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King Panda  Jun 2017
Dog Star
King Panda Jun 2017
you had me when you
skinned my hide—the future
and present of squiggled
intestines tilting with the
rotation of earth.

I am macho—no nighttime.
the summer constellations
throw me a bone and big crunch
as my molars snap with my
jaw.

it takes a year to go around the sun once.
it takes a trawl to fish properly.
it takes a dog to chase the brightest
star.

*Sirius.
Peter J Thomas  Mar 2016
Trawl
Peter J Thomas Mar 2016
Once more I find myself alone,

Sat, over-thinking all,

For once will my poor mind just rest,

And not for thoughts will trawl,
have you the seagulls  follow fishing boats
gently on the wind he just gently floats
looking at the nets as he begins glide
looking at the catch and the fish inside

hovering overhead waiting for a snack
waiting for the fisherman to put the small ones back
they fly in there flocks twenty maybe more
following the fishing boats  all along the shore

they make lots of noise as they begin to call
following the fishing boats as they begin to trawl.
Raj Arumugam Jan 2012
1
in the fish market of religions
and faiths
and suppositions and declarations
and fierce revelations
much of the commerce is done
on the principle:
Who shouts loudest
and shouts longest
and shouts often-est
gets to empty the most pockets
of bewildered customers


(You always empty their minds
first)

2
You never lose in this fish market
Even the quiet ones
the ones of mild manners and timid ways
can trawl a good number
of faithful customers

3
You can sell fresh fables
or smelly old tales –
they are all good commerce

4
Of course some slap you
right in the face
with their fish:
That too seems to catch customers…

I think you stun them with one blow
and they remain stunted all their lives
Geno Cattouse Oct 2012
What is the thing in us who love to pluck the strings of our imaginations
and try to create resonance with the words that float to the page. To create something from the
nothingness .
We paint our pictures in tortured hues or opaque clutters of expression. At times the palate will surprise even we who mix and stir and strive to find a unique shade or texture. We trawl and dredge and send up pretty balloons  in hopes they will return with answers. Well I do

I am odd in that regard. I think all who strive to express , to be heard, to hear to see to grasp and
be ambushed by sudden revaluation. To make sense of it all. to look deep within and waft on the wind at once are kin.

What is it for you?
To wash away pain.
To turn your face to the pelting rain and feel the value of your existence.

What is it for you?
To say the things your mouth cannot express, untie your fettered tongue.
Do you dream in color.
Does  your poets voice speak to you in hushed tranquil tones
or rumble and stutter or whisper softly from dank and dusty places.

What is it for You.
A way out of your suppression if not expression.
The rubbing of a soothing salve over the aches and pains endured.
The betrayal acknowledged. The Key finding purchase in the  rusted lock. The key falling from your hands in the pitch dark once again as you wake up and find yet another door to open.

What is it for you. For me it is validation that my mind is unique as the neurons fire and
speak a language spoken not by many. We are seekers. You and I.
I do not fit the profile. I am rough and hard  my facade has bonded with my skin. But look within. I am bookish and brutal.Loving and glacial. Witty but slow. Volatile but pensive . A walking talking conundrum. I do it just to **** withum.

Why do you love poetry.
What leaks out of you mind.
What goes in.
What is it ?


.
Joseph Burley  Sep 2012
THE LUNG
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
The Lung.

The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst  arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung,  the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Jellyfish  Nov 2014
Therapy
Jellyfish Nov 2014
Therapy.
You've made me a walking travesty.
Always trying to trawl me treacherous.
My mind treadling to trench my trifling thoughts.
Only trickling off from the tip of my tongue,
As you're trolling my troublous trigger,
You're no friend to me.
You're only therapy.
Daniel James Feb 2011
Barry’s dead.

I saw you dying weeks ago;
An oyster shell turned empty can,
Scrumpled up and finished
By the past’s magnet attraction
In your shakey hands.
It’s just a habit now and you can hardly kick yourself.

Buckets of Grolsch:
My swash-buckling hero
Turned slosh-slurping zero once again
And shiny surfaces
Never suited you.

Scrub away at that black demon matter
With the sole white spirit
Your genius affords. A shattered socialist
Posy primrose ******;
That’s the story of your life –
All
      most
               man.

Now beneath the cowslips
And the heifer’s hooves,
Your saintly-thorny words without a roof:
But who will speak for you?
And trawl the depths
As you once did in youth?
Prizing open oysters…

I hope that where you are
Your silence brings relief.
I hope that where you are
You smell the borage breeze.
I hope that where you are
There’s ox-cheek for tea
And your carbonated past
Is carbonating in mute peace.

Tonight the argent stars
Are dulled in disbelief
Tonight the slate that you’ve carved
Is the hardest you will teach.
Tonight the tumblestones
Are falling down in grief:

For Barry’s gone to rediscover Pearl
And the beauty of her peace.
- written on the death of Barry MacSweeney who visited my school in May 2000, shortly before he died.
Ignatius Hosiana  Jun 2015
WAR
Ignatius Hosiana Jun 2015
WAR
Is out there on our own lovely streets
In the souls of those the world mistreats
In the roughing waves threatening to wash us all
In the despondence of the **** victim's unanswered call
It's that long journey without a clear destination
It's the desperate cries in the broken heart of every nation
The heartbreak caused with no intention
It's the one without an answer,I mean the question
War is that desperate pregnant teenager attempting abortion
It's the *** slave in a foreign country up for auction
It's the slum child fighting with the bursting river banks
It's in the mind of the soldiers riding tanks
Doing what they can to rise up the ranks
And evade taking more innocent lives in mega chunks
It's the hopeless immigrants drowning on the mediteranean
It's the nuclear threatened Iraqees and Iranians
It's a *** hole forcing the driver to swerve and lose control
It's the tears of the fishermen catching nothing for days in their trawl
It's the worries in that littl'un fearing darkness
The priest's daily prayer,battling temptation, human weakness
War is another name for the famine eating the tribes in the arid north
It's the thought of a refugee mother whose child's got stunted growth
It isn't the opposite but the total absence of peace
It's a robber who loots everything, including bliss
It's a nightmare to the leader stuck in a seat
And the zealous opposition unaware of his inner heat
It's a hustle by the team which can't admit defeat
It's the struggle of an accident victim trying to regain his feet
It's in the believer's hope to see Jesus return tomorrow
Right before the entire globe sinks in ****** sorrow
It's the worries of a father who's spent his entire adult life unemployed
The uncertainty for a recruit in a war zone,just deployed
War is the puzzled gambler pondering suicide when he loses the little he borrows
It's the pastor wondering wether or not to dive in and save the drowning morals
War is that person perturbed, wondering why the hell he was created
War is all the choices you made and regretted
War is a three letter word,with a long meaning
Which some say is the only reason the globe is spinning
All are at War Them who are in Struggle
But there's no struggle that can't be overcome
Dedicated to all victims of War and struggle, happy to say I'm one of you
noruwei  Apr 2013
Iridescent
noruwei Apr 2013
You are nothing short of iridescent.

Like the pearls the divers pluck
From the depths of the bay and
Crack open to reveal;
When set into gold and silver, they
Glisten.
As do you.

But the fishermen trawl the very same bay
With their boats and their nets,
And you are iridescent as
The milky smooth insides
Of the clams they catch—
Iridescent as the shells that they,
Hungering,
**** the meat from and
Throw back into the sea.
npwm 8
andy fardell Nov 2012
Another day another dollar
Don the thrown on clothes
That worn over washed feel
A face soaped look to begin the start of another start
Another trawl into the big wide world
Yet so held in as my uniform
Becomes my sin

Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life

My dollar buys the tax mans lunch
His change may feed my family brunch
Pay the bills on borrowed time
What a life my common crimes
Twist the fate that follows me
The uniform of life and
I'm the tree

Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life

Holiday beaches from a magazine
Feel the heat and dream the dream
Forget the island sun my son
Paradise park be only for the few
Paradise just aint my glue

Work the day
Sleep the night
Gone the parties
Gone the life

Uniform of life work your magic wand
Take me to another place
Work me to the bone
Feed my luck to the workers book
It's written till the end
Gone my map all washed from the tears of my soul
The chapters complete yet
Empty inside

— The End —