11/05/2017

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..  

11/04/2017


"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...

roscoebeauregard.blogspot.com

11/03/2017

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. 

10/27/2017



CRACKER LE BLANC

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...


A SONG FOR LUCINDA WILLIAMS


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..

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