milking tribute to Ole Joe Hennigan

PIG MILK CHEESE AND BAGELS


Pig-milk-cheese (well fermented) is most excellent when served on a true bagel...a sow does not give out much milk, about 4 ounces a day per sow. It is most difficult to milk one, a very labor intensive job...

Most efficient if utilizing children under the age of 3 to milk the sows, their hands are just the right size...I employed 200 under 3 years of age "domestic workers" to complete this job... the draw back is often they will fall asleep or crawl down by the sow and nurse.

This requires a very strong willed manager, who walks by using a riding crop to keep the hired workers at their highest productivity....I defer upon the suggest of milking AR Kansas Razorbacks, they often damage the workers with their teeth...I was wet nursed on a piney woods sow, thus, is the source of my great intellect.

Old Joe Hennigan, {(I was blessed to talk to Joe just after Franks passing, and reflected to him about how in the 8th grade someone had placed a tack in Franks chair during the lunch period…(not me)…

To see (big rear end) Frank rise was a sight to behold…a time when schools were safe both for the teachers and the students)}…Joe taught me Algebra at Fields/Hyatt, had the ability to spin…one was about how to milk a Poland China…take a milking stool and a tea cup…This memory has been embedded until this composition…To free the mind, is thus the most liberating experience one can experience…

A Short Tale of Geo, Hyper and Parallel

A short tale of Geo, Hyper, and Parallel
and how they attempted to fool Euclid, and Descartes,
by sneaking off from school and across its yard

Once upon a late Spring Evening,
the classroom suddenly seemed vacated,
Euclid was up at the board,
talking about this and that,
turning around, discovering his best was a miss,
he turned seeing that Calculus,
was dozing on the back row,
notorious for being an instigator,
yet, he was there.

Euclid called for the truant officer,
sending him to look,
with him finding the trio,
down by the duck pond.
He thus asked of Geo,
why he was not in school,
Geo me try,
he did reply,
queried of Parallel,
oh, do you want me,
to hand you a line,
last was Hyper,
with the look of his eyes,
the officer knew he was in space.

By the neck,
the trio was hauled to old Descartes,
the principal and who had the rule,
saying to Geo Me try,
next speaking,
about Parallel Lines,
seeing that Hyper
was in space,
time was a waste.

Where ever we go in life,
we will encounter this trio,
Geo Me try,
Parallel Lines,
and Hyper Space,
they will always play with our minds,
thanks to Ms Stein and her roses,
we still can rhyme.

Goin' Teaux Grandma's for Christmas

Goin Teaux Grandmas for Christmas

The year was '48,
aheadin' to Grandmas for Christmas,
drivin' through the woods,
passin' those giant pines,
crossin' so many streams,
mama called them out,
all along that route,
here's the Atachafayla,
and then the wide Mississippi,
names, we could not speak,
words that made our tounges twist,
then she cried here's Puschatap creek,
her excitement showed in her cheeks,
children, we close to mama's,
oh, how it seemed it been a week.
for in a '42 Ford to Grandma's,
and how papa did drive.

Oh how our head was full of treats,
that only grandma could spread,
crossin the Huey P Long bridge,
papa sounded like a preacher,
at a piney woods pulpit,
just a talkin' about that savior,
ole Huey P, and did he speak,
mama exclaiming to papa,
lets save that sermon for next week.

There in Red Baton town,
hitting the streets,
we stopped to take a peek,
there was no time to spend,
we were herded again,
we are not piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
still mama shoved us it seems,
back into that '42 Ford,
and onto US 190,
Eastward to grandma's,
there,we were bound.

Racing through the picket gate,
like a herd of piney woods cattle,
wild upon the range,
running about myrtle bush,
racing up the steps,
and there stood grandpa,
upon the front stoop,
he looked so grand,
grandma's house was smellin,
the goose was acookin,
she had bowls of sweet tators,
for us to peel,
if we were to eat,
ole grandma had a deal,
we had to earn our keep.

Don't make a mess,
if you want to partake,
of this Christmas feast,
with smell of bake goose,
deep dark and sweet,
sat that pecan pie,
of Grandpa Lowe's Thanksgivings pecans,
that Grandpa had shelled,
be bragged, for over a week,
and did Grandma cook,
she was part Fornea,
loved passin' chicory coffee round,
is there more to say,
all her eating,
placed so gracefully,
upon that table round,
with her cornbread dressing,
would we make a mess,
no, not for Grandma's tables spread.

Uncle Charles and Uncle James,
gifts they did bring,
for they had just returned,
from that foreign war,
being proud of their service,
we greeted them on the porch,
with screams of excitement,
and of treasured joy,
this we could not control,
we were mere children,
with so much to behold.

After endless hours,
to us children it did seem,
we finally set upon cane woven chairs,
and how did ours eyes feast,
for this was a true spread,
Grandpa's head started to bow,
our hands settled down,
for we were no longer wild cattle,
we wanted to eat of this feast,
as grace was given,
seems like an hour,
as our taste buds quivered,
to savor on this feast.

Oh, for once again,
to travel to Grandma's,
this would be a joy,
as Grandma now,
sings in heavens choir,
instead, it's these memories,
precious and priceless in name,
ever so thankful,
of those whose table awaited,
for a herd of piney woods cattle,
to partake of this holiday feast,
everlasting memories of childhood,
these,will never cease.









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To Race Again In The Wind

It is attributed to Shaw,
that youth was wasted on the young,
to which, I have often replied,
that beauty was wasted upon women,
and can life ever give comfort,
before that final pause.

As we have seem to be idle,
youth has sped past us,
ever so swiftly,
racing like wild horses,
there in the desert wsnd,
leaving us stranded,
in a blowing sand storm,
blinded and wandering aimlessly,
as they raced, so far ahead,
clear out of our sight.

To grieve that those years,
which have long ceased to be,
departed, and we wish now,
that they could be enjoyed,
we can reflect on those good moments,
that has to be the cause,
the purpose of our wandering,
in this endless desert of life.

Alas, another flashed has gone by,
as a lighting bolt scatters,
the darkness that enveloped the night,
so quick, and with no remorse,
to see the young colts,
there racing in the Summers storm,
with trails of dust,
laughing and singing up a storm,
this, is the purpose,
of this aimless wandering,
that we have endured in our life,
race youth, race into the far distance,
our joy, is but to see the storm,
of dust that develops in your trail.

The Chant of O'Homa

How long must we walk,
this path to the sea,
tears have been
shed about our tired feet,
as promisses given,
that our journey will deliver,
us to a land of fertile valleys,
and rivers of many waters,
flowing to the sea.

O'Homa, O'Homa, we were told,
that seeds of abudance
to which we will sow,
and harvest maise and roses,
gold and red, colors do flow,
our tribal banner flies,
a reminder of those lives expired,
on this journey,and souls delivered,
promisses taken, not given,
upon barren land we are delivered,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
O'Homa, O'Homa,
this is the land is our chant.

Spikes Cemetary 9/6.08

As thoughts ramble thru this ancient Sabine forest,
Of Hickory, Oak and Pine,
As kin and neighbors of long ago,
Gather upon this hallow ground,
Stories transpire over cups of coffee boiled,
Filtered thru Grandpa's last sock,
Worn thing with age, as his skin roughen,
From years spent in mule's paths,
A teamster with his team,
Harvesting Pine and Blackjack Oak,
Stopping only to fill his pockets,
With morsels of Hickory Nuts,
For our youthful tongues,
To tingle our senses of life's abundant wonder.

We this day are gathered round this communal fire,
Feeding upon someone's homemake cake,
It is of this feast we do partake,
Where once by an ancient sea,
A multitude was fed upon loaves and fishes,
Ever so grateful of this sacrifice,
This lamb, given, to give us solace,
We sit, ramble round as this Sept wind,
Whistles thru the tall pines,
Whose straws flutter and spiral down,
From the crown, as wings of quail,
Rustle from the Dogwood,
As the lamb ascends,
We, stand upon hallow ground.

Stardust Motel in Vegas !!!

Roper The Cowdog
The worlds best lookin cow dog...(Blue Heeler)...I fell into love with a beagle, followed her for three days...that mean ole cowboy took me to the doctor and took away my pride and joy...at least I did have that 8 second ride...

like a good cowboy, I put on my new Tony Lamas and then I hit the road, left her at the motel with a note, and a trophy buckle I bought from a pawn shop in Los Wages, (this she does not need to know) she was sound asleep in her dreams, and just did not want to awake her.

heard it at the VA...

Jamb'alaya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
who came and smoke wildwood flowers,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
way past the midnight hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
then in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down the Atachafayla.

Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
on the front porch, she did dance,
then layed in bed,
she sucked dem heads, by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
she took their money, called them "honey",
she got big and round,
loved going to town,
and fais do do way past the midnight hour
in the morning ran her traps,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.


Jamb'laya Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
dressed in style,went hog wild,
they gave her money,callin them honey,
them second cousins,to weak to walk,
couldn't even talk would leave her shack,
having fais do do, past the midnight hour.

Jamb,alaya, Crawfish pie, File gumbo,
Eleandor Fontenot lived on the bayou,
had many visitors, most second cousins,
they came and smoked her wildwood flower,
then ate Bertrands gumbo,
and made love by the hour,
she dressed in style, went hog wild,
took their money, call them "honey",
she got big and round,
ran her traps before going to town,
and poled her Piroque,down The Atachafayla.

Lisa of the Mustang

The screendoor slammed,
she gave her "mother",
her parting words,
I'm tired of these geldings,
I leaving to where,
buckaroos walk amid the sage,
and wild stallions stories are told,
its time that I depart,
having a life of my own,
away from these geldings,
to be among the sage and stallions,
it is there where I want to roam.

The road took her eastward,
thumbing truckers for a short ride,
traveling towards Winnemucca,
having heard stories,
in the trade of wild stallions,
and buckaroos among the sage,
there by the side of the road,
two long days of bad rides,
some were near suicide,
she was left at Junction.


Outside the Junction stop,
time comes to roll the dice,
with a toss in the desert sand,
is it to be Snake eyes,
or a combo pair,
choices of Elko or Los Wages,
with no winnings or even a spare,
snake eyes rolled,
and thus her road to Elko.

Knowing not what awaited her there,
amid the wild stallions,
and buckaroos who sat and composed,
these would be better she thought,
than the "geldings" she has known,
Yes, the money was good,
but with the 30 hits you,
its time for a secure roll,
and snake eyes ensured Elko.

Thumbing past Carlin,
and the gold mine in sight,
a long walk down Idaho Street,
Passing Stockmans and other places,
which she never knew,
on to the convention center,
this is where she was told to go,
and what a welcome she had,
as she walked in the door.

They invited her on the stage,
and all gathered around,
with intense ears,
the sage buckaroos who composed,
her stories were quickly told,
of her life with the geldings,
for now she was now on the road.

The road from Mustang,
was a difficult road to take,
and making it to Elko,
walking down Idaho street,
she realize that this venture,
was not a fatal mistake,
becoming a endured legend,
around campfire light all aglow,
her stories are nightly told,
with red embers and guitars,
of Lisa of the Mustang,
and her life on the road.