling. It was all fun. It all became boring. I wasn't writing a novel. I wanted to write. I believed I could write.

But what the agent said nagged.

“That indescribable something that wasn't there.“

I thought about it a lot and decided he was talking about the hook; the difference that makes the reader exclaim, viva la. The little thing that makes the protagonist, in my case the P.I. of my already written novels, stand out from those penned by other writers.

I started thinking about and looking for that hook. The more I thought the more frustrated I became. There were P.I. stories all over the place. Parker's guy Spencer was a body builder and a gourmet cook; Hillerman's heroes were American Indians, McDonald's Modesty Blaise was a lady (well sort of), and the other Macdonald's (John D.) Travis McGee was a beach bum. There was even a writer whos protagonist Nudger (How's that for a handle) had a perennially runny nose. Appetizing creature. There were homosexual protagonists, psychoanalyst protagonists, protagonists with one leg, cerebral protagonists, bumbling protagonists. You get the idea. There were so many protagonist "hooks". Hooks that had become so commonplace they no longer "hooked".

All manner of writers were scratching for something that would set their stuff above the run of the mill. The quest for the difference had become ridiculous. I was about to give up. But, something kept nagging; bringing me back to the agents indescribable something that he couldn't put his finger on that wasn't there.

I'm a writer. Addicted. A damn fool. I couldn't just put down the pen. So, I decided that I was going to write that book that had that "couldn't put a finger on indescribable something that wasn't there."

This book would have "it". "It" would be there. If a silent screen star could be the "it" girl then by damn my book would be the "it's there" book. The book would have the hook.

I harked back to trite old admonition -Write what you know. And since I don't know much of anything, finding the subject with that hook became easy. I'm an Economist by training and trade but, hell, the dismal science bores even me. I wasn't about to inflict my readers with that dreck. I'm an amateur carpenter but I have a friend who's written a series of successful mystery novels whose hook is a carpenter cum amateur detective. So, carpenter was out.

I kept scratching my head.

Aha!

I once helped build and fix racecars. Dragged hulks out of junkyards, patched them up, and put them on the Saturday night racetracks in small town Pennsylvania.
Race cars. Yeah. That was it. Stockcar racing mixed with skullduggery and murder. That was the ticket. There was my hook. That indescribable something that the agent couldn't put his finger on. Yep, there it was.
I had my subject. Skullduggery and murder. I had my setting. The world of NASCAR.

NASCAR racing as a setting for the story made sense to me because it was virgin territory. There were no contemporary murder mysteries written around stock car racing. And the fan base. It's enormous. Major race tracks seat several hundred thousand fans and the seats are always filled. What's more every town and city in the U.S.of A. has a bush league track feeding the fan base. What a hook! What a potential readership! Can any of them read?

All I needed were some characters to carry the story. And, hell, they were inventable. So I set about inventing.

Ezekiel Zechariah "E.Z." Carter. Protagonist. Ex-con. WHITE LIGHTNING race team manager. Wiseguy. Lover. Reluctant detective.

Adele "Addie' Southern. Blonde cutie pie. Owner of WHITE LIGHTNING INDUSTRIES. E.Z.'s boss. Mercurial (a woman). E.Z.'s love interest.

Fairman Slinger. WHITE Lightning's Winston Cup driver. Not the first black driver on the Winston Cup circuit but the pushiest, the most successful, and the biggest pain in the ass.

Robyn Slinger & Jessie Slinger. Wife and three year old child of Fairman Slinger. Murder victims.

Clayton Gidrey. Raceteam owner. Auto dealer. Badguy.

Sheriff Tyree Pye. Gidrey's partner in nefarious doings. Badguy number two.

Randall "Rabbit" Jenks, Lester "Weasel" Harral, The Christian twins, Martin and Maxwell. Supporting bad guys.

Wylie "the Coyote" Patterson. Drives for the Gidrey Winston Cup team. He's the racecar driver most competitive with Fairman Slinger and another murder victim. Patterson and Slinger have bad blood between them both on and off the racetrack.

And an assortment of other color characters, some fairly important to the story, others bit players.

Now, with a bunch of characters I needed more than the simple plot skeleton of skullduggery and murder. So I decided on a story with three sections (or books). I set the stage. E.Z is forced into a bar-fight, kills a guy in self defense and is railroaded into prison through incompetent counsel. Book one opens with E.Z. free of parole supervision and resuming a career in NASCAR racing. Book two deals with racing and murder. Book three with investigation, closure, and getting back to championship racing.

The guts of the story are that just as the WHITE LIGHTNING team becomes competitive, Slinger's wife is murdered as is the Winston Cup driver, Wylie Patterson. Suspicion falls on Slinger and, secondarily, on E.Z. for a number of reasons. A big one is that E.Z. has previously served time. Another reason may be that with Patterson out of the way the WHITE LIGHTNING team has possibly eliminated their prime competition. And, since E.Z. is an ex-con the cops are more interested in railroading him (and/or Slinger) than in solving the murders. Either way the WINSTON CUP dream would die.

So, to reiterate, here are the plot elements.

1. E.Z., a minor league raceteam manager, gets a shot at the bigtime.

2. Murder and suspicion that is beamed at E.Z. threaten to kill the dream. E.Z. is forced to become the detective.

3. All manner of obstacles thwart E.Z.'s investigation.

4. Perseverance and tenacity prevail. E.Z. brings the bad guys to the bar of justice.

5. We care, I hope, because it's a classic story of good prevailing. And, the characters are, again I hope, engaging.

The book bounces from the South Carolina Lowcountry to the NASCAR race circuit to the Bahamas and back to the race circuit. It's got intrigue. It's got suspense. It's got flirty girls. And it's got redemption.

I used racing history. I used racing technology. And I used the murder mystery plot line. And 322 pages later I had a book. It's published Buy it.

I believe that the book has that certain indescribable something that is there and that that anyone can put their finger on. The hook. Big time stock car racing. It's a fun read that was a fun write.

That's my recipe for making WHITE LIGHTNING

El Cheapo

Bargain:

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B004BDP3XQ ...

http://search.barnesandnoble.com/books/product.aspx?ean=2940012717566

99 cents

We meet them occasionally

Soul of Decency
by GC

I knew a guy
who mostly spent
most of his time
down and out

He didn't have
a pot to piss in
or a window to
toss it from

Same guy would
give the shirt
off his back
at a moment's need

He'd walk a mile
in your shoes
lending a hand
never complaining

Son of a gun was a Athiest.

Still here

Enraptured
By GC

Believe, believe
or you wont be rapt
you’ll be sore stuck
on terra firma

Raptured folks
not wrapped to tight
wish to ascend
unto the skies

It came, it went
the appointed hour
and left folks here
still standing

Oh well
Perhaps there will be
another time or place
for the great unrapping

A deal.

Bargain: White Lightning.

click Amazon

click Barnes ans Nobel



99 cents.

Of Time

Silvered Glass
by GC

Mirror, mirror
totes the years
reflects grizzled mien
tells the truth

Weathered dermis
thinned graying hair
paunch that yesterday
wasn't there

It's simply solved
that mirror's message
eschew vanity
stop looking

99 cents

Bargain: White Lightning.

click Amazon

click Barnes ans Nobel



99 cents.

Vittles

Travelin’ Shoes
By GC

My tongue
shouts out
to my sole
make tracks
hie yourself
to LT’s joint
for chitterlin’s
cornbread
collard greens
shrimp & grits
fried catfish,
yeah man,
soul food

Mother's Day

Apple Pie
By GC

Another Hallmark Holiday
honoring
the good, the bad
the ugly

Mother’s are people
deserving of love and honor
or in some cases
disdain

Happy Mother’s day
you good ones;
wallow in self pity
you others

Don't believe 'em

Stuff Will Happen (we don’t know what)
By GC

It’s gonna work out
no matter the doomsayers
remember Malthus,
he had us all starving

It’s gonna work out
no matter the doomsayers
last century’s prediction,
“we’d drown in a sea of horseshit”

It’s gonna work out
no matter the doomsayers;
once saved by the combustion engine
current prediction: “ it’ll cause our demise”

Pay them little attention
dire predictions just don’t work out
we can only guess mankind’s future
and so far doomsayers have been dead wrong

Nutcase

Multitasker
By GC

Crackpot
polyglot
spoke
in tongues
even he
misunderstood

Crackpot
polyglot
fought
with himself
wreaking havoc
in his head

Crackpot
polyglot
couldn’t
contain himself;
listened to
the voices

Crackpot
polyglot
ended up
on a city
sidewalk,
babbling

Up there

Head Game
by GC

There’s a tangle of brain
crammed up there in my bean
computer like neurons
click on and off
recording the input
making sense of it all
there are sponges to sop up
everything I might hear and a
hard drive to keep it year after year
it’s a big mess of grey stuff
a wild whacky wilderness
stuck between my ears

Flood

Water, water every...
by GC

Spring of seventy two
water three feet into
the second story of
Mom and Dad’s place
made a real mess

The remmnants of
hurricane Agnes stalled
in New York State melted
mountain snow filled
the Susquehanna, flooded valleys

Furniture was tossed
to the curb, floors
warped and buckled,
walls had to be torn out
-- mother nature erased lifetimes

When Dad came back
to rescue Kim the cat,
he surveyed the scene and
muttered that he came in to the world
bare assed, he was going out the same way

Bye!

You Ran Back To Momma
by GC

Now that you're gone
I get to
drink all the beer

Now that you're gone
I get to
laze in mt sweats

Now that you're gone
I get to
fart when I please

Now that you're gone
I get to
leave the seat up

Buck Owens said it best
"thank God and Greyhound
you're gone."

WOOSH!

WOOSH
by GC

I fear the flush
it might pass me away
like a turd in a vortex
on it's way

I fear the flush
it might pass me away
it's my atavistic copralithic
fear

I fear the flush
it might pass me away
so I make it a point
to poo in the woods, Like a bear

Tonight

Platinum
by GC

Platinum
is the color
I remember
of the last
perigee moon

Light shone
down upon our earth
like a stage spot
highlighting, emphasizing,
madness run amok

Lunars
danced and howled
that night
I suppose
they will again tonight

Sane folk may sing,
"by the light of the silvery moon,"
but know, it's a platinum shine
(hard, brittle, piercing)
infecting the susceptible

I won't go on forever.

Eulogy

Someday I'm gonna move on and I won't want an eulogy.
But an epitaph might be nice.


No Eulogy -- Epitaph

After a morning martini
in the Bonaventure cemetery,
Savannah, Georgia
near Johnny Mercer's gravesite
I saw an other guy's epitaph

Engraved on
the man's tombstone:

CONRAD AIKEN
COSMIC WANDERER

Those words certainly appeal
but damn all they've been taken
so I'll simply settle for
the plain and more mundane

GERARD C. SMITH
1938-20??

He Came; He Went
He Did No Harm

Trippin' the light...

How To Dance With A Bad Dancer
by GC

Maybe
horizontally

Who we are

Nothing ventured, ...
by GC

We enter life bare assed
with nothing but a name
it's something worth protecting
it's nothing to defame

A deal is a deal
we seal it with our name
and never should we double cross
or life's worse than a zero-sum game

Let 'em know upfront
that you can do the deal
or if by chance you can't do it
let 'em know you won't

We don't have much of value
but out names are treasure chests
and if we're careful how we use them
we'll find that route is best

It's trust not wealth or fame
that you want attached to your name
you can earn that trust
if you eschew a decietful game

So use you name most carefully
always do what you say you'll will
dont trim when doing a deal
'cause your good name is your seal

casual

Lowcountry SC Threads
By GC Smith

Clothes that I wear
are to cover my skin
they sure ain’t for
makin’ a statement

They’re old and worn
like my Tilley hat
that gives me the mien
of a poacher

Ripped old khaki shorts,
beer slogan tee shirts
and holey deck shoes
make up the rest of my stuff

Though my threads ain’t fine
i drink good red wine
with crabs, fish, and shrimp
that i catch and i cook

I tell giant tall tales
bout fish big as whales
that i hooked and
i ate yesterday

Ain’t no need for a suit
and no need for a tie
to tell tales with good friends
who lie just as good as i do

They're back

Circles and Cycles
by GC

Each fall
fish eagles
fly off
to winter
in Brazil

Come spring
Osperys return
to refill
empty nests
with babies

Summer Gal

The Fire
By GC Smith

"caliente ...ohhhhh...laaaaa..."

My fire burns
consuming all
and she is hot
my summer gal
au natural

wantin' all
but she cannot know
if my flame is more than show
or if I might stay long with her
enamoured with her vigor

But, chill comes on
with winter moon
a harsh wind
freezes and forstalls
consummation

It chills out all summer’s fire
banking flames
causing a hiatus
in touch
til chill is done

Starved now for warmth
near dead
when suddenly
daffodil poke up
yellow blossom cheering
telling what will come
teasing, playing
summoning
lost touches

know now she is hot
reincarnate
fingers caress enflamed skin
summer's come again
time for fun
and sin

Afire
we are consumed

It's how I live

Regrets
by GC

How can I have
regrets
when I live in
Paradise

Morning light reveals
the saltmarsh
high tide or low tide
always facinating

Sundowns are spetacular
winter evenings painting
Maxwell Parrish hues
on western skies

Egrets argue CRAAACK-CROAAAK
over silvery fry
when abundance indicates
no need for squabbles

Osprey soar the skies
fish firmly gripped
in talons,
dinner for fledglings

Otter and mink
frolick in marshtide
rabbit, raccoon, and even rat
make home in the tidelands

Terra firma has majestic live oak,
spanish moss, loblolly pine
all manner of flora
and critters, lots of critters

Snakes slither
lizards scurry
tending their work
controlling vermin and insects

The deer were here
before we came
so annoying or not
it is also their home

I paid some dues
before I got here
a bureaucrat from age 21 to 55
dealing with, putting up with, politicians/idiots

All that has changed
with moving to the Lowcountry
where I live as I please
one day at a time

Now, how can I have
regrets
when I live in
Paradise

Intrusions

Late at Night
by GC

Late at night
when all should be quiet
I wake up to
rain strained kidneys

Late at night
when all should be quiet
my lover snores
like an unmuffled diesel engine

Late at night
when all should be quiet
a raccoon tips
the garbage can

Late at night
when all should be quiet
two herons horsely croak
while squabbling out in the marsh

Late at night
when all should be quiet
I wake up --get up
and curse the din

lil' extra

Lagniappe
by GC

Sweet cinnamon rolls
buttermilk biscuits
lard gravy
boudin sausage
andouille
chicken livers
fried sac-o-lait fillets
free range eggs
streaky bacon
I'll have 'em all
for breakfast
mos' o'
two weeks runnin'
if you'll give me
a baker's dozen

Wheels

Rollin' Foundation
by GC

The house is
rockin', rickety-rack,
whole thing's sufferin'
a termite attack

It might fall down
it mght colapse
so I'm gonna get me
a set of wheels

Rollin' wheels under
a class A mobile home
cause bugs, they won't eat
rubber and steel

Gonna get me a home
with which to roam
that'll be my treat
that the critters can't eat

Gonna hit the road
just like John and Charlie
with my bug proof home
and my wanderlust

I won't come back
i'll keep keeping on
travlin' life's highways
and all the side road byways

limrick

Monty Python
By GC Smith

A python known simply as Monty
Thought his ecdysiast mistress tres naughty
So he wrapped her in whorls
Squeezed from toes to her curls
And then swallowed her whole
That’s full Monty

fingernail

Carpentry
by GC

Ouch!
Damn hammer.

Murder, Race Cars, Racy Women, Tough Guys

WHITE LIGHTNING IS A FUN READ. GET IT HERE: Click here

Mollusks and Moonshine

It's an Oyster Roast Tonight
by GC

Gonna have us beaucoup
cold ones, and a snort of shine
for washing down
the roasted mollusks
and the chili
and the Nathan's hot dogs

I'm goin' out
in a few minutes
to string the lights
set up the
sawhorse tables
and get the cooker fired up

We'll have a hundred folks or so
all gathered round
a bonfire
we'll tip our bottles back
to celebrate no need to go
out on the town

What lurks

Doors
By GC SMITH

Doors open up for you or me
to simply walk on through
and what is found behind those doors
might delight or frighten both of us
but either way we cannot know
until, unless, we take the walk to find
what waits beyond closed doors.

It is a mess, humanity, that bunches
up behind those doors, babbling,
incoherencies that reach most ears
as shouts, debates, loud arguments,
that may not (or may) make sense.
Stuff that comes from everywhere
and nowhere so that confusion rules.

Can one think ceaseless babble
could ever bear worthwhile fruit?
Perhaps so as progress buried is later found
amidst the dross and though we're most often
caught behind locked doors, assaulted by the din,
there are those precious times when despite confusion
the wise prevail and man's best work gets done.

<------ << St. Valentine >>------>

Time Flies
by GC

I'd be a liar
if I told her
she was never
lovelier
than she is
today
and we'd both
know it

We've been together
for fifty one years now
married for forty nine,
a lot of water
has spilled
over the dam
in intervening years

I'd tell the truth
if I told her
that I never loved
her more
than I do today
and we'd both know
that is
no lie

The kids
are grown and gone
and we
--we
share the fruits
of our time together;
there is no way
that we
could have it
better

So, as I think
again
about our time
together
I reconsider
and I know
for certain sure
that she
was never lovelier
than she is today
and that is
simple truth

Humid clime

LOUISIANA

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

Sample the book, read the reviews

Oh yeah!

Impulse of the day
by GC

Again,
upon awakening
I realized
my heart still
beats

Duh!

Scatterbrain
by GC

Dumb as a rock
never knows what he wants
nor how to get there
should he garner a clue

Dumb as a rock
he's neither here nor there
but stuck somewhere between
a hardplace and a stone

Dumb as a rock
he screwed up again
putting left on the right
leaving right far behind

Dumb as a rock
never prepared
he takes life as it comes
and it frequently goes

He'll not get ahead
'cause his head's up his ...
stuck there in darkness
not to see light of day

Damn Chicken's Back

Cacciatori
by GC

Chicken
and 'shrooms
in a red sauce,
a spicy repast,
and that last
series of
BURPs!
brought it
all back
again

Gone awry

It's dark in here
by GC

Somewhere, some how
we got it wrong

Two point four million
schizophrenics wander the streets

They fear the voices
they fear their urges

They're alone,
compelled to darkest deeds

We go about our daily routines
ignoring anguished cries from city streets

Then, horror of horrors
bullets fly – innocents die

Where are we as a Nation
have we abandoned rationality

We should be a society bathed in light
but, it sure is dark in here

Brrrrrr!

Bad Latitudinal Attitude
by GC

Colder than
brass monkeys;
witches tits;
the fringe around
a polar bear's bottom

Shakin' like an Aspen
in the Colorado rockies;
shakin' like a pup
shittin'
a peach pit

this ain't the South
I bargained for,
no siree, it ain't
an' I ain't
pleased

Some of the people, some of ....

Illusion
by GC

Who, if not me
is the one to be
the leader of the pack
the brains behind the deal
the guiding hand upon the wheel

Who, if not he
is who you all see
as an ego big as a house
with brain small as a mouse
that leads him to believe himself

Other Self

Who Is Me
By Bruno *

The woods are my domain
where I cavort and gambol
on spring and summer days
that’s me, my other self

Looking for the honey pot
takes up my waking hours
and when I find the honey
I sure enjoy myself

That other me, the bear
stakes out his territory
leaving little lumps behind
signature of who I be

When winter’s winds
chill this fuzzy bear
i burrow into my den
other self snug and warm

Then it’s deep loud snores
all the chill winter through
till spring comes once again
to release my other self


* aka: Jerry, GC, Gerard C

Barely Poetry

Because I'm a Bear In a Person Suit
by GC

I'm procribed from shitting the woods
which is something that the Pope can do
but not proper for a well mannered bear

I'm not allowed to slurp away at the honey
or tear into raw fish flesh or blood red meat
Must I use Emily Post manners and dab with a linen napkin

I cannot burp or fart at will
I must lock me in with porclean fixtures
and wipe, and flush, and wash my paws

And when it comes to women folk
well, rutting, simply is not done
so I don't know how I'll get me some

I don't know about this proper life
why I must have sissy citified manners
'cause person suit ot not I'm still a bear