"bluegills" poems
the daydreams aren’t just daydreams anymore
i can get on the train whenever i’d like
the doors are wide open and waiting
for me to lie naked in the shifting light
of a four-story brooklyn walk-up
to fall asleep on a freckled chest
to run my fingers through fields of white sage
i am the opening iris
the floating dust that glimmers like crushed diamonds
the feathery eyelashes caught on eager fingers
i am the sunlight and the wind
intersecting across the gleaming reservoir
where the bluegills breathe underwater
where you and i dance gloriously on the surface
where we become carelessly entangled
before slipping underneath
Apr 22, 2019
Apr 22, 2019 at 9:25 PM UTC
'Kilt.'
'She's kilt for sure,' as the sparrows look down at us,
Bluegills pecking away toes, memories.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 10:02 PM UTC
There’s an old Christmas tree—
dead, without its needles—
floating in the pond.
I remember the first
warm day in February
when my uncle dragged
the still-green tree
to the center of the ice.
He thought it would thaw
within a week,
and the tree would sink.
Minnows could find
safety from the big-mouth bass
and bluegills while they hid
in their buttress of little branches.
But it got cold again,
and the ice didn't melt
till late March. The green
needles persevered,
preserved by the frost,
the branches blanketed in snow.
The needles browned
and fell from the tips
when it got warm.
Now the tree’s
cocked awkwardly on its side,
and the very top—
the part you might place a star
or a little cherub
as the finishing touch
to a Christmas tradition—
scrapes the dying and decomposing leaves
on the muddy bottom.
The tree, the trunk,
that erroneous spot
drifting near the edges
of the blue-green water
—it floats aimlessly
as the minnows are swallowed whole.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
so, I sat on my stool thinking about poetic things
themes analogies metaphors
a stream
of wandering turning eddying
slowing down pooling
breaking the edges falling like water does
following
the easy path
I started typing
here now
just flowing trying to be the water
crystal clear and my god ****** mind
is more like the mud the water stirs off the banks the bottom
brown red blood of earthen liquid koolaid for
the fishes
mixed tiny animals swirling to an end
food for the sole
the cod the bluegills in that hole
laughing about
us humans complicating
it all
Mar 17, 2017
Mar 17, 2017 at 11:35 PM UTC
If Trump is elected President I'm going to get up at six and feed the hens , plant a row of okra come Springtime and grease the tractor that same evening .. Should it be Sanders I'll build cages for Big Boys , go to the lake for a stringer of bluegills and walk barefooted the whole time I'm doing it .. In case it's Clinton I'll be plowing from morning to Noon , stopping for a few figs and a cherry tomato or two ...
If it's Cruz you'll find me picking the blues on a brown guitar , eating Spanish olives like their going out of style , shoring up chicken wire to fend off 'critters' , nipping on Wild Turkey to ease my blisters ....
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:35 PM UTC
How do you think
it feels to be
poor and insane,
looking for
doorways to sleep
in, to creep in out
from the rain?
As a little boy,
I used to fish in
a small quiet
pond on the west
side of town,
catching bluegills in
the young afternoon sun;
sleepy neighborhood,
low crime, safe and serene.
I owned those
autumn days long
ago, bought cheap; the price
of a dozen night crawlers,
and a bobber.
At thirty nine years old,
one October
afternoon, I stumbled
back to my own little
Walden.
Not much had
changed, the old
wooden steps on the
east side of the
pond were still
there. I crawled
under them, ******
myself and passed out,
dreaming of
bluegills, cattails
and young easy autumn
days.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 6:28 AM UTC
*Spinning for bluegills
on a placid lake
As much amusement as my heart can take
Panning for gills in the windslow'd
wakes
Catching a thrill on a perfectly blue Spring day*
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 3:22 PM UTC