Dancing the Shrimp

When the wind is low and the tide is right and you think you're all alone,
A sound surrounds from the barrier isles like no sound you've known.
Shuffling of feet to a steady rhythm, the scratch of a rake on wood.
Chattering clamour of people abounds, but words don't seem to make sense.
You look around, no buildings in sight.
Confusion sets in like a fog.
Your nose gets a whiff, an odor, a hint--familiar and then it is gone.
And then you remember tales that were told about strange sea-faring folk.
Filipinos they were, who lived in raised huts, whole villages in the sky.
The platforms they worked on held shrimp by the score,
Shrimp spread out to dry as in days long gone by.
And as the shrimp dried, the men "danced the shrimp down,"
removing their heads and shells,
leaving only the meat, a treat for any palate.
You look around, and though not a sound
you know that you are not alone.

2nd Lining

"2nd" lining my life away,
Dancing before sweet death comes to stay.
Kerchiefs flutter at long-gone thoughts,
What ifs, what could have beens,
Who's to blame. No, not I.
Parental neglect, a phase of the moon.
They just don't understand.
Misty loneliness floods along Pirate's Alley.
Tears left on night-wrapped memories.
Longing for romance of swarthy sailors
And tales of travel to Caribbean hideaways.
Saxophone sonatas swirl down sidewalks,
Leading nowhere, like me.
Like me

If that's all there is my friend,
Then let's stop dancing.

Born in Rochester, New York, Carolyn Files has called Louisiana home for most of her life. She lives on the last two of ten acres her grandmother acquired in 1905 in Oak Ridge. Most fittingly, the barnyard since Carolyn has had horses, goats, and even a calf over the years. Carolyn's travel columns have appeared in Louisiana Road Trips. She has also had articles in Mules and More and Western Mule Magazine. Four dogs, a herd of cats and three goats share space with Carolyn.  oakridgefiles@gmail.com