"bream" poems
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
i wish i was a fish swimming in a brook
swimming in the river and every little nook
in and out of reed having lots of fun
coming up for air basking in the sun
hiding under rocks from the fishermen
wait until there gone then come out again
swimming with the flow as it goes down stream
swimming past the roach and the golden bream
i would be so happy just to be a fish and hope i dont get caught
would be my only wish.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
"When you encounter a mountain lion, be vocal; however, speak calmly and do not use high pitched tones or high pitch screams"--California Dept. of Fish and Wildlife
Be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams
when a mountain lion appears on your path.
Remind yourself that it’s not a dream.
If the path goes down to a flooded stream,
and bodies float by--
stay calm; avoid high pitched tones and screams.
When you go to the store and there’s no milk or cream,
as the cows are sickened from a poisoned well,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.
If the wildfire turns your hot tub to steam,
as you run down the street to your neighbor’s car
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.
When the weather goes to another extreme,
and mudslides cover another town,
remind yourself that it’s not a dream.
When the fisherman catches no salmon nor bream,
and there’s no more coffee, nor chocolate ice cream,
be vocal, but avoid high pitched tones and screams.
Remind yourself that it’s not a dream.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 1:27 AM UTC
I shall go to the woods
One summer’s afternoon.
I shall go to hear the cuckoo cry
And listen to the jackdaw croon.
I shall go to seek shelter from the summer heat
Against the cool of the tree bark.
The mantra of old evergreen pines is heard:
Tales of Norse gods, and their lark.
I shall go to visit the heron
Who waits by the stream.
Patiently, she strides down the brook
Until she catches the small bream.
I shall do all these things
Missing the city, where I roam –
I shall go to the woods
And then, I shall go home.
May 11, 2013
May 11, 2013 at 1:39 PM UTC
almond fronds for visions
spidered eyes black a wink kisses
the cheeks a sunrise nose spry
lips of tangerine peels left after eating the heart
calmest flowing rivers shoulders of
the places bream nip
for joy under a water slip
she is jungled
shy as the panther in the shadows
sleuthing blending in and standing out
when your eyes do meet a sudden
reality
by god she is beauty
the forest the green lush
thickets impenetrable dark illusive
illusory a dream a destroyer saviour a wild thing
a nerve fiber a coiled up bindle
of masks and hard sharpnesses and soft fur
purr
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
Phantasmagoric
Entranced through the spirals of delusion
Limitless misery trapped betweeen the perfect illusion
Shattered visions trickle along a joyous dream
*********** of deep waters biting through the atlantic sea bream
Whispering in the midst of silken white fantasies
Swiftly stricken back into the disturbing realities
Prismatic colors embedded into a spirit of misconception
A darkened certainty embraces its profound deception
Peaceful pleasures circling whimsical euphoria
Drastically transforming into agitated hysteria
Reflecting portraits of tasteful affection
Briskly dissolving into appalling fabrication
Stimulating my mind with exceptional optimism
The day I met you heartbreak obstructed essential wisdom
MEGAN JAMES
(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)
Oct 26, 2013
Oct 26, 2013 at 3:44 AM UTC
From my new book, Poems of Ancient Rome and Greece, available in paperback on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, as well as eBook on Kindle, Nook, and Apple Books: https://www.amazon.com/Poems-Ancient-Greece-Christopher-Saitta/dp/B0DS6933HB?ref_=ast_author_dp
My mother the sea,
She woke my sandy eyes,
Just to tell me she had to leave,
Draw past the markets where the fish are sun-dried,
Snarled by the coral-rough hands of divers deep.
My mother the sea,
She left her running tab
Of the grocer’s choicest greens,
Thumbed the velamentous rinds and spiny scarola,
Her xylem and phloem are the slow moving cruciferousness of a breeze.
My mother the sea,
Charwoman of tides,
Who dips and delves upon her knees,
Who scrubs her brothel-coves with chamber lye,
Cyprian mistress of the salt-stained sheets.
I have looked for you, mother,
A scugnizzo amid the striped awnings of the marketplace
~ like sails to the sky ~
Where the fishmongers hawk their pride
Of conch, cavallo, and black sea bream.
I have looked for you, mother,
Walked sun-forged along the boardwalk,
Amid the neon-mascara of signs,
Hand-in-hand with only the ladyfingers of salt and vinegar fries,
Toward the crisp syllabub of pebbles and sand.
A beach is window-warmth spread free, cosmopolitan,
The longeur of eyes crushed in the glass-dust of cities.
And in the sputtering of the frosted spume of tides,
Held broken seashells in my hands like broken needles,
Heard the pump-click of the ventilator through your mask of sand.
My mother the sea,
A naked convalescent,
Whose ever-turnings have taken
A turn for the worse.
Who will know her by her death, who but me?
Jan 21, 2025
Jan 21, 2025 at 8:29 AM UTC
It was always from the same breath
you were called both ***** and hen.
The cue from on the hoof words jarring.
They wanted to curtail your pride
to wrestle ambition,
chide even your Soliloquy.
By the soak of the covert
all she wanted to was wash
the dust from her feet,
proceeding to use a pumice
she recognised the endless toil.
Submitting to the widening silence,
her cochlea impressed -
the whisper of what it was to hear a stream,
the disciple's quest - now her inner strength :
wading courage, sharpened focus
the weathered course, she longed to know.
Tally Crane ,Oak and bream
the amble of time proceeded
mindful her shawl swept
towards a larger cycle .
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
Like a bear or like a deer.
Without drink of bear.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
Just to see a dream.
Floating like a sea bream.
Catching one another.
Playing together.
But it is in sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
In my mind your fancy.
Collecting thoughts in frequency.
With you I will walk.
And happily we will talk.
For that I will sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
If you will be sad.
I feel bad.
Never hit you.
Never become mad.
To your rejoice.
I will become your choice.
Becoz we are also frnds so deep.
So I have to sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
Your anger mood I can study.
Oh my love and my friend buddy.
I know I will persuade you.
It is confirmed and due.
You are my life I already it knew.
For you I will bring a lamb of sheep.
Whom you will feed.
Wipe your tears which will seep.
Never give you chance to weep.
So I need to sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
Need you attention and heed.
When my peoms you will read.
Come in my dream with slow speed.
Now i want to sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
Preparing myself here.
Oh my lovely dear.
When will you come?
I am always stand with a big warm welcome.
It is all truth not lies.
Now I have to close my eyes.
Dizzy and so tired.
May be I slip and gets down mired.
Blow off my lamp's light.
Good bye and good night.
Feeling faint and sleepy.
Now it is my time to sleep.
Sleep sleep sleep.
I am going to sleep.
GOOD NIGHT....
..
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
.
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:40 PM UTC
In that magic evening they have met
They were silent, remembering that
On a big ship they were under threat.
They saw the sky light up and a pat.
So slowly the ship began to sink.
Despaired, in the water they fell.
And when its image began to shrink,
They were in a boat, it was like hell.
They could swim even across the moon,
In despair, needing to survive.
They reached the shore of black lagoon,
They realized that they were alive.
She breathed new air like a survivor,
She became a stranger in night,
When her man, the ship's driver,
Died in the water of her sight.
There was about a great wolf ******
And their love story reaching their dream,
A sailor's song about a freeman,
A story with treasure and sea bream.
There was like another life for me,
When Geraldine, sneaking up on tide,
Was calling Frederick, couldn’t he
Know he left her with child inside.
That movie, when have met our eyes,
All things separated me from you,
Another era, love, life, other skies
Same souls, different masks in outward view.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:20 AM UTC
Three poets
rot down a river bed
their body decomposing
except their head
still composing poetry
and recite being dead
where poems still flow
I’ve heard them read
*one was caught
by the sun beam
flickering ripples of light*
*another fought
by a splashing bream
kicking up a fight*
*the third flowed down
the rapid stream
where water foams white*
I, one day went fishing
and caught myself a fish
down the river swimming
quoting Tennyson
Dickinson and Finch
I set it free
because poetry is freeing
Not every line in the end
is a hook
three dead poets can testify
down by the brook
May 3, 2022
May 3, 2022 at 10:59 PM UTC
A wise man once said "I have a dream."
I dream in black and white,
and for me, my future doesn't look too bright.
A newspaper reporter,
and even if they're failing,
my bream boat never stopped sailing.
I dream that no matter how many doors are slammed in my face,
and no matter how many long I must chase,
I will conquer this dream.
A famous man did said "Dreaming is where the impossible happen."
Another wise man once said "Hope for a better future."
I hope that one day there will be world peace,
human cooperation,
and a bond of unbreakable love between every nation that expands across every ocean.
Blacks, white, yellow, tan.
I hope one day all wars and fighting will be ended and resolved.
I hope that every family and every friend will fnd that true happiness,
which is the reason for living.
And I hope one day to help take a step towards all of that. I hope for a greener world.
But a frog once said "It ain't easy being green."
A third wise man once said "Wish for a better tomorrow."
I wish that tomorrow when I wake up that I'll be able to make someone's day.
Fix a mistake I've made.
And work towards a new beginning.
I wish for the future to be able to be a new me.
To roll over each morning and kiss my loving husband,
make breakfast for my kids,
and I wish for a happy life.
But hey...A famous rock star said "You can't always get what you want."
May 20, 2012
May 20, 2012 at 3:20 PM UTC
wishing I had just gone fishing
instead of drinking
sank a worm in the pond
I didn't so I am thinking
of you
finishing another round
now getting logical again
a song comes into my head
I can't find the name of it
you drown
me on the end of a hook
in the pond and mesquite
swirling river of Tequila
like a cricket
in a bream's mouth
hungry on the bottom
of the creek
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
My father used to take me fishing;
i can remember it clearly:
bleary eyed wakeups at 2:30 a.m.
after preparations late into
the night prior, the
smell of gasoline
as the outboard motor
sputtered to life,
its deafening roar as we
raced the sun along the
river's length.
The eery silence that followed.
Because we rarely talked.
We were fishing.
Dad loved largemouth bass,
red-breasted bream, catfish,
shell-cracker, warmouth,
stump-knockers, and
whatever else.
i enjoyed fishing, too.
But we rarely talked.
Time moved on, and us with it.
And there was less time for
us to go fishing together.
Years passed, and i said
to myself, -i said it
very clearly, i did- i said,
*self, we need to go fishing
soon.
There is at least one more big fish
out there that i am after.*
i even mentioned it to my father.
Let's go soon, i said...
-Yeah, that sounds good.-
but we both knew we wouldn't.
Time moved on, and us with it.
And there was less time for
us to go fishing together.
On the day of my father's funeral,
there were many surprised faces
upon my arrival.
They thought i had gone off fishing,
but i knew the river had run dry.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 11:34 PM UTC
Fishing with Fergie
Stomping through sodden brown fields
rods bounce in tune to our march.
Maggots dance in Tupperwared silence
till we crouch out the wind.
Salmon. Majestic, leaping salmon.
Surging to spawn in embryonic memories.
Enticed by streamers and nymphs, Griffiths Gnats and Woolly Buggers,
battle Trylene Big Game Mono, lean silky body trembling, taut.
One day, we agree, one day.
For now we watch the luminous tip of the Bodied Waggler,
feeling for strain as the maggot twists and stretches
Pierced by the bait-cast, come and get it.
Tench or bream, (but not pike, please no pike).
Bite, come on, bite. BITE. I know you’re there in the murk.
Tea, passed steaming hot with a plastic taste.
Earthy fingered sandwiches. Our eyes never move.
Was that a tug? Yes? YES!
Pull hard! Reel in, quick.
Snap!
Next time, my friend. Next time.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 11:08 AM UTC
the rain is controlled,
with a whip,
it's being cast up,
spun,
twirled then hit.
it's thrown against glass,
dew drops in my hair,
the soft touch on my skin,
I stroke them off, upmost care.
joins with the sea,
a seamless stream,
silver and frothing,
home to the bream.
plenty of fish,
and I've got my catch,
needed no bate,
my heart on a latch.
I'll love you forever,
in this whirl,
we're the drops that chase,
on car windows we swirl.
you're keeping warm,
passed this hurricane,
August, October, September, November,
catching my rain.
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 5:12 AM UTC
Through hazy , seasoned myopic eyes all the sights and sounds of woodland creatures do enchant and amaze ! Robins relay the message of my presence , White tailed deer barely render a nod and continue to graze ..
Fall Georgia skies painted by the renaissance artist , chilled zoysia and fescue cools the feet of the timid , skeptical albeit grateful introvert ..
Dirt roads pretend to run forever this morning , playful Sun hides like the gifted actress , behind gray blankets ! Resolute .. Cunning ..
White Pines bear witness to the active forest , Eastern gray squirrels signal impatiently , awaiting the call of Winter ..
Random thoughts collect like silver rainwater pools , virtual bastions of aquatic life that dot the landscape , olive brush strokes , red Maple swirls , prolific Water Oaks recall young boys in search of newts , mud puppies and tadpoles ..
Songbirds hide within briar thickets performing their daily song list for all that would give ear , rock bass and bream gorge on a bounty of white flies served by the morning breeze .. The pond is a looking glass today , sharing her piece of colorful sky for childlike imaginations such as mine , tiny frogs providing musical accompaniment with glorious song while Angelic host incessantly highlight her surface with gentle blue and green hues , soft tones ..
Nov 15, 2015
Nov 15, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Inhospitable landscapes
And opioid canapés,
Give into grief
And metallic decay:
Your mind in situ.
Moral compasses compounded.
Green grows grey
Far swifter than you think.
In the blink of an eye
We'll see different skies.
A pale blue bloom
Will soon become doom and gloom,
And marigolds macabre,
Perfume of tulip and
Netherworlds of hubris,
Will consume the gold
And the grey.
Except
We're not there yet.
Giacommetti, Picasso and Muller foresaw:
We're all going to be ignored.
Ultimately.
A single state engrained into lore:
Deplorably thick custard creams
With a side of sea bream,
Quarter-loaf multi-seed bread
And half a shilling in the shed.
Unimaginable-
Immemorial.
Pass the headstone,
Don the frown.
The bright brown obelisk of fate
Awaits you now.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 8:45 PM UTC
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
*There's a saga in every direction
Stories to be told , a lesson languishing -
o'er tilled countryside and dirt road
Smokehouses , immaculate small towns
Sorghum presses , Pecan groves , Loblolly Crowns
May Robin carols , topwater Bream slice the surface of
brook fed glass ponds , Whippoorwill's , Pileated Knights worshipping the given Dawn*
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 11:55 PM UTC
Light sparkles in the clover,
Yellow and blurr of bees
Are honeyed in the sun
And robins have come,
Yanking in the gasses,
So green is the moisten
Of the painting of the dew
And all is lolling in petrichor,
The soils running with slow
Time so shortly experienced,
Oils of wood permeate the air,
Lapping brooks bream into light,
The loft kestrel swirls in meadow
And chipmunks scuttle at base of tree,
Even the wind does freshly quiet, crisply,
There as a hug waiting for body and spirit,
Patches of white are disappearing, they know—
That one day we must all return, after winter snows.
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
The sticklebacks make fast tracks darting
here,everywhere but there's big fish
in this lake, who take
no prisoners.
Jack pike and perch like you
would not believe,bream and dace but
what seems out of place is the shark.
I know a shark in a lake in a park is quite rare
but it's there all the same.
A game fish indeed just itching to feed
on the small fry.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 12:13 AM UTC
Look at her
In that glamorous dress
Her hair in a tress
She'll unintentionally make my life a mess
My heart is pumping faster than a Bugatti
It's like a class of karate
I would love to wake up to the smell of Chapatis
Every morning
With you
I guess a man as sappy with me can just dream.
I got my homies, I got my team
I just need that one person that prevent me from feeling like Centime
But an amicable passim
Make the bottom of my heart a bream
It would end my dream
And turn it into reality
I'd rather you make my life a mess
Helping you through your life
Instead of being here alone trying not to overthink
I'm usually staring at the Sink
For a few minutes too long
Snapping out of it eventually
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 4:13 AM UTC