New Orleans Shack

There will be no swagman along this way.
In the Louisiana bayou still tied to a tree
an old houseboat moves as the currents sway,
the only visitor is the falcon who flies free.

Cajuns left under hurricane warning, couldn’t tarry,
the rain, wicked winds and storm wall came
overflowing the river, no more the banks could carry,
but the houseboat floated on just the same.

The lonesome old falcon comes winging
across the bayou and down to the lonesome deck.
Pausing near a broken lantern still swinging,
he is drawn as by silent call and beck.

There are cracks in walls and no locks on the door.
Mice build nests of cotton and straw in corners.
Rain from broken windows warps the bare floor,
like a found coffin, wet with tears from mourners.

In the Louisiana bayou still tied to a tree
an old houseboat moves as the currents sway,
the only visitor is the falcon who flies free.
There will be no swagman along this way.

Submitted to Arsenic Lobster Poetry 3 May 2009.


In Australia, a “swaggie” is a man who travels about the country on foot, carrying his possessions in his bedroll or "swag". Hence the name "swagman" or "swaggie".

I was greatly inspired by

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by my great friend meg.