"carp" poems
I can’t wait to be a hundred;
turning over the thoughts
and plots, of Caledon
floating on Zimmer inserts
and dusted Florsheims
three steps forward
in a dream woven
summer afternoon
Through the barn doors
and bee keeper flats
assimilating voices
from Sachems
and Forbes
and Hope Healers
coming and going
as the countryman
comes and goes
You can feel it
in a place like this
the 3 in the tree memories
of Allis Chalmers
and combine parts
of Sundrim poppers
and shallow carp fields
of patterned lawsons
and fading caulk
(on the ripped and rolled
frontier seats)
it’s a wishing well
for the peddler
and bold hydrangea...
both peeking their way
through the rusted
grinders wheel
Jan 24, 2017
Jan 24, 2017 at 11:55 PM UTC
lady craighead played the blues
on a stand-up samick
in the ***** room
along side the parsons project
and squabbling dogs
and night moves
stairs creek
up the mezzanine trek
wool sheets slide
on finished floors
little angels
play late into the seventh
(a closing match nearing
the midnight hour)
croaking toads and cicada
sing in the blue moon
musty smells and mothballs
settle deep in the vault
the kettle boils
and cat coils
as the pump house rolls
its heavy drawl
the red phone rings
and bird clock sings
(behind the ruddy stall)
a sleeman variation of the ruy lopez
employed heartily
by the incomparable master jack
marble toast burning
wringer wash churning
chris craft running
near the old carp canoe
rooster calls
and west wind squalls
rustle through the porch screen door
chicken *** pies
and rogue flies linger
a rocker chair placed
near the sepia face
(softened by the intricate frame)
donkey in tow
(with a fastened ***
maggie in her dreams
of green tambourines
the nocturnes
reflections
and whispering gospel bells
tractors pull on
the grinder stone
horses lay still
in the mid-day sun
a trump card is fingered
at the furnace click
(crosswords and puzzles are next!)
while the sparrow
*and that **** rabid fox*
are drowning
deep in castles well
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 10:20 PM UTC
Freezing dusk is closing
Like a slow trap of steel
On trees and roads and hills and all
That can no longer feel.
But the carp is in its depth
Like a planet in its heaven.
And the badger in its bedding
Like a loaf in the oven.
And the butterfly in its mummy
Like a viol in its case.
And the owl in its feathers
Like a doll in its lace.
Freezing dusk has tightened
Like a nut ******* tight
On the starry aeroplane
Of the soaring night.
But the trout is in its hole
Like a chuckle in a sleeper.
The hare strays down the highway
Like a root going deeper.
The snail is dry in the outhouse
Like a seed in a sunflower.
The owl is pale on the gatepost
Like a clock on its tower.
Moonlight freezes the shaggy world
Like a mammoth of ice -
The past and the future
Are the jaws of a steel vice.
But the cod is in the tide-rip
Like a key in a purse.
The deer are on the bare-blown hill
Like smiles on a nurse.
The flies are behind the plaster
Like the lost score of a jig.
Sparrows are in the ivy-clump
Like money in a pig.
Such a frost
The flimsy moon
Has lost her wits.
A star falls.
The sweating farmers
Turn in their sleep
Like oxen on spits.
6.8k
And gusts a wind that never sleeps
When at the pond arrives a breathless boy,
Knees kneel within the reeds and muck
To glimpse distorted carp beneath.
He counts his boundless hunter's luck
As shiftless as a seaweed wreath,
Then baits the wand that bears his angler's ploy,
And gusts discern he plays for keeps.
This boy roguish
As fish are coy.
And silent in the swaying deeps
The drifting dance of carps who dream and wish
Is ceased by ripples from a splash --
Refractions of the surface shake
As sinks an enigmatic flash:
Allure from realms beyond the lake.
The one that hungers proves the bravest fish,
And silent, at the lure he leaps.
Bravery
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound
How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.
Would the big ones strap on knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?
Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?
Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?
Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC
Inspired by my boyfriend that made a comment on the way he look due to the lack of sleep
What can I say
I'm a poet at heart
Though I don't do it everyday
But is an art.
Morbid I can be
Even to point something out
That is me
You need sleep without a doubt
Today the way you look
You look like carp
So stay away from Facebook
It is a trap
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 1:57 AM UTC
You can see it already: chalks and ochers;
Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines;
Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery;
Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass;
Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape;
A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though:
A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse);
On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain
All angular--you'd think a shovel did it.
So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds
Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it
A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes;
Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes,
They carp at every gust that stirs them up.
At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow
Is rusting; and before me lies the vast
Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue;
***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse
Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics,
Now and then, toss me songs in dialect.
In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker;
The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes
Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff.
I like these waters where the wild gale scuds;
All day the country tempts me to go strolling;
The little village urchins, book in hand,
Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging),
As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off.
The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant
Soft noise of children spelling things aloud.
The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you!
Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live:
Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed
My days, and think of you, my lady fair!
I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times,
Sailing across the high seas in its pride,
Over the gables of the tranquil village,
Some winged ship which is traveling far away,
Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds.
Lately it slept in port beside the quay.
Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge:
No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives,
Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters,
Nor importunity of sinister birds.
4.4k
Early morning comes too soon.
Fish are biting by the moon.
Father and son make their way
Out of the house to meet the day.
The men of the house are outward bound
Seeking their fortune on the water sound.
Fishing poles and tackle boxes in hand
Off they go, to the dock to be manned.
Eyes gleaming bright, with the wind in his hair,
My son grins wide, and says, "Dad, Look There!"
Sure enough my son sees, fish to be caught,
Their trip is promising, will not be for naught.
His father smiles at the look from his son,
Saying, "Yes, son, you've found them, quite well done."
Bringing their boat to a stop they let glide,
Unpack their equiment, and come along side.
Taking their time and setting their hooks,
Plenty of fish here, judging by the looks.
There's sunfish and carp, some salmon and trout,
Walleye and crappie, and catfish so stout.
As the sun rises higher, they reel those fish in.
There's plenty of fish, with tail and fin.
The father and son are laughing together.
Can't believe their luck, or such perfect weather.
Returning home from a long day of fun,
They unload their catch and in they run.
Fish stories abound, They can't say enough,
The fish they missed, get bigger and rough.
I watch my two men, with quiet delight.
Enjoying the warmth, they create in my sight
Fishing is fun, fishing is great,
My men bonding, makes my heart elate.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC
drought dry only a fortnight, and no trace
of the swimmers--not a bloated bass or a skeletal carp
only a few lily pads burnt russet by the sun
all else, perverse interlopers from modernity:
bullet banged beer cans, truck tires,
and the ubiquitous bottle water plastic
waiting patiently for the next ice age
no sign of one fish that emitted a last gilled gasp here
deep beneath the bed though
progenitors rest, theirs and ours,
antediluvian, Permian, as permanent as the word allows
my footfalls above them today
tomorrow silent where they lay
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
A cat stalks amongst stalks;
monkeys like old men, fingers unpick
your banana hands, curious and careful.
Too much expression.
Don’t worry, have a curry.
And from a coach window glimpses of a land
where a skeleton boy sleeps or lies dead under palm.
And the red earth chokes.
Follow the waterfall to mango pickle
down river to a jungle boogie rhythm
you ain’t ever heard before.
Cobra skins and coy carp,
the sound of cicadas amasses.
A stand still in traffic, its ‘crush’ hour
its okay to beep even if it will never get you anywhere.
A treasure trove of trinkets, a myriad of jewels.
All you see is money,
all I see is you wanting money.
Dusty rags from sandy bags, the face of
desperation is ugly.
Temples carved into caves
as markets coloured like an artist’s palette.
An elephant’s eyes say more than this poem could.
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 3:51 PM UTC
Marilyn Monroe (who
lived next door, and swore more
than anyone I know)
reckoned blondes had all the fun.
It didn’t seem so to me,
when her old man was home.
She was as glamorous as
our Mum was dowdy.
Her lot lived on freezer-food
and fizzy, while our Mum
slogged over a ****** gas-stove,
and washed-up without gloves on.
Marilyn Monroe told
our Mum that she should fight.
Our Mum gave, to Marilyn Monroe,
secret recipes for dog-food stew
and koi carp pie.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
You’re going to be fine.
?
I am, see?
.
You will. I came to tell you stuff. Listening?
.
Jumble sale shoes. I know you’ve got acrylics somewhere. Paint them.
?
The shoes. Flowers and dragons like you draw up your arms. They’re really good by the way. No one in school draws like you.
.
We are. You just have to be good-different. Stop hiding the whole time. Everyone loves your drawing.
.
We still like painting, reading…
?
It’ll happen when you’re 11. The letters un-jumble and it makes sense.
!
Honestly.
.
And at Christmas - tell Mum it’s your idea - Keeping him away from the ***** makes him cross - no point. Give him a drink as early as possible. By lunchtime he’s unconscious and you put him to bed. Looks like he hit his head real hard but he woke up.
?
It’s OK. He doesn’t remember a thing. Works every year.
.
Stuff heals. It gets better. Everything. Life is excellent. People say you’re pretty, won’t believe it but you are. And we live on a good street in a warm house by the sea.
!
Honestly, cross my heart.
.
There’s one last thing. Listening?
.
Learn to laugh silently, no sound what so ever. I know you can’t imagine it - but she gets her revenge and it’s going to be funny. Takes years. You must play along or it won‘t work. So laugh silently.
?
Just one example, then. Do you go to the car-boot sales yet?
.
On a Sunday in June, only 7AM but it’s so hot! She spots a koi carp in the road.
?
Like a giant goldfish. This one was huge. Probably dropped by a heron or something.
.
She moves it onto the verge and keeps walking. It's still there at 1.30. Been baking up on that verge all morning in full sun. Smothered in ants, horrible.
.
She wraps it in a Tesco bag and a bin liner - it stinks. As soon as you get in she starts frying onions, making pastry, white sauce. Dad eats fish pie for supper.
?
She made us a separate one.
.
Sep 29, 2011
Sep 29, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
frogs "croaking"
in front of me, in the reeds
crickets "chirping"
behind me, in the brush
countless coyotes "yelping"
from across the lake
bass, carp surfacing
under a yellow moon
unaware its shimmering shaft’s
a magnet to my eye
and more lullaby to me,
who can yet see spectral waves
but lost cherished vibrations--like birdsong,
winsome whispers--eons ago
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 6:14 PM UTC
I am aware of red flags
and really aware of the possibility
that these lead to red rivers:
red running rivers
in which I am floating face up
have you forgotten:
I am able bodied?
and able bodied as I am
I am equally swollen with boredom weight
and the weight of boredom
and the perpetual presence
of the inability to see my toes
(if I lean back far enough)
and with this body
(and that body floating in the river)
I have filled a lake of tears
and blood
and ***** and oil
that you have fished in and taken from
in that river I am stained red and blue
and so are the towels I used
(we used
you used)
oh fisherman
retrieved my body
(if you get this message)
because I am calling for you from heaven
you are weeping and heaving
as you hoist my body from the river
it is too late, fisherman
it is no use to pump
red and blue
(purple) water
from my lungs
I have filled myself with it
in its airborne state
and I am watching you, fisherman
from the skies and the sea
in every carp you catch
and whether you eat me or spare me
fisherman
I am perpetually grateful
to your choosing of my choices
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 8:57 AM UTC
ravishing moon taps
my fluttering eggshell heart
the splattering yolk
flat sliver of moon
sliding across paradise
slicing the treetops
the lunatic moon
sails forth without his trousers
blushing sky tonight
unforeseen moon
these blooming heavens ablaze
the refugee sky
let me be consoled
up in the thunderhead sky
by a silky moon
wild moonlit river
carp riot underwater
a squadron of snakes
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 4:10 PM UTC
It's the week of Giving
Thanks, and I'm thinking
Of the magical place of
My Dreams, the
Dream-state I existed
In my childhood.
Google maps is SCI-
Finite, and does this place
Justice like a squid
Quoting Revelation 1:
9 - the Island of Palmos.
But at least the squid
Was half-right -
Middle Park Lagoon
Had an island.
It wasn't just the little farm
Pond full of alligator snappers,
And indelible fish (carp, anagram:
Crap)
It was the surrounding woods,
The Leopard Frogs I could not
(And really didn't want to)
Catch. It wasn't the shoe-
Stealing muck-mud, the
Barely-4-foot deep water.
It wasn't Duck Creek flowing
Next door, flooding often,
Its waters spilling into the
Waters of the Lagoon, depositing
And withdrawing wildlife
At will.
It was my escape-pod in the
Mysterious Spaceship Earth
That was 1968-1984, for my Dad
Ed Scheck, was Supt. of Parks
And Rec in Bettendorf, Iowa.
He oversaw all the parks, the
Pre-Waterslide-Pool, the Bike
Trails connecting Davenport
To its bro/sis city.
My Dad had to work a lot
And me in the park was like
Me visiting Dad.
The Lagoon frozen when we
Had Iowa winter, and a very
Popular place to skate. I think
I loved the Lagoon more frozen
Than liquid. At night, I would
Cut through the houses on
Fair Meadows Drive, listening to
KSTT-AM blasting on the speaker
Attached to the light pole.
It was the scariest part of my day,
That little freezing trip from
Lagoon to Home.
And about the best.
In 1979, at sixteen, I applied
For employment with the
Parks Department, and that
Meant summers working at
Palmer Hills Golf Course.
And, winters, supervising
Middle Park Lagoon.
I got to skate out on the
Ice, the ice that would turn
To the watery body I loved
Most of all, and miss, to
This day.
From 1968 (5) to 1984.
The math doesn't add up;
Magic has no columns that
Add up at the bottom, because
Magic is bottomless.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
The wind blew,
Monster Frog Rock sat high and dry
Baring his soft white underbelly
Where Old One-eye Bob the Bass
Napped on summer afternoons
Back when the cities did not drink so much water.
The wind blew,
A flock of four fowl dived
And herded dragon-flies to
Where the trout out jumped the carp
For the sapphire quad-winged engineering miracles.
All in all, a great day fishing at Lake Morena.
The trout chose dragon-flies over
Walmart eerie-descent Power Bait.
No loss, over all, a net gain.
No bait spent for nothing,
No time wasted,
No hope lost.
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC
Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.
Jun 3, 2012
Jun 3, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
In the caste of what the fir trees denoted what should be or what should not be,
I clasped the fig twigs and watched them split as if to say that all must come to an end.
And in the end, who can the charred leaves blame if there should be tire rods and hubcaps strewn
across the forest's floor?
After totaling the costs of what should not be,
the last mast of yesterday's trade boat could skiff along the shore,
with flag flailing like the playground children's hands.
Irrationality piquing: birds dip and dive like a boxer's fists made of shadow
from one powerline to the next.
Training for the changing, biting winds, watching the unconscious cars staring.
And the skiff oozing through the unmentionables littered in the creek : what will
become of him?
Lodged in stale, fossil bones -- floundered between the swingset and the droning, dusty traffic at 3 a.m.
Metamorphic scarabs stolen from the gusts and pants of too much play.
Basketballs stained with carrion, precarious gusto in the wake of money suckling and ripping alongside
the skiff.
Cross here with two pennies.
Goaded by the solitary abandonment of the 1930's, the used condom's mouth gaping open like hungry carp, dusty trails of light from the past lamplight hanging in the air
Birds measured up along the powerlines, moving mindlessly along with the flock
Bird drones, feathery spines
Birds perched along the playground.
Bird play so far as to say
does this not look familiar?
Bobbing, weaving, slathered in cadence and involuntary muscle jerks.
First we were here
Then we were not.
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:33 PM UTC
Aging arms splotched with purple and red
signs of tangling with jagged dead branches
among white pines along the back of the yard
reach for a copy of Ted Kooser's _Flying at Night_.
Pages flip for a stop here and there
to read _Sunset_, _Carp_ and _Spring Plowing_
Envy swells inside him with the realization
that he will never write such fine poems
which prompt memories of childhood adventures
living rural among tiger lilies blooming in meadows,
newborn calves teetering toward first steps,
and freshly spread manure capturing the scent of fall air.
His fingers still grimy from early morning planting
place Kooser's volume carefully beside his empty coffee cup
content that he is blessed to have discovered it
that day hiding next to classic tomes by Shakespeare and Whitman.
He rises to tackle digging potholes for double begonias
to decorate his yard and and to dream of pages unread.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Blossoms billow in slow-motion
Tender petals sigh to the ground
Cushioned upon a sunny breeze
And fat bees and lazy bluebottles
Are snoring gently
Bouncing softly
From bloom to gorgeous bloom
Glad-ragged and gleaming
In their gaudiest glory
And neon dragonflies drone
Adding to the sonerous chorus
As they skim a sweltering pool
Where carp break the surface
Idly basking in the heat
There is a blackbird clarinetting
From the top of a nearby tree
And high-summer aromas
Pervade the shimmering air
And, just for this moment
Time itself stands still
By Phil Roberts
Feb 12, 2016
Feb 12, 2016 at 3:24 PM UTC
creek in th'dark
w/brightest stone baubles, dappled riverbottom pebbles under moon-water,
a thousand faces glinting, smiling upwards.
school of carp in the reeds, the stalks rasping in the warm air
as the tails swish them back and forth.
the unheard steady **** of flapping, feeding mouths --
drawing in of algae, snails, waterbeetles;
soft crunch of shell and exoskeleton.
two legs on the dune by the stream wishing
there was two more legs on the dune, angling
down toward the stream.
a tender accompanying voice singing maybe Piaf
avec un accent provincial (de châtillon?)
hair wet, tangled;
sporting powder-white two-piece,
fresh from having swam with strong, slow kicks of slender pale legs,
long in that green water.
legs that look good in black heels.
their clicking imagined in the head.
Apr 3, 2013
Apr 3, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
Manacled the hands
Which intertwine with one another now,
Hands that come to grip with issues
Locked within the soul, somehow.
Manacled, the hands that hold her
Manacled in blood and bone,
Hold the baby’s head so gently
Veined and scarred with love intoned.
Hands of strength that strike the anvil
Shape the shoe to fit the hoof
Hold the stallion’s head commanding
Strong control to stay aloof.
Hands that wield the sword of vengeance
Hands that feed the wood to fire,
Work the field with ox and plough
Stroke her body to desire.
Veinous hands, so strong and calloused
Locked within his every day,
Hands that clap to merry music
Hands that to the piper pay.
Hunter hands to snare the rabbit
Catch the carp in yonder lake,
Pen the words of love to paper
Knead the dough of bread to bake.
Quiet hands that rest in evening
Sitting by the fireside,
Listening to the snoring hounds
Which on the mat, asleep, reside.
Manacled, these hands, he ponders
Locked within the ways of sin,
Reminiscent recollection
…Quiet smile on whiskered chin.
Fingers cooled in fresh spring water
Feel the rays of rising sun,
Stride across the purple heather
These hands, a goodly day begun.
Marshalg
FOXGLOVE, Taranaki.
4.20am 17 February 2013
© 2013 Marshal Gebbie
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC