by G. C. Smith
fishin’ in the gulf stream
gas gauge reads below the half way mark
maybe enough fuel left to get back to home port
the storm’s howling winds and the currents and
the battering wave action dictate fuel consumption
and headway made toward safety or lost toward death at sea
our boat’s deep vee slices through turmoiled sea
we hang on as its bow rises, climbs the back of huge rollers
and then it dips as the boat slides from this giant wave’s apex
and crashes to its trough only to climb again on the next wave
and the next, and the next and the next, and the never ending next
an ice packed blue marlin shrouded in a plastic sheet
lies dead on the deck, its huge inert eye stares and admonishes
our searching for adventure and foolishly challenging nature’s Gods
eerily, it is as if the murdered sea creature could judge and render guilty
we puny mortals who would take to the sea with temerity to challenge the fates
but wait, in the distance a slice of blue shows against storm skies
a break in the weather that has tossed our twenty foot center console
like a child’s toy boat or a rubber ducky whirling in the jets of a Jacuzzi
the storm abates and giant waves begin to settle as wind’s current slackens
the prop digs as I throttle back to swing the boat west toward home and safety
at the dock we take the scale to weigh our trophy marlin
it is a large one but not quite enough to challenge the local record
still we slap each others backs and raise our beers to toast our catch
to toast our skills with rod and reel, to toast undying friendship forged in peril
Whiskey Man
Up there on the back mountain
is a trail barely visible for the trees
that you traverse each and every day
to get to hidden forest and your still
You cook mash in the copper kettle,
stirrin' it now and then until it’s ready
for the next stage of the process,
the distillation to fine whiskey
The whiskey put up in gallon jugs
is packed row by row into your pickup
then covered with pine straw bales
and transported into the city to sell
Green folding cash money in hand
you buy sugar and yeast for the still
spend some on that new shotgun
and hie yourself back to the country
Government man would call you a criminal
like those James boys who robbed trains
or Clyde who with Bonnie shot up banks
but you know you’re simply making a living
Like your Pa and Grandpa did before you,
you’re only doing what comes natural,
cookin’ up that clear fine corn liquor and
making sure the tax man don’t find out
Lowcountry SC Threads
Clothes that I wear
are to cover my skin
they sure ain’t for
makin’ a statement
They’re old and worn
like my Tilley hat
that gives me the mien
of a poacher
Ripped old khaki shorts,
beer slogan tee shirts
and holey deck shoes
make up the rest of my stuff
Though my threads ain’t fine
i drink good red wine
with crabs, fish, and shrimp
that i catch and i cook
I tell giant tall tales
bout fish big as whales
that i hooked and
i ate yesterday
Ain’t no need for a suit
and no need for a tie
to tell tales with good friends
who lie just as good as i do
Lowcountry Summer’s Night
Hot summertime in a sea island graveyard
Midnight mugg descends upon revelers
Geechee women dance among tombstones
And shout ungodly imprecations to heaven
Voodoo man, eagle feather in green derby
Mixes potions to cast his spells
Mumbles mumbo-jumbo as he stirs
Dark elixirs to send his enemies to hell
Jagged lightning slashes midnight skies
Pounding drumbeats speak a secret language
Dancing women tear their clothes away
Reach toward the sky and scream
Mambo women scream crescendo
As black night receives their vile prayers
Asking satanic Gods to weigh in with power
To make voodoo spells and potions work
Summertime in the ancient graveyard
Root medicine used for dirty work
Spells are cast and lives are set a roil
Wracked with agony of voodoo curse
On the other side of the ink black graveyard
A comely young woman waits for her lover
Tonight they will lay upon a blanket
To consummate their love and that is good
