Carolyn Files, Author


Carolyn Files lives on the last two acres of property her grandmother bought in 1905 in Oak Ridge, Louisiana. It’s a most appropriate two acres, for it was the barnyard area to the ten-acre plot where Carolyn’s father and eight siblings grew up.

Today only a couple of goats are in the pasture, but there have been four horses, another goat, and a calf who called the pasture home. Throw in five dogs and twenty cats for the rest of the family. An English major mother, a lawyer-father, and a favorite aunt who wrote for The Hartford Times influenced Carolyn’s writing interests.

For several years Carolyn wrote for Louisiana Road Trips, a monthly magazine out of West Monroe, Louisiana. Her articles have appeared in such magazines as Western Mule Magazine and Mules and More Magazine. 2016 found Carolyn’s poem, July Heat, winning the rhyming poems category of the Writer’s Digest annual contest.

Dominique You

I tell you, those Laffitte boys were a pair to work with.
Met them after I returned from Santo Domingo where a little slave uprising needed squelching.
They offered me a job I couldn’t refuse—captain of the “Le Pandour,” a right nice French Corsair.
Life wasn’t always bootlegging, making our way through Barataria Bay or hiding in Mulatto Bayou.
Pierre called New Orleans home, but his white-columned house in Waveland was a quiet retreat.
We pirates could catch our breath here, playing cards, looking out over the Gulf.
Pierre was a good host—best of what we pillaged furnished that house.
And Jean, Jean kept us entertained with his tales of thievery.
Those were some good times smuggling with my crew; got in a pickle when we ended up in jail, though.
Jean made a deal with Andy Jackson, getting us out to help fight the Battle of 1815.
We fought with such courage and skill, charges against us were dropped.
My political days in New Orleans weren’t so different from pirating; took a little her, a little there.
And hoped I wouldn’t get caught.
Yessir, I can say I’ve had a good life.


July Heat

Bodies, shake, rattle, and roll to the good gospel beat,

Keeps the heat in the pews as the Good News is preached.

And corn tassels sway in the breeze.

Jerry Lee can be found at the hottest spot in town,

Bopping to the boogie beat of the best juke joint around.

Haney’s ain’t church, but the Spirit moves there too.

Shaking, rattling to a good Black beat, can’t keep your seat,

Taking it to the street.

Passed the fish market—could they feed the masses as Jesus did?

On passed Jo-Jo’s Spirit and Wine, mighty fine, bought by the case,

No faith to change water into wine in this place.

And corn tassels sway in the breeze.

Cousin Jimmy preached the Gospel to save the rest,

He himself became possessed, laid his hands, and then caressed,

Shouted out “I’m coming, Lord,”

And corn tassels sway in the breeze.

Mickey went to Palestine, hoping he could make a dime.

Mechanical bulls were all the rage, while someone sang up on a stage.

Boot scootin’ booties scooched up to the bar, hoping a cowboy could take them far.

Ferriday, what have you lost, what have you gained?

While corn tassels sway in the breeze.


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