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Jim Taylor

Ridgeland, United States


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I’m from down around the Georgia coast;
A place called Savannah where Pirates used to play.
Ghost of Peg Leg Pete, you can hear him boast
About a buried treasure, he’ll dig up one day.
Ocean tankers cruise past River Street taverns
Magic spell is cast in the light from lanterns
Waving Girl’s dress is tattered and torn
Her lover sailed away like he never was born
Victory Drive’s palm trees stand for fallen soldiers.
Victorian houses have been renovated.
All streets lead to a colonial square,
Everybody’s Irish for the St. Patrick’s Day Parade.
Down in Savannah here’s what they say:
Moon River runs deep Moon River runs wide,
And she empties into the mighty Atlantic.
Dreamers dream of crossing to the other side
Huckleberry friends waiting round the bend,
Those cobblestone streets take you there again.

Afternoon rain streaks over cars,
Glistens on aging sidewalks,
Close to Star Light’s tattered door,
And dampens the floor near my
Dream-filled bar seat.
Belinda (heartbeat from an album deal)
Says, “Welcome to this music city extravaganza.”
Belts out her broad street blues,
Crying phrases that cut right through you.
Road musicians feel each song;
Create waves keeping up their chops.
Joe and Jane patron are going strong.
Music city mental cases roar all night.
Starving songwriters coin a phrase,
Under neon signs at Star Light’s.
In a tinsel town craze, star hungry tourists
Place their bet on the one who “has the gift”
And the one to forget.
Being here misses my cowboy whims
Gathered with Grandma Owen
In front of that small red radio at noon,
To yodel on the trail, with Gene Autry.

Bracket: educated misfit with twist of Savannah.
I’m lonely enough to understand;
Hold up in a Nashville honkytonk
That fits like a warm buckskin jacket.
Creaky wooden chairs, antique bar,
Etched symbols and initials,
Set filled with smoke-mirrored
Images, broken face, shout,
Applause, new tune, fight, a bullet.
Ghosts of country legends linger
A breath of a song away to bring
Chills to pilgrims blessed enough
To discover this unknown’s hall of fame.

Here I am in Tootsie’s orchid lounge;
I’ll never be more country than fried
Chicken, or turnip greens.
I’m searching for that door that
Leads back to Tootsie once more.
Oh, Tootsie, did the legends play here
Or did they play next door?
The ole Opry has been shut down
And your days are numbered memories.
I’m five beers down and falling,
Back into dreams of yesterday.
Tootsie, you mingled with “marquee stars”
Laughed and called for their songs.
Then, took your trusty hat pin and
Chased them back to their fancy cars.

Now I’ve heard old friends say,
“I wish we could be back in yesterday
where we drank and joked
The hours away. Oh, how Tootsie
Could get us all to play along.”
Tootsie, if we could choose,
We’d rock right through these
Worn down blues in our
Country shoes with you.

I would love to love an older woman
Before I am an older man.
I see older women chasing younger men;
Older men pursuing younger women.
Are they trying to light a fire
To burn like yesterday’s desire?
These precious days of youth,
On the lips of older lovers,
Must taste like sweet vermouth,
An elixir that rejuvenates the older,
Like new wings on aging fireflies.

Interests: Nature, spiritual journey, music, books, song writing, rebellion.

Published writer: Yes

Freelance: Yes


Published works:


  • One Man's Journey