Poetic Justice: A Book

07/12/2025

A Poem: He’s My Friend

There were many times in America
When our politicians got it all wrong
And they get it wrong over and over again
Which is why I penned this song

We met each other in grammar school
And we became friends the moment we met
We loved the same things, and we played together each day
We were as close as two children could get

But then, one day, something happened
And it changed our friendship forever
Dad was home after work, and my mom was making dinner
He suddenly screamed, “No, they would never!”

I thought, “Don’t take my friend
away from me.
We’re just kids,
and together is where we belong.
Please don’t blame him
for the way that he looks.
He's my friend,
and he’s done no one any wrong.”

It seemed the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor
And I could see the tears in my dad's eyes
He screamed to my mom, who ran in from the kitchen
“They attacked us by dropping bombs from the skies!”

The next day, they came and took my friend away
He waved and gave me a big smile
He said, “Thank you for being such a good friend
I will be back, but I have to go away for a while.”

I remember feeling confused and very sad
I started to cry as they took him away
Who was I supposed to be friends with now
We played together after school every day

I thought, “Don’t take my friend
away from me.
We’re just kids,
and together is where we belong.
Please don’t blame him
for the way that he looks.
He's my friend,
and he’s done no one any wrong.”

Three years later, my friend finally returned
He was taller, but he was also very thin
He said they split him from his parents
He thought he would never see them again

I asked him if he was glad to be back in school
He said, “Yes, but his home wasn't the same.”
And he wasn't quite sure if I still wanted his friendship
He said he was taught to feel great shame

I quickly wrapped my arms around him
And I said, “There’s nothing to worry about.”
He was my friend and would be so forever
And for our friendship, there will never be a doubt

I said, “Don’t take our friendship
away from us.
We’re just kids,
and together is where we belong.
I don’t blame you
for the way that you look.
You're my friend,
and you've done no one any wrong.”

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice
Photograph by Dorothea Lange, 1941

This photo of two sweet-looking children speaks to a dark and horrific period of American history. Following Japan's surprise attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941 and suspecting an invasion, President Roosevelt ordered the internment of all Japanese Americans living on the West Coast, regardless of whether they were US citizens. This photo, entitled 'Lunch Hour,' was taken by Dorothea Lange at the Raphael Weill School in San Francisco - she captured the children together moments before the Japanese American population of the school was evacuated from the neighborhood. In all, over 112,000 Japanese Americans were forced out of their homes and transferred to internment camps, where some spent as long as three years enduring dehumanizing conditions and the loss of their homes, jobs, and lives.

03/12/2025

There is plenty of time to order one of my books for the loved ones on your Holiday gift list. Happy Holidays! 🎄❄️🎁🙏🏻❤️
Here’s the link:

Follow Jeffrey Pipes Guice and explore their bibliography from Amazon's Jeffrey Pipes Guice Author Page.

11/11/2025

A Song: Or So it Seems

Yeah, the river runs deep down there,
and it don’t stop for nobody

[Chorus]
Way down yonder in New Orleans,
The paddle wheel never stops
— or so it seems.
Steam and sweat in the southern night,
Dreams roll slow ‘neath the Bourbon lights.

[Verse 1]
The Mississippi River runs deep,
And Lord, it sure runs fast.
You bring a pocket full of money,
‘Cause the good times never last.

[Verse 2]
The music still plays late into the night,
Where the ladies howl ‘neath the pale moonlight.
A saxophone cries, the piano bleeds,
Everybody’s chasin’ their midnight needs.

[Chorus]
Way down yonder in New Orleans,
The nightly hustle never stops
— or so it seems.
You can buy a thrill or lose your soul,
Down where the river takes its toll.

[Verse 3]
The ladies sashay, the air drips thick,
Where cheaters thrive and gamblers pick.
Roll them dice, pay that debt,
Sin’s just a game you can’t forget.

[Verse 4]
The Mississippi River runs deep,
And, baby, it sure runs fast.
You got nothin’ but right now —
Forget your future and your past.

[Bridge – Slow, bluesy piano + muted trumpet]

[Verse 5]
Another man goes down,
He won’t come back again.
Wrong turn in a darkened street,
That’s how the story ends.

[Verse 6]
Another girl sells herself
To chase that one more dream,
And Grandma’s cryin’ softly,
Holdin’ what’s left of the family scene.

[Chorus]
Way down yonder in New Orleans,
The endless cycle never stops
— or so it seems.
The good and the broken, the lost and redeemed,
All float down together in that delta stream.

[Verse 7 – Final Verse, hushed & raw]
The Mississippi River runs deep,
And, Lord, it does run fast.
Better finish that drink, boy —
It just might be your last.
(whispered)
Or so it seems…

[Outro – slow fade with saxophone solo]
(Soulful ad-lib)
Yeah, the river keeps rollin’
And the night keeps callin’

Way down yonder
In New Orleans

https://on.soundcloud.com/TmrXP3DwPa6UppJQl7

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

10/11/2025

A photographer took a photograph and was awarded a Pulitzer Prize.
But what of the subject in the image of the photograph? Does the subject of themself own their moment? Does the subject matter itself own its own experience?
The photographer only captured the moment on film, but who owns the moment? Who owns the experience?
And who owns the image when it’s shared on Facebook, X, Instagram, or any other social media platform?
Does the photographer own the image, the moment it was taken, if they don’t watermark and copyright it?
Does the image distribution channel, such as Facebook, X, or Instagram, own the image?
Or does society now own the image?
Who owns a picture of the picture of the picture?
And what about the history of the image?
A historian wrote an opinion on history and was awarded a Pulitzer Prize. Who owns history? Can history be owned? Is it owned by the historian who researched and wrote their interpretation of the history, or is history owned by the entire society? How can someone put a price on history?
Who owns the history of the history of the history?
The poet wrote a poem and was also awarded a Pulitzer Prize.
What if a poet is inspired by an image so much that words in their imagination might speak to them through their heart or soul, something so profound that it forces the poet to sit down and put those words, those thoughts, those feelings on paper? Who owns the inspiration?
Who owns the inspiration of the inspiration of the inspiration?
Who owns the poetry of America’s most profound poet, Walt Whitman? Trust me, Mr. Whitman would be quite bemused by your comments. Let's put a smile on his face. By the way, no, Walt Whitman was never awarded a Pulitzer Prize.
- Jeffrey Pipes Guice

A Poem - There was a child who went forth every day
By Walt Whitman

There was a child who went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day, or a specific part of the day, or for many years, or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song of the phœbe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barn-yard or by the mire of the pond-side, and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there, and the beautiful, curious liquid and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads all became part of him.
And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him, wintergrain sprouts, and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward, and woodberries, and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern, whence he had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school, and the friendly boys that passed, and the quarrelsome boys, and the tidy and fresh-cheeked girls, and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents, he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him, and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him, they gave this child more of themselves than that,
They gave him, afterward, every day, and they became part of him.
The mother at home quietly places the dishes on the supper table,
The mother, with mild words, cleans her cap and gown, a wholesome odor falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, self-sufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture, the yearning and swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed, The sense of what is real, the thought if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime, the curious whether and how,
Whether what appears to be so is indeed so, or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowd fast in the streets; if they are not flashes and specks, what are they?
The streets themselves, and the façades of houses, the goods in the windows,
Vehicles, teams, the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;
The village in the highland seen from afar at sunset, with the river between,
Shadows, aureola, and mist light falling on the roofs and gables of white or brown, three miles off,
The schooner nearby sleepily dropping down the tide, the little boat slacktowed astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds, the long bar of maroon tint, away, solitary by itself, the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of salt marsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and will always go forth every day,
And these become of them that peruse them now.

- Walt Whitman

10/11/2025

Do you know me
Have you seen me before
I'll give you a hint
In your local record store

My name is Lot Long
My wife died long ago
It's been hard since she died
A rough life, I should know

I’m a lonely, old man
From a town near Wiltshire
I keep my wife’s memory alive
In a place I hold dear

Just a lonely old thatcher
Looking for my lost lover
But I'll live on forever
On an album cover

Do you know me
Have you seen me before
I'll give you a hint
Led Zeppelin

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

Image: It’s not a painting. It’s a picture of a Victorian artisan taken in the English countryside in 1892. The man has been identified as Lot Long, a 69-year-old widower who worked as a thatcher in Mere, Wiltshire.
Their untitled fourth studio album, commonly known as Led Zeppelin IV, by the English rock band Led Zeppelin, was released on November 8, 1971, by Atlantic Records. It was produced by the band's guitarist, Jimmy Page, and recorded between December 1970 and February 1971, primarily at the country house of Headley Grange.
After being a mystery for over 50 years, researcher Brian Edwards identified the man in the 1892 photograph taken by Ernest Howard Farmer. The original black-and-white photo was discovered in a Victorian photograph album belonging to Farmer.
Lot “Longyear” Long is buried next to his wife in Mere Cemetery, located in Wiltshire, England.

19/08/2025

Why does everyone disagree with me
Don’t they know that I’m a star
That’s when I suddenly realized
I was the smartest guy in the bar

Why don’t they do it my way
I’m not some guy who pushes a broom
That’s when I suddenly realized
I was the smartest guy in the room

I told him we’d sell more at a discount
Even if we sold them at a loss,
And then I suddenly realized
I was smarter than my boss

I was the best salesman ever
But I got fired by my employer
And then I suddenly realized
I was smarter than my lawyer

I kept saying I wasn't speeding
Then he told me I should stop
And then I suddenly realized
I was smarter than the cop

He told me I was guilty
That's when I said I wouldn't budge
And then I suddenly realized
I was smarter than the judge

The judge sentenced me to prison
Then he said there would be no bail
And then I suddenly realized
I was the smartest guy in jail

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

17/08/2025

“Ya never too hot
never too cold
never too young
never too old
never too skinny
never too fat
never too this
never too dat
ya just where you are
& dat’s where it's at.”
- Dr. John

A Poem: Lost Fo’evva in New Orleans

Chorus:
Way down South
In New Orleans
Dat’s where da world comes
For da best red beans

Dat’s where Tennessee Williams
Wrote da Streetcar Named Desire
Dat’s where Satan shows up
When he needs to replenish his fire

It's when you find da right place
But it's definitely da wrong time
It's where da devil himself says
“I want ya soul to be mine”

Chorus:
Way down South
In New Orleans
It's were all da boys go
When dey turn into queens

Dat’s where da pirates go
To hide dere stolen b***y
Dat’s where da ladies go
To sell dere soulless beauty

It's where da fallen angels go
When dere wings turn black
It's where da junkies go
When dey need mo’ smack

Chorus:
Way down South
In New Orleans
It's where you get lost fo’evva
If you know what I means

Chorus:
Way down South
In New Orleans
It's where you get lost fo’evva
If you know what I means

https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/mobile/folders/1O-91jz4bAnDBQYRpWtTFD5wuMViUV8nD/1qAe1MyoA9nSdNjo--9LNHo0BzH7uxojJ?usp=drive_link98&sort=13&direction=a

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

06/08/2025

Praying to the Voodoo Hurricane Gods...

With the 20th anniversary approaching, I wrote this poem in memory of the 1,833 victims who perished in Hurricane Katrina. While it was a time when we all lost family and friends, it was also a time when New Orleans came together as a family. As we remember those who perished, let's also remember to stick together as The Who Dat Nation during this hurricane season...

A Poem: She Couldn’t Wash Away New Orleans

She couldn’t wash away New Orleans
She couldn’t wash away our pride
She couldn’t wash away our spirit
No matta’ how hard Katrina tried

She couldn’t wash away our culture
Or how New Orleans likes to party
She couldn’t wash away da Who Dats
Our joie de vivre was more than hearty

She blew hard into our beloved city
One early morning in late August 2005
She smashed a hole upside our levees
She didn’t want New Orleans to survive

Our weak levees gave way to her meanness
Da brown water soon covered our city
Da rest of da world shook dere heads in dismissal
New Orleans’ survival wasn’t looking dat pretty

But da Who Dats weren’t scared of Katrina
As we prayed for patience and grace
As a community, we gather around each other
As a family, we would soon embrace

She couldn’t wash away New Orleans
She couldn’t wash away our pride
She couldn’t wash away our spirit
No matta’ how hard Katrina tried

She couldn’t wash away our culture
Or how New Orleans likes to party
She couldn’t wash away da Who Dats
Our joie de vivre was more than hearty

Once da brown water left our City
Our people slowly came back home
It was time to clean up our houses
And to repair da Superdome

Soon, Irma Thomas came back to town
And da lights were turned back on
Den da Radiators started playin’
And da Dirty Dozen, and Dr. John

Vince Vance & da Valiants soon returned
And da Wild Magnolias, too
Den da Neville Brother started playin’
And den dey all started axed for you

She couldn’t wash away New Orleans
She couldn’t wash away our pride
She couldn’t wash away our spirit
No matta’ how hard Katrina tried

She couldn’t wash away our culture
Or how New Orleans likes to party
She couldn’t wash away da Who Dats
Our joie de vivre was more than hearty

Every’ting started gettin’ mo betta
When Fats Domino arrived back on the scene
Da Who Dats started grinnin’ from ear to ear
Cuz New Orleans was gettin’ all clean

Dey started cookin’ up da gumbo
And our New Orleans Saints began to win
Our city was finally gettin’ back to normal
And our feets started dancin’ again

Soon, the snoball machines started hummin’
And da parades were runnin’ on time
Dey started bakin’ up da king cakes
We knew New Orleans was gonna be fine

Da shrimps started gettin’ boiled
And da crawfish were gettin’ peeled
The people started smilin’ again
Cuz da Katrina wounds were gettin’ healed

She couldn’t wash away New Orleans
She couldn’t wash away our pride
She couldn’t wash away our spirit
No matta’ how hard Katrina tried

She couldn’t wash away our culture
Or how New Orleans likes to party
She couldn’t wash away da Who Dats
Our joie de vivre was more than hearty

And here is a link to hear our poem as a song. If you like it, please share. 🙏🏻
https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/mobile/folders/1O-91jz4bAnDBQYRpWtTFD5wuMViUV8nD?usp=drive_link98

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

04/08/2025

Hurricane Katrina


03/08/2025

Here’s one of my Mardi Gras poems that I’ve put to music. The link is at the end of the poem. I hope you enjoyed this new poem/song enough to share it with your friends. 💜💛💚

Title: I Got Fit Shaced

I got fit shaced
During Mardi Gras
I lost all my friends
Got thrown out da bar

Lost both my shoes
Couldn't find my car
I tried to walk home
Didn’t get too far

Walked half a block
Sat down on the road
After all dat beer
I just let it flowed

I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced

I got fit shaced
During Mardi Gras
Met a pole dancer
Smelled like caviar

She had a raspy voice
And whiskers on her chin
Said her name was Jo
Had a toothless grin

Can't find my wallet
Don’t have no cash
I done wet my pants
Now I gotta rash

I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced

I got fit shaced
During Mardi Gras
Don’t remember much
Ended up wit dis scar

I met a girl named Ruth
She had a pet duck
She asked me for a smoke
Then she asked me for a buck

I lost one of my socks
I lost my favorite shirt
I lost my favorite jeans
Now I'm wearin’ someone’s skirt

I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced
I got fit shaced

https://drive.google.com/drive/u/0/mobile/folders/1O-91jz4bAnDBQYRpWtTFD5wuMViUV8nD/1GpZEmV-vHGaEawB8H0PoSd7D0gsy52uz?usp=drive_link&sort=13&direction=a

© 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

16/06/2025

Everyone needs to remember the two most essential percentages in life: the 50-50% split and the 80-20% rule.
The 50-50% split is all about equality. It’s all about what’s fair in an even split between two parties. Whether splitting a cookie, a sandwich, or stolen money, it’s all about what’s fair. Especially in relationships, each party has to do their part. Even when it comes to a breakup, both parties have to be honest with themselves that it’s both parties' fault, evenly, on some level.
The 80-20% rule is more about another reality: 80% of all opportunities are fought over by only 20% of the people. These people are the real workers willing to do everything in their power to catch the “big one”, make a sale, get a new client, or win the girl. The other 80% of the people are left to get the 20% of the business or scraps left on the floor by the real workers. It’s all about how much work you are willing to put into life. Life is rarely fair. Equality only works when most people settle for what's left on the floor.
Where do you stand?

Ⓒ 2025 Jeffrey Pipes Guice