Archive for March, 2012



 This post was written in honor of my son, Jesse, now serving 20 years in Federal Prison.

Written by Lee


In the heart of Allen Parish

Behind walls buttressed and grey

Beats the heart of a good son, and a better man

Peering from behind the throes of a humid cage

Keeping in temper a cryptic rage

Speaking with wisdom of old souls twice his age

There are scars of prejudice and the residue of hate

Raw emotions sewn from a raw deal

A mandatory seal of fate

Jesse remembers the date

 Had himself a room, he did, in the county hotel

fore tradin’ in some miles for a federal shell

A Louisiana kind of hell

It didn’t make no odds to him

Just made peace with the bayou heat

Burnin’ steady with a low Cajun fever

Made friends with folks who got no friends

And truce with the rival’s rank

Stews for hours in the galley for a burger and change

Battled iron pots hang hard over a long beaten range

Simmerin’ up a jailhouse etouffee

Maybe hijack some puddin’ for the end of the day

The Smokey Mountains visit nightly at rest

A three island cruise through April’s Conde Ne’st

Seven mile beach and a tropical rain

Sheer his study from the ubiquitous pain

But as the pages turn west, the spirit turns south

Cruisin’ almighty down a stretch named memory lane

Window down, electrified air

Calcasieu River lost long ago in a rearview stare

Past Georgia pines bowing gently in a ballerina pose

The needles shout a welcome deep from the whispering dome

Eyes locked in a thousand mile gaze to a town called home

 Where sweet peaches and sweeter tea

Mingle to a sentimental menagerie

Where catfish fry, sparrows fly, and dreams don’t die

Hazy days and lazy nights

It was a life, a good life, his life

Radiating with a teacher’s light and burning with a preacher’s flame

Quiet strength and Godly deeds

Where the spirit leads, brother

To the melodies on high

Where Celtics drummed on holy ground

Casting Crowns rocked a gospel sound

Hands out for the hopeless and abandoned he found

Fighting fire with fire

Standing tall with badge and gun

But ya can’t wish on a falling star that’s falling from grace

Less the laws of the father and of the son set now its place

So he settles in for the night with his roomie, Job

A patient one is he

Knows all about how Rome was built, you see

And damn it…it was built

Tells Jesse his journeys back lie never in vein

For the women scorned now raise mighty their Cain

Hearts once in their chests now beat on their sleeves

They are at war as to put him at peace

His mother doth summoning her slumber with faithful cries

Sprinkling the rose with tears from her eyes

Now be gone that which rides in with a heavy pall

Fearing not, she looks toward the skies

For as sure as this evening will fall

So to the delta son shall rise


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Fast Lane


I live my life in perpetual motion.  Seldom stopping or even slowing down.  Life at 70+ MPH.  Life in the Fast Lane.  The world outside goes by in a blur.  Houses and cars and people with lives and their own problems.  I just keep moving.  Every day, another place.  A new town.  New faces all in a blur.  That’s the way I like it.  No time to spare.  Gotta run, gotta go, gotta get there so I can go again.  Big wheels keep rolling, don’t ya know?  This pace, this lifestyle speaks to the runner in me.  That restless spirit that needs to feel the wind in my hair and those that get too close in my rearview mirror.  Can’t be slowed down or held too tight.  A week at home and off the road and I start pacing, like a caged animal needing to run free.  The road calls to me.  It beckons me to come ride it’s curves and marvel at it’s beauty awaiting me around each bend.  This is where the good times live for me.  Here, they are found in each new adventure.  This is where Real lives for me.  Here, in the faces and stories of the fellow travelers I meet along the way.  Kindred spirits who get it.  They, too, have been accused of running away, of possessing a gypsy soul that can not and will not grow roots.  Instead, they too, have that white line rambling fever, that traveling gene, that gotta go anywhere but here feeling that never leaves them alone.  They know the beauty of looking out at a windshield full of stars and making a wish and knowing it already came true.

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