Poetry By Ken in Rainbow Colors




That's where he lives you know,
Where the glade ferns grow,
Where bog moss is on the limb,
That's where you'll find him.

At trails end of a blurred track
Sits a rusty ramshackle shack,
There lives the grizzly old gent,
Gray-haired, bowed and bent.

No one remembers his real name
Or from where the oddity came,
He's always been there it seems,
A part of the boondocks extremes.

It's rumored he was a hired hand,
A fiddle player in a traveling band,
This notion's lived year after year,
Because music you hear when near.

From dayspring until after sundown
Far-off from the small Cajun town
You can hear graybeard's music play
Long after the sunset fades away.

Music drifts amidst swamp cypress
Embracing the bayou in a caress,
Happily it plays through the trees,
Carried on a soft soothing breeze.

Far into the bayou's wispy fog night
His window's glow with candlelight
And you can hear songs from long ago,
Ghostlike tunes from an old radio.

At trails end where the bayou begins
There is Cajun music in the winds,
Where dwells a man no one can recall,
He's just Grandpa Music to all.




©Written by: Kenneth J. Ellison 03-07-08

Song title: "Le Valse de Ville Platte"

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