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..

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

BY THE RIVER MERCED

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. 

 

It’s not the ride,

Nor  miles of desert,

That we travel to survive,

It’s my companions walking by my side,

And that Jackalope that darts from behind a cacti,

Aim of a rifle by my side,

Becomes a meal for my partner dog and I,

With heavens stars across night sky,  

The blanket of comfort we have tonight,

Planning the next days’ course,

Miles to travel across this divide,

For comfort when we reach that tide,

Of aspens there up in the tree line,

A cabin by a stream, we will survive,

This is the traverse we carry as we ride,

Up to the aspens there so high.   ©

MY EYES HAVE SEEN WYOMING ©

 My eyes have seen Wyoming,
And the hills that run thru it,
Buffalo the bison, Buffalo the town,
Cody stood so abound, bison hang around,
Hills out on the range, with Antelope to graze,
Antlers as radar antenna, scanning the heavens,
Sunlight refracts from an eye, a rainbow shoots,
High above Wyoming sky,  and then,
Devils Tower, high above the wild grass plain,
Stands guard over this a vast range,
Amber is the grains, that wave,
Eyes must catch it while the Eagle flies,
High aloft, with the hills around,
I have traveled this land,
Across Wyoming’s high country sky.©

COWBOYS NEVER DIE

 

 

Cowboys never die,
For they gather,
At the end of January every year,
There they do go to ELKO,
Snowbound travelers',
Walking frozen Idaho street,
All together in song
Singing in coyote harmony,
To Riders in the Sky,
With dreams of being,
Celloid Cowboy Stars,
Up on the big screen,
And not, pulling calves,
On a Sunday eve,
Nor fixing some gate,
That a bull charged thru,
Nor blowing a tire on a dirt road,
Forty miles from town,
With supplies for the next month,
Oh, Riders, Sing to us this night,
We will be in our lament,
Cowboys up on the screen,
Where all are the star,
Shooting across Nevada's Sky,
As if it was the Fourth of July...©