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STU BLUES ( for those that knew and loved Stu Blank)

What's about to unfold,   is not a story of a racehorse, who stumbled at the gate,   there at Delta Downs,  at Louisiana's border town, where the jockey,  left upon the ground, but is a series of events, all too much to behold, in a vin country tavern, up in Healdsburg, where a notable blues piano player,  in a bar not fully Irish, but Molly might give a lethal dose, to quote a poet, whose verse has been around, totally absent of a vanquilist tonight, and things thus was left ajar,  in this vin country bar, Stu sat at the keyboards to play, and in walked this,  this woman, who turned heads a she swayed, her walk would lead a sniper sight off its mark, the place was almost pitch dark, as she walked through the dim light, a raven in a field of crows, when Crown Royal could have been chose, could have this been the one who pecked at Poe's window that night,  ah, she was a tempest sight,  her name she spoke was Kerry Walker, a radiant star in the dim bar, she promade to the dance floor, dragging a hesitant Cajun from near the door, who finished his Old Crow asking the bartender for one more, before he hit the floor,  she wiggled like a snake, disrupted the musical set.

 ***Stu screaming I can't believe what I see from where I sat, when Kerry started to wail, a song of her forsaken, there in a southern delta town, while wiggling like a moccasin, a hanging from a cypress with all its toxin, Stu in his best composure played the blues while Kerry sang of this love, for long and lost, how a delta sheriff caught her man, stealing cars off the City of New Orleans as it stopped there in Naches, where the yard dog rested its guard,  still the bull hung around, he was busted roaring down Hwy 61 in a custom Shelby, with the odometer just pass 120 heading to Yazoo City, and without any warning, in walked Charlie blowin' his harmonica,  ah, tis was a blues thing, and Bowker was nowhere in sight, he will have to read the  story in the Independent,  late at night.

***From the harmonica sounds came a ghastly note, that only Charlie could provoke, and like a flash in the dark, Roy jumped from his terraplane, as it crashed through this sound, plugging in hs guitar, and the music started to town, with more sound than a Silver '52 Desoto could have ever evoked, with a full throttle heading down the delta plain,  all was going quite well, when in walked  the unabomber,  screaming this is some mess,  and my package will not leave any stress, when back of the room,  where two Mexicans were playing pool, a safe place for me to be on this night, to observe, and be all right,  one took his cue traveling through space like a rocket's glare, striking its mark,  obviously no believers could be found ths night in this vin crowd, when up jumped the Cajun with whose knife struck the unabomber vital parts.

***  Kerry unaware of the racket that about her ensued, swayed upon the floor, to Stu's rock me baby, rock me baby all night long, while Charlies harmonica continued its wail, as Roy roared up his 'plane' and drove like a manic across the unabombers brain, when one of the Mexicans shot out the lights,  and the crowd slithed like a chicken house snake, there upon this vin country floor,  'til nearly four, when the sherrif cme bursting thru the door, hauling off Stu, Roy and Charlie for the carnage at the door, the Cajun, Kerry and the Mexicans were not to be found, and the riot that followed leaves too much to tell, for the conclusion is to be written on the subway to hell... 

*** Unabomber was someone who hung about Cotati, and was questioned early 90's for being that 'famed', he was not *** Kerry was on FB, lost contact **** written at a placed called Molly's in Healdsburg, to see Stu and Charlie. one of those unforgettable nights..  


"G"  Masonic Code

we walk the ancestor trails,
where Asa and Jesse traveled,
bothers working and walking
knowing not how they got here,
but still, we travel them we must,
Cypress trees were tall,
Along the Anacoca,
They harvest them,
As this was the only employ,
That they  'breeds' could employ,
As the water runs into the Sabine,
And the logs raft down to Orange,
To be made into lumber,
A long has sunk, buried for a century,
Into the deep slow waters,
Harvested,  the end is savage,
Rests secured by a fire place,
With his brand on it  "G"
"G"... Masonic Code...


Thru Bluegrass Fields we Walked

We were walking,  
We were talking,
as young lovers do, 
thru these majestic fields, 
thinking of only love, which we knew, 
We heard Bluegrass coming from a cabin
Mandolines and Banjos ringing, 
We raced as young colts,
Up the hill, to the cabin
There we saw Uncle Pen
Sitting on the porch
With his banjo a ringing,
We danced upon the dirt ground,
While his hounds bayed their sound,
We were young lovers, 
Walking thru the meadow, 
Until we heard Bluegrass,
Until we heard Bluegrass. 



Le Blanc, Le Blanc,
I hear your voice,
It resounds through this grove,
And through its thinkness,
Across this field of corn
Fields of yams,
Fields of cane,
For I am but a farmer,
A servant to the land,
You tend to your cattle,
That graze upon the open land
Neath the tall loblolly pines,
That grace this majestic prairie,
That stands west of the grove,
And across the fields,
I hear the sweetness of your call,
Your cattle call, a ta ya, a ta ya,
Come a ta ya, a ta ya,
Here come a ta ya, a ta ya,
That only a French tongue can speak,
I hear the crack of your whip,
Braided of the finest leather,
By your great grandfather,
Who first brought cattle to this range,
As you drive your cattle,
Cross the hammocks,
That form the bottom land,
Of this Sabine land,
And through the Baygual, of hardwoods,
Here upon the open grassland,
You Le Blanc, are a tender of cattle,
Here in Acadie,  our home,
And I hear the sweetness of your call,
And the crack of that ancient whip,
A ta ya,  A ta ya,
Come a ta ya, here a come a ta ya,
Come you bovines,
Let's get through this grove,
To where the grass is sweet,
So I can get home to Lorrine,
Her supper is to be eat,
Come a ta ya, here come a ta ya..

written 1998, Santa Rosa, CA
published oct 27...17...


Stephanie Davis walked into the kitchen, and I followed like a Catahoula Hound, with Wilhem Matthews nipping at my heels,  he a hybrid Chihuahua, and it turns into a late night session with Rambin Jack,  this was before he was thrown from a wild Nevada bronc, somewhere outside of Winnemucca, and unable to buy either a horse nor a whore,  he sets out hitchhiking.

He flags down a ride with Kerouac and Guy Clark,  riding in the back of Guy's 49 Ford,  along with well worn tack and saddles,  that  Kerouac must have stolen from some Wyoming cowboy, or else they would not have been on the run,  with a dust trail following them thru the Ruby Mountains, they headed towards Wells or maybe it was Paradise, with this trey at stole.

One never knows,  still her voice makes me PINE O LA, thoughts  of jumping off La Fittte's Bridge,  I had to Crescent City,  she brags her brother knows of some good bars there.  When suddenly my mind recalls what Mike Beck had said about her performance up there in Montana several years back, saying to me she was a 'bitch', but still,  I stand here in the city  of Saint Francis, with a ticket in my hand here on Geary Blvd, waiting to hear the gurl from west of the Calcasieu that flows through sulphured air, so roll up your window Cher,  if you want to breath,  for you are in the land of those that walked the water, Marcia Ball and Gatemouth Brown,  and a long satiddy nite amid croaking bullfrogs and gars scanning the river banks.

(NOTE) ...written in  Santa Rosa, ca  1998... This was before I saw her at the Fillmore out on Geary, and did not know she had written about Lake Charles, and talked about the character jumping off a Lake Charles Bridge.. Amazing, we both had the same thoughts in our separate minds..

FACEBOOK.... roscoebeauregard..


huguenots ~~ Beaubeaux lineage to South Carolina, Union County/Cross Keys Plantation..

starting to get back on blogging on this poetry post..  Been very active on FB,  roscoebeauregard and twitter @ roscoe_beaubeaux as to my Beaubeaux lineage to the Huguenots.. ( have lineage to the Sartin's as well), just learned of the cross keys plantation in Union County South Carolina.. and its most reverent history...


Ode to Uncle Ellis

Tall are the pines,
They sway to summer winds,
Storms surely are brewing out on the gulf,
Thou, these oxen still have to carry,
Drive them to the tram,
Carried to the Sabine, to mill,
Pulling the cypress that has fallen,
Sawn by two half bred men,
Suriving off the land,
The only thing to do.

 T'is but the evening of the day,
Make it back to the farm, to stay,
Put the oxen in the yard,
Till tomorows new day,

Coming thru the pines,
Smell of the foods arises,
Mae Whitman kitchen pleases,
These are the joy of this life.

 Sky is starting to cloud up,
Rain is starting to fall,
Chances it will stay,
But to be about the comfort,
Of home fires, comfort of life,
Here in the Sabine Piney.. ©
( just learned that childhood friend, Jimmy O'Rear passed days ago )
James O'Rear (jimmy) 1943 ~ Jan 2015

Tall were the pines, on late summers breeze,
the would stand and sway,
as we played neath, these giants,
with teepees of fallen branches,
our fortress from fear, as we raced,
with our native, and Scotch-Irish blood,
down paths lined with Echinaeas and Crowfoot Violets,
thru the Dogwood Trees, we raced faster than
our piney ponies, for our lives did prevail.

We shimmed up tall pines,
there on the grounds of our school, Hyatt,
refusing to descend from our perches,
after recess, for we were in our towers,
rapture from the views that were our domain,
and upon Hickory trees we ascended,
early fall, chasing squirrels so we could gather,
these nuggets we cherished.

Persimmon trees, their harvest held in our hands,
savor their wild moist to our palate,
while there on the ground,
were the piney girls we knew,
and of course, Linda Jane Clark,
would make pucker faces as we threw,
her treasure to her, from our loft in the tree.
Her face mimicked displeasure of a green persimmon,
for we knew these golden drops were pleasure,
her lips were to send notice, that she wanted a kiss.

In Summers trot lines strung,
over Duetts Eddy water,
putting the boats into water at Canady Landing,
hours before daylight,
just ahead of LLoyd Smith, to beat him at his game,
for at Dreen Lake, Big Circle Lake held our lines,
bringing in Gasper goo, catfish and perch,
our nets and quills were filled,
from the waters we lived.

We were the ones,
who traveled upon horses,
those piney pones, that ran wild,
caught, bridled and saddled,
then our final ride at sunset,
down Old River Road, back home,
We watched the sun as it dipped,
below the tops of the pine tree tops,
as day has ended, reaching all eventually,
sleep, forever sleep...©

dances with gators publishing, starks la
"aka' cajunbob poet lariate
d'rev roscoe beauregard



From two distant plains,
Two birds did appear,
Gracefully they lit upon a dogwood branch,
There by a spring, which waters flowed,
Into the river Merced.

There upon this flowering branch,
Where they took their rest,
And in their loving Spanish tongue, they sang,
Their song rose above the rest,
There by the river Merced.

Their song was not of sorrows,
But sang of hope and light,
Their voices raised for justice,
There by the spring, which waters flowed,
Into the river Merced.

There to the waters edge,
Came a woman with a child,
Above her head a halo arose,
And upon a rock she did sat,
There by the river Merced.

Winter had ended upon the land,
The sky was filled with Springs new light,
And from the woman's eyes tears did flow,
There into the spring, which water flowed,
Into the river Merced.

There by the waters edge,
There upon a branch did they sat,
Two birds from distant plains,
Whose songs rose above the rest,
There by the river Merced.  ©

Visons of the White Buffalo

Under darken wings that are spread,
Here I ride across the land,
To answer the call sent,
From the lark that calls,
From the distant prairie,
Guidance by the spirit bird,
Protector of the land,
Across streams that race,
All on their journey to meet,
Their mother, the Mississippi,
Whose waters have for eternity,
Carried the lifeblood of the land,
Since the retreat of the glaciers,
Still, a few remain out of reach,
In high distant places,
Whose soil is the tundra,
As sensitive as a newborn child,
Protected by the spirits,
Of the passing stewards,
Under the guardian eye of the Eagle,
Whose wings I find my soul,
Carried neath, their majestic span,
Across this beautiful land.

Carried high above the clouds,
By this majestic spirit bird,
With visions that are yet understood,
My eyes see the prairies below,
Herds of the mighty bison that flow,
At their lead is the mightiest one,
Snow white in color,
And upon its back, I do see,
The surviving people of this land, 
The Crow, The Paiute, The Apache, 
The Navajo, and the Taos Pueblo, 
And all the other tribes,
Extinguished by the advent,
Of European civilization on this land,
Which came with the long rifle,
The mustang, and the painted horse,
And the long wagon trains,
The Conestoga wagons, at the rear,
Walked the belled Guernsey,
That rambled across unforged streams,
Whose wheels carried seeds,
Unknown to the native land,
And today, the offspring,
Have overtaken, the land,
And filling the roadside with,
White and yellow flowers,
Which few have come to understand.

Through the eyes of Black Elk,
And the other elders,
At council they do gather,
I see the White Buffalo,
And I hear him in his Lakota tongue,
Speak as I fly across this land,
Under the great wings of,
The mighty Eagles' span,
And I hear the prairie chicken,
In the native grass below,
We circle in grace before we land,
My soul is at peace,
My spirit is released,
To join in this ride,
Upon the back of the White Buffalo,
Across the ancient prairie of this land,
And to ride where,
The White Bison goes.