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preservationman Mar 2014
The detail dialog of phases slow
I want you to see how this situation flows
It was a co-worker to buy some ***** for dinner
My co-worker invited me to tag along, but I chose not to enter
Then later on I changed my mind and decided to go along
We went to the butcher to buy live *****
As I saw the ***** being touched, they were moving ready for a fight
I stated to the Butcher, ”This is going to be a Butcher and ***** in plight
As the butcher placed the ***** in the bag
The bag of ***** began to sag
The ***** were fighting as a bunch in the bag
One thing that is for sure, the story continues in not being a drag
Now we are on the New York City Subway system of the D-train home
One of the ***** tore open the bag and started to roam
A scream broke out from one rider seeing one of the *****
Because this was evening rush hour, many other riders were just plain mad
I told my co-worker there goes your dinner to eat
There was my cue to get off the train and retreat
My co-worker was able to eat ***** and appreciate
***** that went on a plate, and the co-worker who sat down and ate
This is what I experienced in search of *****
My adventure written on several pads
A story of my account saved on tabs.
A true story more than just a poem
preservationman May 2019
NOT A THRILLER
CERTAINLY NOT INVOLVING THE SEAS
THESE ARE HUMAN *****
THEY ARE MAD WITH THE WORLD
DISPOSITIONS THAT MAKE OTHER PERSONALITIES SWIRL
THE HUMAN ***** THAT ARE A TURNOFF
YET THEY CAN CERTAINLY BE A FORCE
I REMEMBER IN BALTIMORE, MARYLAND, I BROUGHT A CAP THAT SAID, “DON’T BOTHER ME, I AM CRABBY”
THAT CAP CERTAINLY FITS THE HUMAN ***** MOOD
I ONLY WISH A HUMAN ***** HEART THAT WOULD MELT LIKE BUTTER WITH A PERSONALITY THAT WOULD SOOTH
HUMAN ***** USUALLY HAVE ATTITUDES HIGH
IT’S THEIR MANNERISMS THAT’S WHY
HUMAN ***** ARE MAD GOING TO BED AND WAKE UP CRABBY THE NEXT MORNING
MISERY LOVES COMPANY
MAD HAS A NEW THEME, “HUMAN *****”
BUT LET ME ADD “THE REVENGE OF THE HUMAN *****”
ALWAYS READY TO GO WITH A SITUATION AT HAND
BUT HUMAN ***** ARE KNOWN THROUGHOUT THE LAND
CRABBY OR NOT
SOMETIMES YOU JUST WANT TO TIE A HUMAN CRAB IN A KNOT.
Keith J Collard Jun 2013
The Quest for the Damsel Fish  by Keith Collard

Author's  Atmosphere

On the bow of the boat, with the cold cloud of the dismal day brushing your back conjuring goose bumped flesh you hold an anchor.  For the first time, you can pick this silver anchor up with only one hand and hold it over your head. It resembles the Morning Star, a brutal medieval weapon that bludgeons and impales its victims.  Drop it into the dark world beyond the security of your boat--watch the anchor descend.
        Watch this silver anchor--this Morning Star--descend away from the boat and you, it becomes swarmed over with darkness.  It forms a ******-metallic grin at first as it sinks, then the sinking silver anchor takes its last shape at its last visible glimpse.  It is so small now as if it could be hung from a necklace.  It is a silver sword.  
Peering over the side of the boat, the depths collectively look like the mouth of a Cannibalistic Crab, throwing the shadows of its mandibles over everything that sinks down into it--black mandibles that have joints with the same angle of a Reaper's Scythe.  

I am scared looking at this sinking phantasm.  I see something from my youth down there in this dark cold Atlantic.  I see the silver Morning Star again, now in golden armor.  I remember a magnificent kingdom, in a saltwater fish tank I had once and never had again.  A tropical paradise that I see again as I stare down into the depths.  This fish tank was so beautiful with the most beautiful inhabitants who I miss.  Before I could lift the silver anchor--the Morning Star--over my head with only one hand, turning gold in that morning sun-- I was a boy who sat indian style, cross legged--peering into this brilliant spectacle of light I thought awesome.  I thought all the darkness of home and the world was kept at bay by this kingdom of light...

Chapter  1 Begins the Story

The Grey Skies of Mass is the Name of This Chapter.

                                                      ­­                        
    
 Air, in bubbles--it was a world beauty of darkness revealed in slashes of light from dashing fluorescent bulbs overhead this fish tank.
Silver swords of fluorescent energy daring to the bottom, every slash revealing every color of the zodiac--from the Gold of Scorpio to the purple of Libra combining into the jade of the Gemini. 
In the center, like a dark Stonehenge were rocks. The exterior rocks had tropical colors like that of cotton candy, but the interior shadows of the rocks that was the Stonehenge, did not possess one photon of light. The silver messengers of the florescent energy from above would tire and die at their base.  The shadows of the Stonehenge rocks would stand over them as they died.

 
          When the boy named Sake climbed the rickety wood stairs of the house, he did so in fear of making noise, as if to not wake each step.
   Until he could see the glowing aura of his fish tank then he would start down that eerie hall, With pictures of ghosts and ghosts of pictures staring down at him as he walked down that rickety hallway of this towering old colonial home.  He hurried to the glowing tank to escape the black and white gazing picture frames.
                    The faint gurgling, bubbling of the saltwater tank became stronger in his ear, and that sound guided him from the last haunt of the hallway-- the empty room that was perpendicular to  his room.   He only looked to his bright tank as soon as he entered the hallway from the creaky wooden steps.  Then he proceeded to sit in front of this great tropical fish tank in Indian style with his legs folded over one another as children so often would sit.
  The sun was setting.  The reflections from the tank were beginning to send ripples down the dark walls. Increasing  wave after wave reflecting down his dark walls.  He thought they to be seagulls flapping into the darkness until they were overcome as he was listening to the bubbling water of his tank.
                " Hello my fish, hello Angel, hello Tang, hello  Hoomah, hello Clown and hello Damsel … and hello to you Crab...even though I do not like you," he said in half jest not looking at the crab in the entrance of the rocks.  The rocks were the color of cotton candy, but the interior shadows did not possess a photon of luminescence.  All other shadows not caused by the rocks--but by bright swaying ornament--were like the glaze on a candy apple--dark but delicious.  Besides the crab's layer in the rock jumble at the center of the tank which was a Stonehenge within a Stonehenge--the tank was a world of bright inviting light.
                The crab was in its routine,  motionless in the entrance to his foyer, with his scythe-like claws in the air, in expectation of catching one of the bright fish someday.  For that reason the boy tried to remove the crab in the past, but even though the boy was fast with his hand, the optical illusion of the tank would always send his hand where the crab no longer was.  He did not know how to use two hands to rid the crab in the future by trapping and destroying the Cannibal Crab ;  his father, on a weekend visit, gave the Crab to the boy to put into the bright world of the saltwater tank, which Sake quickly regretted.  His father promised him that the Crab would not be able to catch any of the fish he said " ...***** only eat anything that has fallen to the bottom or each other..."

         A scream from the living room downstairs ran up the rickety wood and down the long hall and startled the boy.  His mother sent her shrieks out to grab the boy, allowing her to not have to waste any time nor calorie on her son; for she would tire from the stairs, but her screams would not, allowing her to stay curled up on the couch.  If she was not screaming for Sake, she was talking as loud as screams on the phone with her girlfriends.  The decibels from her laugh was torture for all in the silent house.   A haughty laugh in a gossipy conversation, that overpowered the sound of the bright tropical fish tank in Sake's room that was above and far opposite her in the living room.
               " Sake you have to get a paper-route to pay for the tank, the electricity bill is outrageous," she said while not taking her eyes off the TV and her legs curled up beside her.  He would glad fully get a paper-route even if it was for a made up reason.  He turned to go, and looked back at his mother, and a shudder ran through him with a new thought:  someday her appearance will match her voice.  

              Upon reaching his tank,  Hoomah was trying to get his attention as always.  Taking up pebbles in his big pouty pursed lips and spitting them out of his lips like a weak musket.  The Hoomah was a very silly fish, it looked like one of Sake’s aunts, with too much make up on, slightly overweight, and hovering on two little fins that looked incapable of keeping it afloat, but they did.  The fins reminded him of the legs of his aunt--skinny under not so skinny.’

               The Tang was doing his usual aquanautics , darting and sailing was his trick.  He was fast, the fastest with his bright yellow triangular sail cutting the water.  Next was the aggressive Clown fish, the boy thought she was always aggresive because she didn't have an anemone to sleep on.  The Clown was strong and sleek with an orange jaw and body that was built like a tigress.
  Sake thought something tragic about the body if the  orange Clown and the three silver traces that clawed her body as decoration -they reminded him of the incandescent orange glow of a street lamp being viewed through the rainy back windshield of a car.   The Clown fish was a distraction that craved attention.
The Clown would chase around some of the other fish and jump out of the water to catch the boy's eye. 
                 Next is the Queen Angel fish, she is the queen of the tank, she sits in back all alone, waving like a marvelous banner, iridescent purple and golden jade.  Her forehead slopes back in a French braid style that streams over her back like a kings standard waving before battle, but her standard is of a house of beauty, and that of royal purple.

                    Lastly is the Damsel Fish, the smallest and most vulnerable in the tank.  She has royal purple also, rivaling the queen. Her eyes are lashed but not lidded like the Hoomah.  Her eyes are elliptical, and perhaps the most human, or in the boy’s opinion, she is the most lady like, the Hoomah and the Queen Angel come to her defence if she is chased around by the Clown.  Her eyes penetrate the boys, to the point of him looking away.  

                      Before the tank, in its place in the corner was a painting, an oil painting of another type of Clown donning a hat with orange partial make-up on his face (only around eyes nose and mouth there was ghost white paint) and it  had two tears coming down from its right eye.  The Clown painting was given to him by his mother, it seems he could not be rid of them, but Sake at first was taken in by the brightness of the Clown, and the smooth salacious wet look of the painting. it looked dripping, or submerged, like another alternate reality.  The wet surreal glaze of the painting seemed a portal, especially the orange glow of the Clown's skin without make-up.  .  If he tried to remember of times  before the Clown painting that preceded the Clown fish, he thought of the orange saffron twilight of sunset, and watching it from the high window from his room in the towering house.  How that light changed everything that it touched, from the tree tops and the clouds, to even the dark hallway leading up to his room.  The painting and the Clown fish did not feel the same as those distant memories of sunset, especially the summer sunset when his mother would put him to bed long before the sun had set.  
Sake did not voice opposition to the Clown.
Then he was once again trapped by the Clown.  
            The boy was extremely afraid of this painting that replaced the sunsets , being confined alone with it by all those early bedtimes.
Sake once asked his mother if he could take it down, whereas she said " No."  That clown would follow him into his dreams, always he would be down the hill from the tall house on the hill, trying to walk back to the house, but to walk away or run in a dream was like walking underwater or in black space, and he would make no distance as the ground opened up and the clown came out of the ground hugging him with the pryless grip of eight arms.  He would then wake up amid screams and a tearful hatted clown staring somberly down at him from the wall where it was hung.  Night made him fear the Clown painting more;  that ghost white make-up decorating around the eyes and mouth seeming to form another painting in entirety.  He could only look at the painting after a while when the lights were on, and the wet looking painting was mostly orange from the skin, neck, and forearms of the hat wearing clown.  But the painting is gone now, and the magnificent light display of the tank is there now.  

                Sake pulled out the fish food, all the fish bestirred in anticipation of being fed.  The only time they would all come together; and that was to mumble the bits of falling flakes: a chomp from the Clown, a pucker from the Hoomah, the fast mumble of the Tang, and the dainty chew of the Damsel.  The Queen Angelfish would stay near the bottom, and kiss a flake over and over.   She would not deign herself to go into a friendly frenzy like the other fish; she stayed calm, yet alluring like a flag dancing rhythmically in the breeze, but never repeating the same move as the wind never repeats the same breeze.  She is the only fish to change colors.  When the grey skies of Mass emit through every portal in the house at the height of its bleakness, her colors would turn more fantastic, perhaps why she is queen.

                 He put his finger in the top of the watery world; the warmth was felt all the way up his arm.  After feeding, his favorite thing to do was to trace his finger on the top of the warm water and have the Damsel follow it. She loved it, it was her only time to dance, for the Clown would descend down in somewhat fear ( or annoyance) of the boys finger, and the Damsel and he would dance.  The boy, thought that extraordinary.

                     Sake bedded down that night, to his usual watery world of his room.  The reflective waves running down the walls like seagulls of light, with the rhythmic gurgling sound and it's occasional splash of the Clown, or the Hoomah swooping into the pebbly bottom to scoop up some pebbles for spitting making the sound "ccchhhhh" --cachinging  like a distant underwater register.  The tank’s nocturne sound was therapeutic to the boy.

                      Among waking up, and being greeted by his sparkling treasure tank--that was always of the faintest light in the morning due to the grey skies of Mass coming through every portal to lessen the tropical spectrum-- the boy would render his salutations " Good morning my Hoomah.....good morning Tang, my Damsel, and your majesty Queen Angel.....and so forth.  Until the scream would come to get him, and he would walk briskly past the empty room and the looming family pictures of strangers.  His mother put him to work that day, to "pay for the fish tank" but really to buy her a new cocktail dress for her nightly forays.  The boy did not care, the tank was his sun, emitting through the bleak skies of Mass, and even if the tank was reduced to a haze by the overcast of his life, it only added a log to the fire that was the tropical world at night, in turn making him welcome the dismal day.
                  On a day, when the overcast was so thick, he felt he could not picture his rectangular orb waiting for him at night. He had trouble remembering what houses to deliver the paper.  He delivered to the same house three times.  Newspapers seemed to disappear in his hands, due to their color relation to the sky.   Leaves were falling from the trees—butterfly like—he went to catch one, he missed--a first. For Sake could walk through dense thorned brambles and avoid every barb, as a knight in combat or someone’s whose heart felt the painful sting of the barb before.  He would stand under a tree in late fall, and roll around to avoid every falling leaf, and pierce them to the ground deftly with a stick fashioned as a sword.  He could slither between snow flakes, almost like a fish nimbly avoiding small flakes.  
                  After he finished his paper-route , he went to his usual spot under an oak tree to fence with falling leaves.  As the other boys walked by and poked fun he would stall his imagination, and look to the brown landscape of the dry fall.  The crisp brown leaves of the trees were sword shapes to him.  He held the battle ax shape of the oak leaf over his eye held up by the stick it was pierced through, and spied the woodline through the sinus of the oak leaf lobe.  The brown white speckled scenery, were all trying to hide behind eachother by blending in bleakfully; he pretended the leaf was Hector’s helmet from the Illiad—donned over his eyes.
“ Whatchya doing Sake?” asked a young girl named Summer.  Sake only mumbled something nervously and stood there.  And a pretty Summer passed on after Sake once again denied himself of her pretty company.  He looked to the woodline again, a mist was now concealing the tall apical trees.  It now looked like the brown woodland was not trying to retreat behind eachother in fall concealment, but trying to emerge forth out of the greyness to say "save us."

“ Damgf” he uttered, and could not even grasp a word correctly.  His head lifted to the sky repeatedly, there was no orb, and the shadows were looming larger than ever; fractioned shadows from tree branches were forming scythes all over the ground.
             He entered the large shadow that was his front door, into the house that rose high into the sky, with the simplicity of Stonehenge.  He climbed the rickety petrified stairs and went down the hall.  Grey light had spotlighted every frame on the wall.  He looked into the empty room, nothingness, then his room, the tank seemed at its faintest, and it was nearing twilight.  He walked past the tank to look out the w
preservationman Feb 2016
Yes you read the title right
But let me shred some light
It happened in 1980 when I worked on Madison Avenue
The Receptionist was going to buy live crab for dinner
Well as a friend would, I accompanied her
We entered the Butcher, and there were array of kinds of meat and live ***** on Eighth Avenue and West 43rd Street
The Receptionist was going to eat good that night was going to be a treat
The Butcher put 8 Live ***** in the bag
It’s a wonder that none of the ***** had to gag
So walked to 6th Avenue to catch the D train
The continued story gets to be even more insane
One of the ***** escaped out
Some of the passengers made big scream shout
You can imagine in what I am talking about
It was dinner on the run
This was a live crab raw and not even cooked done
I told the Receptionist, there goes your dinner after it
When the Receptionist got home, she cooked those ***** until they were done
But before that, they fought out the bag
It sounds more like they were playing tag
There’s the sea food tail, ***** in their crabby ways, and I will never forget on that day.
Stephen E Yocum Oct 2013
The Island Moorea,
backpacking Tahiti,
In the heat, the sun,
The rhythm of my footfalls
crunching loose gravel road,
The swish of pack swaying
in conert to my measured pace.

Breeze pushing branches of Palm,
Ocean waves breaching shoreline long.
Island vehicles passing, occupant's laughing,
a man laboring under large pack, alone walking,
Who could have been freely riding,
Unthinkable to Island Folk,
in hot tropical places.

Some humble homes pasted along the way.
Greetings exchanged with smiling faces there.
Not long afterward a new sound approaching,
crunching gravel, rolling up behind me.

A lovely young girl, perhaps nineteen,
long brown naked legs bike a peddling.
Hair jet black, long to her waist, wearing
a sarong, split up the side,
Shoulders bare and brown.
Dark eyes of wonder, sparkling of youth.
A radiant smile adorning a splendid face.

We went for a time at my even pace,
looking and smiling each in our place.
"Hello there," I said, she giggled, beamed
even bigger. Perfect teeth displayed.

"Why you walk?" She asked in heavily
accented puzzlement.

"To get to where I'm going". I replied
This response producing a pleasant laugh
from the girl. In which I too joined in.

"You go One Chicken?" She asked
I stopped then and turned to her.
"Where is One Chicken?" I questioned
with a grin.

She raised her graceful arm,
one finger pointing up the road.
"One Chicken there," she informed.

It was a store/bar, sort of place,
In the very midst of nowhere.
Indeed, more than one chicken roamed,
Many chickens did and a pig or two,
mingling free and doing their thing.

We entered out of the bright daylight,
into the deepest of darks,
Like in a movie theater, when arriving late.
Eyes adjusting slowly to what lay ahead.

A few Island Beers later,
I had acquired several new friends,
The girl my invitation to the party of
already happy people a little drunk on beer.
The Music was mostly of French persuasion,
With a bit of Bob Dylan thrown in.
The Beatles also had a tune or two.
The Liverpool beat resounding down Tahiti way.

Before the light did fail, I shouldered my pack
and walked some distance from Chickens and Pigs.
Found the beach, hung my Hammock for the night.
Built a small fire and opened a can of Spam delight.

She appeared again about ten,
looking beautiful in the new moonlight.
Newly washed hair, still damp and
smelling fresh of Lilacs,
Or some such aromatic scent.
We did not speak, no words were needed,

Made love on the sand, 'till the retreat of the
tide and sand ***** did come out, in their
eerie numbers, to eat what was at hand.
I suppose even us if we let them.

We retired then both to my hammock,
A pretty neat trick if you can swing it.
And we did.

She was so childlike and yet,
very much a woman grown.
There was no pretense shown,
no false inhibitions rendered.
These were not limitations of her culture.
people that respond to their emotional impulses.
An open and free spirited people living
passionately within each minute.

It all felt more akin to a dream than real,
All around me there was beauty,
Loving and being loved without hurry,
Free of guilt or even a single expectation.
Living in that wondrous moment,
of uncomplicated human splendor.
Like some Garden of Eden surrender.
A real life Gauguin painting.

In the morning, we swam naked in the sea,
frolicked like kids having a day at the beach.
Made love in the sand, I dozed in the sun.
Upon awaking she was gone.

I waited an hour or two, packed up my camp,
shouldered my load and returned to the road.
A few minutes later, again I heard the now
familiar crunch of rubber tires,
rolling road surface and there she was,
a straw basket in her Bike's basket,  
A huge smile on her unforgettable,
beautiful face.

We sat in a grove of trees,
among birds singing, in sight of the sea,
Upon a Palm log and ate fresh bread and
fruit. Drank strong black coffee (French Roast
I presume,) nibbling some marvelous cheese.
We tried to talk, but she understood little of
what I tried to say, my French was nearly
nonexistent, only adding to confusions sake .

She leaned her head on my shoulder,
the way lovers do and tenderly held
my hand within her two,
As if not wanting to let go,
Those gestures said all there was to say,
And we savored each silent moment.

We parted there, she on blue, rusty bike
and me on "shanks mare",
Off in two different directions,
Each out into the depths of our own lives,
Gone just like that. . . And yet,
Indelible, never to be forgotten or replaced.
Some days and nights, that young maiden of
Moorea does still visit me, in dreams as real
as can be. She never grows old, nor does the
beauty we shared for that one brief moment in
time immortal.

Someplace among the Islands of Tahiti
there is a woman in her sixties, most likely
a Mother, even a Grandmother yet living.
I hope she recalls as fondly the American blond
man with the big Orange Backpack, that in 1972
she met upon the road, near "One Chicken" and
loved freely and completely for two days and a
night, as that man does so fondly remember her.
Julia Hones Jul 2018
Your life is made of distant springs and falls,
a straight route is not
what you own
for hurricanes and storms divert your path
to new horizons.

Will you find horseshoe *****, mussels, clams
on the stopovers?
Food awaits you
if the shores are not ravaged
by human greed, ignorance.

Your resilience is written in B95's ordeals,
a mosaic of adventures ingrained in his own cells.

The threads of your trips assemble
the places of Mother Earth connected in its roles;
nothing is detached in the collective harmony of souls.

Red knot shorebird,
peaceful messenger,
icon of strength without rage,
your story is the universal flight of awareness
waiting to be heard.
Red knot shorebirds are endangered birds due to human greed and ignorance. B95 is a survivor who has traveled the moon and halfway back in terms of distance.
what a waste Sep 2016
I'm King of the *****
Dragging my jaws of life claws
all the way to the vault doors
like where's my barnacle crown at

Now is that anyway to treat your Lord
I'll rat-a-tat-tat across every carnivore
like that bloated comet did the dinosaurs
Only a coward feasts on a corpse
that's why my food stays with its pulse
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")


I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.

I am a summer-man.

On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of
mussels and horseshoe *****.
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.

I am a summer-man.

Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the  summer alphabet-soup
of my multiple tongues.

I am a summer-man.

Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone,
with proper aging,
getting  hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints,
super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^

I am a summer-man.

When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his  
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash


I am a summer-man.

Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.

I would add April,
but the IRS is already
****** at me.^^^

Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.

Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.


This summer, beloved,
and love of summer,
deep-rooted.

Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.

A love,  incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling popping
^ See "The Summer Alphabet of Woman (I Speak Woman)"
August 23 2013

lipstadt-man

^^ See "Made the bed backwards"
August 24 2013

^^^  See "Caesar Has No Authority Over The Grammarians"
August 22 2013

^^^^ See "* Acorns in August (Sonata for Summer Cello and Fall Piano, No. 3)" August 19 2013

——————

* Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel

April come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain;
May, she will stay,
Resting in my arms again

June, she´ll change her tune,
In restless walks she´ll prowl the night;
July, she will fly
And give no warning to her flight.

August, die she must,
The autumn winds blow chilly and cold;
September I´ll remember.
A love once new has now grown old

————
Tonya Maria

Tonya Maria  I am a summer-woman,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
I too display the summer season stretch marks.....
The sea, my lover, owns every inch of me......
croob Apr 2018
Hermit ***** sleep deep
piled up and closed-keep,
‘*** Hermit ***** need friends.
but if you ain’t a Hermit Crab
don’t give a Hermit crab an ‘in’;
for if you ain’t no Hermit Crab,
Hermit ***** will be your ends.

good old Geoffrey especially,
his Hermit shell an endless well of money.
you may be taken hostage
by his Hermit eyes of blinding honey,
but close those eyes against the sun
and he won’t even see ya, sonny.

watch out for them Hermit *****,
or they’ll watch out for you instead.
if you don’t watch out for Hermit *****;
Hermit *****
watch you be dead.

just trust me on this,
i’ve, long ago, been There.
I would not be sayin’ it
if I didn’t Deeply care.

you know the information now,
do with it
what you dare.
Grabbing *****
in the New Jersey sand
demands quick hands.
Creeping deep
they dig down under

away

from the wind
in their seldom seen shells,
but my brother has a shovel
and can ****** them
even in the midst of sea foam
from small waves climbing the shore.

And at cousin Barb’s pond
Our hands swipe swiftly,
But stealthily enough
In brisk Michigan winds
to grasp and capture
the frogs lingering
near the edges.

Hardest to catch though
are cicadas
in our back yard
hiding in the trees
calling out to play.
My brother and I,
ages 8 and 10
cast our fingers
and clench only their wings
enough to fill two milk jugs.
Claire A Jacobs Dec 2014
No sound nothing, almost like before birth, before realization of life itself. In seconds I felt the pressure condense on my back and in an intense pain as  I hit the rocky shore.
My vision blurred by the blinding life giver. My ears  are filled with screeches, squeals and other peculiar unheard  sounds.
I find my self surrounded by large oval shaped rocks and lakes seething with life of all forms.
beyond this rock filled world I see the familiar blue from which I belong.
The life giver attacks me with such wrath that the cooling water sizzles from my body, cooking me as if for a treat for some larger being. I scurry for shade under a near by rock. Under the shade I could feel a cooling breeze sweep over me. As  I crawl further and further under the rock I find myself being slowly in a known feeling, the chilled waters make me feel like I am home.
Out of exhaustion I collapse and stay unable to move for for what feels like a life time. I let the water wash over me, becoming part of the landscape devolving to a rock.
Until instinct wafts a smell so enticing, so magnificent that my claws move automatically, searching for a taste of heaven.
Dodging between looming boulders, sniffing around as my blood hound instinct kicks in.
I front of me I find this large succulent piece of meat. I begin to feast recognizing the texture and taste as algae and salmon.
My stomach satisfied with all my nutrients rein-burst my body begins to strengthen bursting energy in me outward a feeling of a fight still within me.  
I crawled from rock to rock looking for my next meal. Diving in and out of pools fighting off others for meals and shelter feeling invincible in a world where I am king.
As the life giver to swelter slowly ******* all the surrounding watering holes dry. I look for shelter under a rock near the cliffs at the end  of this world.
I lay there, peaceful undisturbed almost sinking into my dreams.
All at once the rocks begin to shake rippling the water around me. the large rock I lay under begin to levitate and then lands a distance away.
Shocked and scared, pleading with the life giver and the familiar blue that the worst is over, but I know I cursed myself as soon as I thought that I ruled this world.
Standing a hundred thousand times taller than I, was a horrifying, mysterious beast that surly owned these parts.
This beast lent down and picked me up with its disproportionately small tentacles. It holds me up to its odd fleshy face and I think please let my death be quick, but instead it just stares at me inspecting me, rubbing my shell as if to polish me as some prize. It starts rumbling creating large vibrations down my body like it was trying to converse with me.
As a last and futile attempt, I strike at its flesh but its soft flesh is impervious to my hardest crunch. Having crushed snails shells with less, I realize I am doomed to what ever fate this unusual demon has in-store.
It brings me across the entire land in seconds like a flying beasts I have admired from above, This one used two long tentacles to jump from rock to rock.
It brings me over to a gathering of its species but to my horror the one holding me was the smallest of this gathering. It holds me up to its companions like an offering, they investigate me, rubbing me again but this time almost taunting me to snap at them, I try and fail.
They begin rumbling like earthquakes.
This is the end but again spares me for now and places me in a lake with a small amount of algae to eat. I stay there as I can see it watching me from a distance. Is it trying to fatten me before it eats me?
Am I part of some sort of cruel sport? Or a horrible experiment?
I stay there as this thing occasionally takes me out and focused its sights on me and vibrates waves from air from a hole in his face, then places me back in the water.
It starts bring other creatures back, other ***** like it was collecting us. We stay there too terrified to speak to one another, too baffled to know what we could say. Eventually it begins to take the other ***** out I cannot see where he puts them or more petrifying what he does with them.
I am left alone in this lake but I can still hear them in the distance pulsating the ground and water. Until silence, I can no longer see the shadowing figures, feel the shaking. All I can hear is the familiar blue whispering to me "you are safe".
I crawl out of the lake slowly to find my rock land being eaten by my friend the familiar blue and I understand its call, it is coming for me.
As it comes closer I too walk forward meeting it and as A wave crashes over me, sweeping me from the solid ground and tossing me into its warming body.
I think to myself, I am free.
This is actually a short story I did a few years ago.
I got the idea from going "crabbing" with a friends 10 year old child. All i could think about was how freaked out that crab must have been even though the child just thought he was making friends.

© Claire A. Jacobs. All rights reserved.
CK Baker Apr 2017
willets cull the seawall
snappers rest on grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade

plovers dance and flutter
handrail frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from the high
noon sun

thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in a front line march
pillar cracks form
the rust brown scars

elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above tentaciones

striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand

heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under dusk light cheroot

six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wear

rooster house for marlin
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
madera bay
Crandall Branch Nov 2017
pitter patter* go my feet as I walk over to visit my *****

swish swish go their lithe bodies as they waddle over to meet me

chomp chomp go their dextrous mouths as they consume the food i tossed into their tank

click clack go their sharp claws as they pinch everything they see

ouch yikes goes my mouth as i scream in pain

stomp stomp go my heavy feet as i run away
please leave feedback and comments below! :)
Tammy M Darby Aug 2013
Royalty
She dwells in the sea- green palace of her father
The mermaid swam alone on blustery days
The seed of the water god Neptune and a river nymph
Her beauty blind the sun and his morning rays

On days of boredom
She swam with the white dolphins
Riding high on heaving rolling waves
Other times with Omura's whales dive deep
Or play in a red coral reef bay
Tickling blue ***** that walked on the sandy bottom
Exploring the dark octopus caves

Floating often with the deadly jellyfish
Keeping her scaled tail very still
Or wiggling through the raging currents of the ocean
With the graceful ribbon eels

The day passed passed
She became weary
Came time to rest her head
Returned to the flowing green kelp palace
And did sleep on a starfish bed



All Rights Reserved @Tammy M Darby August 2013.
All Material Stored in Author Base
JK Cabresos Jan 2012
Juvenile Government. Black-skinned Politics.
Lavish desires for power, establish conflicts,
Contrive one's graveyard for authorities,
And inculcate defalcation at the zenith.

Deciphering the truth from ocean of lies,
Sovereignty of benevolent people has drowned;
Flooded miseries. Benighted reality.
Withered accountability. Absurd transparency.
© 2012
Randy Johnson May 2015
STD
If you want my ex girlfriend, she's up for grabs.
But if you sleep with her, you will get the *****.
It's possible that you may get ****** too.
Sleeping with her is a stupid thing to do.
I caught her in bed with my cousin and I thumped her.
She sleeps with a lot of men, that's why I dumped her.
I'm giving you valuable advice so you'd better listen to me.
If you ****** my ex girlfriend, you are sure to get an STD.
This is a fictional poem.
1970 Odysseus visits cousin Patsy in New York City she introduces him to her best friend Lauren’s older less attractive more reclusive sister Tanya Mulhaney extremely wealthy family father founded corporation manufactures pinball machines which years later develop to video games then casino empire he favors and spoils Tanya but dies suddenly her envious sisters and mother gang up on Tanya is pale skinny flat-chested copious brown bush Odysseus sits in bathtub with Tanya and he probes in a way they hits it off maybe no boy has ever touched her in that way her complexion is so fragile slightest fluster prompts pink blotches on her cheeks neck chest back he admires her book smarts he’s attracted to her refined strangeness he thinks her bush and flat-chest are **** she laughs shyly offers to take him around the world he accepts Odysseus tells his parents Mom goes crazy yells into telephone what are you a ******? you father and i work like fools to send you to the best schools so you can make something of yourself you’re going to throw everything away to be a ***? i tell you we’ll disown you you won’t have a home to come back to do you hear me? we’ll disown you! she sobs how can you just walk out after all we have done for you? you ******* kid! Odysseus takes leave of absence from art school he and Tanya take Iberia jet 12 hour flight with stopover in Iceland to Belgium Tanya sinks into one of her moods swallows several pills to help her rest sitting on other side of Odysseus is curly haired skinny talkative musician claims he has jammed with Miles Davis and other jazz greats Odysseus says yeah right and i’ve shown with Johns and Twombly where exactly are you heading in Europe? musician answers he is a scientologist on his way to visit L. Ron Hubbard in England Odysseus does not know what Dianetics are and wants explanation he asks many questions and musician talks for hours they enjoy each other’s rapport as jet descends in Brussels they exchange home addresses in the States 9 months later when Odysseus returns to America a friend notices scribbled address while skimming through his travel journals Odys! how did you get Chick Corea’s address? do you know him? do you realize how brilliant he is? he’s a keyboard virtuoso! Odysseus questions Chick Corea? who’s Chick Corea? he looks at journal page then says oh that guy i sat next to him on the jet to Europe so he really is a famous musician huh? wow!

in October 1970 Brussels is damp chilly Tanya wears hip-hugger jeans black turtle-neck top North Face shell she huddles her arms around her chest smokes cigarettes looks through hotel room window out into gray overcast sky speaks in defeatist voice i didn’t bring clothes for this weather she picks at her plate in hotel restaurant glumly vacillates later in bed after refusing *** decides they leave tomorrow fly to Canary Islands for several weeks to get tan before traveling through Morocco during winter months Canary Islands are laden with Swedish tourists including bikini clad young girls many not wearing tops Odysseus is thinking about how to swing some of that Swedish free love once Tanya gets drunk succumbs to Odysseus’s ****** overtures it is good  one day while returning to hotel from beach 2 Spanish police stop and question Tanya and Odysseus police order to see their passports then command them into squad car police bark in Spanish rifle through their daypacks point a finger Odysseus can smell alcohol on their breaths Tanya and Odysseus are terrified police drive off main road to remote location abandoned ruins no one is around police order them to step out police drive off laughing Tanya’s complexion is crimson she sobs they could have murdered us no one would know who we are or where to find us we’re lost where are we? Odysseus looks around replies don’t worry we’ll be all right i watched where the driver was going we’ll retrace their trail

they fly to Tangier travel south by train Tanya is irritable insisting Odysseus carry her backpack Casablanca is ***** 3 men peer from sunglasses act suspicious wear tattered trench coats Tanya and Odysseus snack at cafe which provides hookahs for smoking hashish Odysseus scores several grams Tanya laughs suggests they rent car drive south travel to sandy beaches of Diabet for 6 weeks in the morning she paces around French hotel room with cigarette in one hand ashtray in other like she is sultry 1940’s Hollywood actress she stays in room and devours Penguin Classics Tolstoy Stendhal Proust Huysmans Zola turns out Tanya is sexually frigid she buys Odysseus anything he wants but does not put out they take train Marrakech it is sun drenched with blue skies mountains in distance Odysseus wants to go out explore get ***** with the natives he visits Medina daily witnessing many bizarre scenes he does not understand a woman squatting over an egg a man with no legs dragging himself through marketplace holding up cigarette butts in his hand he meets a professor who is out of work because king of Morocco has closed the universities due to teachers’ strike professor explains woman squatting over egg is fortuneteller and man dragging himself has been offered crutches many times yet makes more money playing off pity of tourists cigarette butts are for sale the professor invites Odysseus to visit Berbers in mountains Odysseus persuades Tanya she reluctantly agrees the 3 travel by bus in first-class front row seats vehicle filled with lively families chickens pig bus driver has assistant who lugs people onto bus or shoves them out door at a midpoint bus stops in little town everyone exits bus then men women children urinate in street local venders sell trinkets snacks Odysseus buys nibbles shish-kabob that later professor informs is roasted cat and dog they reenter bus wait suddenly butchered lamb flank is flung onto Odysseus’s lap a man climbs aboard bus stairs then grabs large carcass and heedlessly walks to back seat Odysseus wipes blood and slime off his jeans Tanya demurely giggles bus climbs mountains arrives at small Berber village professor leads them along narrow winding street of shanty huts sheltering merchants open kitchens professor tastes from various steaming iron kettles finally decides on one they are directed to rickety roof where they sit wait a boy comes up with plastic bowl filled with water and small box of Tide following professor they wash their hands then minutes later proprietor brings up simmering *** of couscous serves it with scratched raw plastic bowls no eating utensils they eat with their fingers Tanya seems bothered declines to partake she withdraws into silence after meal she becomes irritable complains of headache says she needs to return to Marrakech she remains standoffish on bus all the way to French hotel

after Marrakech they take boat trip to Italy while onboard Odysseus meets Italian Count who has an eye for him Odysseus wears Jim Morrison beat-up leather jeans Bruce Lee t-shirt scraggly whiskers Count wears thin manicured beard tiny red Speedo swim trunks Tanya grins amused Count offers Odysseus and Tanya to be guests at his villa in Milan city flourishes with stylish clothes loud lively restaurants classical sculptures covered in car pollution following several weeks of aristocratic wining and dining amazing 11 course elegant soiree Odysseus botches compliance with Count’s desires they are asked to leave Tanya laughs hysterically they board train to Germany based on Tanya’s tour book they find historic hotel with wind rattling windows coin operated hot water bath in Munich Tanya stays in room Odysseus goes to dance club meets brown-hared pale skinned German girl neither speak the other’s language he pays for hourly rated room they play German girl in animated gesturing warns him as he is going down on her but he does not understand until several days later scratching beard finds ***** seeks A-200 lice treatment German version leather pants disposed Tanya knows but says nothing she buys Volkswagen they drive through Black Forest Tanya wants to visit King Ludwig’s castles Odysseus does the driving mostly they listen to the Who’s “Who’s Next” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue” he follows Tanya’s instructions not knowing who King Ludwig was eventually he learns Ludwig was colorful character built extravagant Disney like castles and friends Richard Wagner Bavaria is cold gray brown deep forest green scenic Swiss Alps visible in southern view they drive from Neuschwanstein to Linderhof to Herrenchiemsee then Freiburg lodge in bed and breakfasts Tanya grows restless by all the driving decides to ditch car along road in northern France as Odysseus unscrews car license by road side several cars stop French people concerned they need help Tanya is anxious hoping for clean get away from abandoning vehicle they board train to Paris Tanya speaks a little French in spring of 1971 they are backpacking in search of hotel on Left Bank it rains all morning sky is overcast Tanya reads “Pride and Prejudice” Odysseus draws in sketchbook at sidewalk café sitting next to them are older Parisian couple man detects they are Americans he turns to them expresses in English his contempt why can’t you Americans learn from France’s lessons in Vietnam? Tanya and Odysseus don’t look up they feel like dumb ugly Americans within days they leave Paris

cross English Channel by boat they find temporary apartment in Earl’s Court in London it is overcast almost every day within a month they move to larger place in Chelsea with backyard with run down English garden Odysseus weeds garden plants tomatoes lettuce carrots radishes flowers Tanya stays in her room smokes reads at night they go out to ethnic restaurants one night they visit Indian restaurant a very proper English woman sitting at next table orders exotic fruit for dessert Odysseus asks waiter what kind of fruit waiter answers mango Odysseus has never seen or tasted mango English woman delicately eats the fruit with fork and knife Odysseus orders mango for dessert he attempts to imitate how English lady proceeded fruit slips around on plate finally out of frustration he picks it up in his hands bites into it he is aroused by how luscious mango is sniffing with nose scraping fruit’s skin with front teeth then ******* the seed Tanya makes a face suddenly the seed slides from his grasp shoots across table Tanya’s cheeks neck turn scarlet voice raises stop it Odys! you’re disgusting! are you intentionally trying to embarrass me? why are you doing this? he replies i’m not doing anything to you i’m enjoying the most delicious fruit i’ve ever tasted who cares what it looks like? later she laughs about incident offers to buy more mangos promises to take him shopping at Harrods tomorrow he goes along with their arrangement until it all seems like pretty background scenery to an empty intimacy missing all his friends back at art school he writes about his loneliness he feels trapped in Tanya’s web several times he sneaks English girls into his room when Tanya jealously confronts him he admits he has had enough and wants to go back to Hartford she suggests at the least they fly to Bermuda for several weeks to get tan before returning he declines on June 30 1971 Odysseus returns to Hartford and Tanya moves to San Francisco on July 3 Jim Morrison overdoses in Paris
The first new star flashed waves of blue tonight ,
securing my belief in the afterlife
A grove of ferns lit my imagination
For I became a shipwrecked captain -
that stumbled upon an island nation
Exploring the deep jungle without machete ,
potable water nor compass
Knee deep in mangrove forest
Tropical winds whispered and moaned
A lean-to of fronds became my maritime home
In the presence of a million stars
An army of sand ***** paraded before -
their newfound master from near and afar
Crashing waves lulled a poor sailor to rest
The whispers of Poseidon
A dream about a lookout in the crows nest
Counting orbs in the tail of the Milky Way-
with visions of mermaids , ghost ships and rogue waves
Copyright July 2018 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Jean Sullivan May 2016
Crab mentality, sometimes referred to as ***** in a barrel, is a way of thinking best described by the phrase, "if I can't have it, neither can you."[1] The metaphor refers to a bucket or barrel of *****. Individually, the ***** could easily escape from the bucket, but instead they grab at each other in a useless "king of the hill" competition which prevents any from escaping and ensures their collective demise.The analogy in human behavior is claimed to be that members of a group will attempt to negate or diminish the importance of any member who achieves success beyond the others, out of envy, spite, conspiracy, or competitive feelings, to halt their progress.
Fred Kinard Jul 2014
Expectation And Submission:

The kool-aid sat on the table for two days.
I was forced to take a sip.
My will to live was driven out by fear.
I allowed true masters to abduct me.
Modern day oppression welcome us all.
Not one line will divide or add color.
Perception is ugly like horseshoe *****.
Scott T Jul 2015
Cranes accuse the sky
As people swarm like ***** in
A ******* jungle
Prabhu Iyer Jul 2014
On a shore flooded in the tide.

Now     on a         flitting            log:

Rain,     trying     to fill up
the ridges white,

that,      I,             along with
*****, snails and           tiny        starfish
are ambling to escape from.

The trees, they are       laughing wet.
As are the            distant           waves,
snapping on returns.
Trying to gather together impressions from a visit to the coast on the Arabian Sea: spaces are meant to reflect pauses: a style tribute to good old Ezra Pound!
Paul Butters Apr 2015
Can stories be poetic? I think so? What do you reckon? Read on...

The giant red globe of the sun hung over young Omega’s head. That great orb filled nearly a quarter of the sky. Omega found it hard to believe that the sun was a “red dwarf star”. Yet who was he to argue with his elders?

A chill wind blew along the desolate beach. In the distance, some giant ***** were on patrol, looking for a meal. Above the *****, some rowdy gulls were waiting to scavenge anything the ***** might leave.

Not much to report here. The usual dismal scene. Nothing here to reflect the importance of these moments. Omega had seen moving pictures of other planets, on which they had things called “days”. This particular “Earth” here was “tidally locked” so that the same side faced the sun at all times. The sun was always there, solidly positioned above Omega’s head.  Here on the equator, they “enjoyed” maximum warmth: yet it was not too much above the freezing point of water!

Mother appeared.

Mother: “We will be ready to start in ten Lunons, Omega. I will call you then.”

Omega nodded. He gulped, nervously and mentally reviewed why this ritual was necessary. What had the elders said?

Oh yes. The Universe began 110 trillion standard years ago with the “Big Bang”. It had expanded at an incredible rate. In those early days the universe had teemed with stars like the sun. Most of those stars had travelled together in great wheels and clouds called “galaxies”. Those galaxies had been full of light and heat, and life!

Yet all that abundance had been before the “Degenerate Era”, when the universe had thinned out so much that no new stars were formed. The remaining stars had died and died. So now the sun above Omega was the last known star.

They were about to enter the “Black Hole Era”, when the universe would be dominated by Black Holes of course. After that would be the “Dark Era”. Finally, about 500 trillion years after the Big Bang, the universe would undergo “Heat Death”. Well, that was what Omega recalled from his lessons.

What was bothering The Elders was the state of the sun. It was foundering. Soon it would just blink into darkness. Before then, the world would just get colder. A bleak prospect.

Mum reappeared. She ushered Omega to “The Circle”. The children were joining with the adults and Elders now. That central obelisk, encircled by the populace, was brightly lit. They all formed an unbroken chain.

Omega felt a great glowing from within. It was happening! Warmer and warmer. Brighter and brighter. All of them shone and flowed and coalesced. Then they each broke free and flew apart!

It was done! Every one of them had transformed into a spirit energy being! Each was now a shining orb. So alive, and free from what would have been a slow freezing death under the last dying sun.

Such joy. Eternal life achieved at last. None of them had heard of our Earth. None of them was human. There were similarities with us, but they were quite alien. Who cares. They were sentient beings who had escaped the death of the last star, and ultimately the universe.

Paul Butters
Can stories be poetic? Yes, surely. Any good? Inspired by the ending to "The Time Machine" by HG Wells.
An Isle rose up from the ocean swell
On the seventeenth of June,
It was totally unexpected by
The M.V. Cameroon,
She’d sailed with seven passengers
And some cargo in the hold,
They all kept well to their cabins for
The deck was more than cold.

The Captain up on the bridge had checked
His maps before they sailed,
Had marked his course dead reckoning
Though the gyro compass failed,
They’d been at sea for eleven days
So he took a fix on the stars,
Then left the wheel to the Bosun while
He searched for the coffee jar.

The ship ground up on a coral reef
At two in the morning, sharp,
The night was black as a midden since
The clouds had hidden the stars,
The hull bit deep in the coral as
It drove ahead with its way,
Grinding slowly to come to halt
Just in from a new-formed bay.

‘There isn’t supposed to be land out here,’
The Bosun cried to Lars,
The Captain said, ‘I fixed a point,
Dead reckoning by the stars!
There shouldn’t be land in a hundred miles,’
But the ship was high and dry,
‘It must have come up from the ocean floor,’
The Bosun said, ‘but why?’

The passengers spilled out onto the deck
With cries and shouts in the gloom,
‘What have you done, the ship’s a wreck,’
Said the Banker, Gordon Bloom.
The sisters, Jan and Margaret Young
Burst out in sobs and tears,
‘How are you going to float it off?
We might be here for years!’

At daylight they could see the extent
Of the distant lava flow,
‘Lucky we’re not on the other side
Or we’d all be dead, you know.’
The tide came in and the tide went out
But the ship was high and dry,
As clouds of steam from the lava flow
Poured out, and into the sky.

‘We’re not gonna starve,’ said Andy Hill
As he peered down onto the reef,
As thousands of ***** and lobsters crawled
‘There’s plenty of them to eat.’
They lowered him down on a rope, along
With the engineer, Bob Teck,
Where they gathered the lobsters up by hand
And tossed them, up on the deck.

The evening meal was a feast that night,
They ate and they drank their fill,
‘Too much,’ said Oliver Aston-Barr
‘I think I’m going to be ill.’
But Jennifer Deane, Costumier
Had an appetite for four,
She ate the scraps that the others left
And was calling out for more.

The following morning all was still
Til Jennifer Deane came out,
She roused them all with a frightened scream,
And then continued to shout:
‘I’ve got some horrible bug inside
And I’ve lost my sense of taste,
It must have come from the lobsters, for
It’s eaten half of my face!’

The lobsters must have been undercooked
For the symptoms would appal,
A necrotizing flesh eater
Had started on them all,
The flesh was eaten from Andy’s hand
And the leg of Gordon Bloom,
While the sisters Jan and Margaret Young
Lay screaming in their room.

The sickness took them rapidly,
For Jennifer Deane had died,
They had no place to bury her
So threw her over the side,
The ***** then swarmed and attacked her there,
Ate all of her flesh away,
There was little left of Jennifer Deane
Before the end of the day.

Each time that one of them died, the rest
Would fling them over the side,
The bodies had piled up higher out there
Than those alive, inside,
Til finally, Oliver Aston-Barr
Was last to die, on the bridge,
Of the Motor Vessel Cameroon,
Upthrust on a lava ridge.

A winter storm was to float it off,
It drifted out with the tide,
A rusted hulk with ‘The Cameroon’
Paint peeling, off from the side.
An ancient freighter, crossing its path
Drove past it, steel on steel,
And that’s when the helmsman held his breath,
‘There’s a skeleton at the wheel!’

David Lewis Paget
Mitchell Duran Sep 2014
The sand's soft underneath my cheek; cool and grainy like a scattered pillow should be. I hear the crash of waves and the call of gulls. A headache starts to brew on either temple while stale *** coats my famished tongue. I feel a light drizzle tickling my face. Flashes of wide smiles and high conversation skims through my broken memory. The suns rising. Its heat is on my back. My eyes flutter and slowly open to a scene of white froth colliding with pure light blue ocean. Seagulls bob up and down in the rise and fall of the waves, their faces look like their made of stone, their eyes indifferent. I smile, getting sand in-between my teeth.
I reach out my hand and grip the hot sand. Tiny pebbles rub in between my fingertips. Another scream from the sea gulls above me. The sky seems like no place for a crowd. Reaching a little farther, I discover a half-empty bottle of Bacardi *** and a packet of cigarettes beside it. A lighter is tucked inside.
"Lucky day," I say aloud to myself, "Lucky day for you indeed." I bring the bottle to my chest and lean it in between my pecs. It rests perfectly there. Smacking a cigarette out of the pack, I place it in my mouth and dig in my sandy pockets for a lighter. It's still there. This surprises me. I light the cigarette and my eyes immediately cringe as the heavy billow of smoke erupts forth. It's a sting I'm used to, so I blink hard a few times. The pain only lasts for a moment, then it's gone.
"There we go," I say leaning my head back, wedging it into the sand, "Let night become this day."
Clouds dissipate and the sky opens up clear. A toucan bird clatters its beak in the distant banana trees. I look to see where it is, but the birds colors are lost in the dark green and yellow of the trees leaves. I fit my lit cigarette in between my middle and pointer finger, push myself up to lean onto my elbow, and tip the bottle of *** back with my other hand. The *** is sweet and warm. Been sitting in the sun too long. I always like with a bit of ice in a Dixie cup. It pinches my lips and eyes for only a second, then starts to travel down to my stomach lining, warming it. The sun passes the dawn and the dark blue night sky becomes a new morning.
I lay there watching the water and the night become day for I have no idea how long. I've no obligation to no one, not even to myself. Time for me is a fleeting thing, but even if time is slipping away, where is it really slipping to? Time stands still and we are the ones that move. Perhaps we have created time to prove to ourselves that we are in fact alive?  
The freight train I jumped to get down to Cozumel came from Arizona. It was crowded like a ******* with vagrants, drunks, dealers, and desert kids. Me, I was in the last train cause I can't run for nothing. Shrapnel tore into my right calf when I was in the war. They tried to patch me up as good as they were able, but once something like that happens, it's impossible to truly get back to normal one-hundred percent. It's hard to come back one-hundred percent from anything when I think about it.
Come to me, lady Dee. Come to me lady who lives by the sea. You are the one I'm always thinking of. You are the one who sends me reeling and in love. Your hair is like honey: soft, golden, and sweet. Your eyes are like acorns: auburn and neat. Oh' when you went away that one winter's day, I was left with a feeling that there wasn't anything left to say. Where have you gone off to? Where do you stay? Will you ever come back to me? When will be that day?
Noon came. Children kick at my bare feet. Their laughter sounds like the echo of birds chirping. I can smell them too: red licorice mixed mixed with fried fish and fresh lemon. Where have they come from? What do they want with the likes of me? One of'em gets me hard in the ankle and I spring up onto my feet and roar. I see they're kids from town. Their skin is maple leaf brown and their hair, long and to their shoulders, is streaked yellow from the sun. I look down at them. Their faces are frozen, stunned. The smallest one of the groups teeth begin to chatter. I roar again louder and they scurry off up the white sands of the beach toward their homes, the smallest one lagging behind like a gimp donkey. I check my pockets to make sure none of them swiped my wallet or keys. Still there. My pockets are filled with sand and I dump them out as I make my way up the beach toward my cabin on the other side of the cove.
I built it myself, my cabin. She sits at the top of a sand dune overlooking the water. It's all I've got. Made a deal when I first arrive with the land owner, Perez Sandiago (Sandy if you know him), that I'd work for his iguana farm once or twice a week if he'd let me have the plot. They aren't too bad, the iguana's, as long as they don't bite you. Once they know you, they rarely do. More prone to sit and bask in the sun to bother anybody. All they need is to be fed, given some water, and left the hell alone as Sandy will say.
As I walk up the hill, a few small ***** and strings of seaweed in my hands for lunch, I see a small part of the roof is gone. The wind may have taken it off or maybe some of the tie came loose. The sun above is hot and relentless. I put my hand over my eyes to shade them walking forward. Sand washes over the top of my feet, warming them. I stop, closer to my cabin now, and take off my shirt. I lay it on the sand and place the few ***** and seaweed on it. Then I tie them up in kind of a ruck sack so the ***** won't get away. They're always running off to some place when they know their gonna' get killed, but I guess I would do the same.
There is a single chair I leave by the front door and I take it and step up on it to get a better look at the roof. There isn't any tie left. It either fell inside or blew away with the missing piece. I look over the roof of the cabin further down the beach to see if it's laying out there. Nothing, just the beach. The roof's too weak to climb up on, so I get down and circle the cabin. I make my way around and reach the front door. The only other place it could be, if it isn't further down the beach somewhere, is in the cabin. I take out my keys and fit it into the lock. It's unlocked. A wave crashes behind me and spreads out on the sand with a sizzling hush. I take a step back and think for a moment, then walk inside feeling every grain of sand between my toes.
Kayla Boyd Nov 2014
As a young child and father search for *****
stare at cloud
so beautiful it can't be real.
I look out at the edge of the world
like a lone wife waiting for her sailor
to come home
stinking of sweat and brine
but feeling alright.

My mind wanders carelessly away
back to a place so enchanting
I dare not stay too long.
I should let my thoughts disappear to
the end
until all I feel is this expanse of clouds
blue and gray and white.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
We walk along the beach at night,
Arms entwined and hearts entwined,
Waves lapping 'gainst our feet,
Pebbles scurrying like sand ***** 'twixt our toes.
  
Talking about *****, we are both
A little tickly in the naughty bits department,
As the gentle summer breeze
Wafts through our matted ***** hairs.
  
Just a brief hour or two ago,
We were strangers at the Pier disco,
And now our histories are to be
Inextricably linked by fate.
  
I do not know that, in a month or so,
I shall need to send you
A little yellow contact slip
From the Margate Hospital special clinic
  
Informing that you have been exposed to
A most unpleasant social disease
Which, with a bit of rotten luck,
Could easily rot your insides.
  
But, for now, our thoughts are far away
As we laugh and joke together
In our new found post-******,
Youthful lovers' camaraderie,
  
Not wanting to speak too loudly or disturb
The copulating pair by the nearby breakwater
(Not that they'd be put off by a thunderclap
Seeing as how he's on the short strokes by now).
Bob Horton Nov 2013
In oil-painted brilliance their stunning resilience
To shame upon canvas is bound
As Jack the Crustacean expresses frustration:
Says "Terry! Stop ******* Around!"
He's spared all his blushes 'cause these ***** brushes
Can't capture his voice or its sound
But the sad situation still needs explanation
'Cause Terry's still stuck upside-down!
we catch the ***** at night on the black road
just shovel them into the waiting bag
until the sweat pools and your spirits flag

above the stars signal in arcane code
while you wipe down with an old smelly rag
we catch the ***** at night on the black road

that leads us back to where the waters flowed
past all the places where we let hope sag
back into swamp where memories might nag
we catch the ***** at night on the black road
Deep in da hart of da reggae junga
da reggae king want lots a *****
he smoke da herb till his eyes cherry
Not a care in da world he wont worry

He probly should hes to loose
wit tha women he always loose
he got da clap, ***** and da ***
it always hurt when he p

So take a lesson from da ***** king
his fans found out and they clipped his wing
he has power no more and he better flee
because he only da king of da *****
ja feel?
spysgrandson Nov 2011
on the shore
only this morning, as ***** yawned
and wispy waves woke to sun’s call
with a million speckled sparkles of light
I was alone with my thoughts
and your crisp footprints in the sand
the scent of your hands still on me
fading with each mist filled breath I took
you were still there
your seed crawling down my leg
but tides change
and your prints soon filled with salt and sand
and the sun, our benediction only a dreamy minute ago
melted into the craggy bluffs
and I was left to walk alone
without your shivering shaft filling me
or your groping but grateful hands touching me
alone, on my night walk
alone, how I began
and will end, my…
night walk
I sometimes take on the voice of another when I write--in this case, the voice of a woman--not one I have used often
cait-cait Dec 2014
i remember that day
when the sun was so bright
and the sky was so blue,
and i remember how
we spent that day at the beach,
catching sand *****
and naming them
funny things, and i remember
saying that we could
have them in replace of
children;

its really too bad i cant
even cry now, for
my tears would just
remind me of that day,
since tears are salty like
the ocean, and my heart still
bangs in my chest
like those ***** did
the walls
of my little green pail.
i finished a trilogy that inspired this, since the main character basically became a pirate with her love interest. it was good,
Nat Lipstadt Jun 2014
the irises have passed,
their existence, entirety,
a three week, 21 day, gun salute,
to which I was witness to but an
abbreviated four short generational
days

the Kabbalist among us say Kaddish,
and a-Buddhist chants so-be-it,
both celebrating the brevity cycle
of natural things, both notating,
that death makes room for more

ugly yelloe'd and black now,
these irises are now
misfits on a breezy,
dancing summer lawn

today, shriveled and misshapen,
they compare and contrast
on a normative, glorious,
June Sunday that
picturesque presents
the living and the deceased,
side by side

all comrades,
all summer sundries
on a dancing grass blanket
half-graveyard battlefield,
the half-heaven

oft I have writ of the beach detritus,
the shells, the sun burnt *****,
a recycled funeral rectory where
no one utters prayers for the
no longer alive historical artifacts

what has this to do
with that human construct,
artifice of memory,
a string on the finger
of the mind,
a pausation, a man-made creation
to momentarily recall another of
nature's cycle -
your children

Have children.
Am a father.
Had a father in my youthful days.

this is a boy scout qualification medal,
marker of me as Expert,
permitting me to commentary
with gravitas, now that I’ve graduated
to grandfather status,
I enjoy superstar freedom
to opine inanely on such matters

of my father have I writ,
of my sons, those remain unseen,

likely neither will mark these day
with a telephone call
or an all-I-got-was-this-lousy-t shirt
gift of gall

I say that's ok for what else is there,
certainly not an unthinking, dismissive
whatever

it saddens me some for sure,
but it makes judge myself as human being
on a gradation of one to none

but more than this internal reflection,
I ponder this hallmark'd day,
as life cycle point notarized,
in verse and rhyme,
for that is what I do best

for before,
many father's day
in the priory passed,
most unrecallable,
just another ceremonial checkmark,
habitually acquitted,
but somewhere
in a drawer of shirts,
in a home I store stuff in,
I do believe, there are some cards
from decades past,
that prove nothing,
other than life goes on,
and we best capture
what we can, as best we can...
with small, objet d'art of sorts

Perhaps one will call after all...
in any event,
to honor the dead,
to mark the existing,
the bannered ship's bell rung,
its sonorous sound,
notable and onerous,
fades as well

but man and animal,
plant and tree,
a living fraternal sorority,
who all look over my shoulder
as I compose on
that Adirondack chair you
by now, we’ll acquainted

they know,
for whom the bell tolls this day,
and why as well,
as we all pause and contemplate
where we are on this day,
on our own overlapping cycles
nowadays I get a ten second video of a happy father’s day wish
Laura Rohm Jan 2014
The sand beneath my body feels like a memory foam pillow, covered in a silk case, caressing me
Waves are crashing – they’re a lullaby
My eyes are closed and my mind is drifting like the wood caught in a current

Hotter and hotter the day gets
Droplets of sweat begin to gather around my crown
The sand ***** crawl against my feet
I feel their pinchers dragging along the sides of my toes

Something is wrong.

My eyes are still closed tight – the second I open them the sun will temporarily blind me
More and more sand ***** gather around my ankles and feet
The air is dry
My eyes are now open – there is no longer a beach

I am now in a desert
Sand ***** turn into scorpions, and I’ve been stung
Suddenly, I am parched
There’s no water – I am beginning to see black spots
My skin is burning, and no one to help

I’m overcome by a sense of panic
Hundreds of scorpions are herding towards me
They’re coming from where the ocean once lived

I can get up, but I don’t want to.
Is the sun beating down hotter, or is the poison burning me internally?
It hurts; I can’t tell whether I’m dead or dying.

My hands are pushed against the ground
I’ve decided to get up, but now I can’t
My skin feels like it’s being burned off of my body.

Everything goes black, I can no longer see
I am hyperventilating and my mouth fills with salt water
Have I been drowning this whole time?
I am all alone, and this is what it feels like to be dying.
Jade Musso Apr 2014
Two bottles of Southern Comfort, Black Keys on iTunes, profile picture with sister, stir-fry, 30 Rock, Gorillaz poster, pancakes at 3 am, spontaneous lunch at Barone, friends with benefits, need a hug, Columbus Day, touch my ****, too much tongue, crumpled into wall in the morning, Urban Outfitters for a t-shirt, silver medal, free Dominos, Workaholics at 12, secret sleepover #2, ******* because i thought that's all he wanted from me and i wanted him to stay, hickey on my neck, studying in a room with the round table, drew a horse on the whiteboard, fill out a police report, Redgates from Firehouse, he looks cute today. Tackled into metal, did I break my back? Jump on it, it's not funny, I'm crying, cold beer, kiss on the porch, stop kissing me in 12, *******, more kissing, blood everywhere, come over, comb through hair. you can stay over again, skips class, uses my shower, makes the bed, come with me to doctor. Vermont secret, Batmobile, on Prius, dune buggies, Phantom Menace, brother-in-law, supermarket in Newfane, stir-fry, statement at 6am. Hurricane, in my basement, halloween at the fire station, knitted scarf headpiece, mother's phone number, red gate sandwiches by Citi Bank across from library. Confirmation party, Chartruese, Coldplay at Mohegan, Torches, enchiladas, screaming, stuffed wolf, comic book finishing touches at 1 am, new roommates, L.O.L., I was going to propose to you - in the hallway, 3 month long orchids, Vermont trip #2, no riding allowed, nap by the fire, bare butts touching over unscented blanket, sapphire ring too big under lamppost in parking lot, happy. Sarasota, hide my eyes with Mosley Tribes, take a walk without me, Game of Thrones, cold sand, hair dryer joke, need eye drops, Ringling Mansion, gator bites, silent walk by traffic, kayak in shallow water, families too different, bike ride to tune of Star Wars, nervous about the summer, panic into shoulder on flight home. ******* in the middle of the night, drive around campus, leave me alone, pack up N-64 games, fight before final presentation - only one group gets an A, instant milkshake and magazines to pass the time, make a pizza, here let's make out again - apparently that isn't so bad, almost forgot my friesian mug and vase by the trailer. Texting *****, sick stomach, Lord of the Rings, try smoking, Magic: The Gathering, first communion, wedding, Chip's Family restaurant, high school graduation that I couldn't sit at, Miya's with the mini *****. Fireworks on hill through trees. Retna laptop with blue cover, HGTV's Next Design Star, I have to leave. this is where I stop.
Parenthood tells me
Eating ***** daily
Deliciously hard work!
Hope Aug 2012
Something awful happened late last night,
And here I lie awake at six AM
Upon the sand of Santa Monica.
The cars drive by, but I don’t notice them.

I used up all my gas to get away
From the ****** pond on my bathroom rug.
It’s more than bleach can handle and I’m scared
That I’ve found a more seductive drug.

Fish intestines line the pier and I
Feel no misery for gutless souls.
The rocks are caked in birdshit, kelp and shells
And, as if in mourning, the cormorant calls.

Upon the rusty handrails, seagulls gossip
Just like feathered girls with brains, persisting
To trumpet my depravity in savage squawks,
And to harass the rest of us for existing.

The white-wimpled, cruel, sadistic nuns
Choose an injured sea lion as their prey.
Cowardly, they flee at his sharp barks–
It’s guts that will decide who wins today.

***** creep over the brown-furred body.
Fighting for its life, it bites the shell
And kills its fellow lifeform.  When given
The chance, I’ll defend myself as well.
Allen Wilbert Jan 2014
Drug Addict

I drink beer, I drink liquor,
doing shots makes it quicker.
I smoke a bowl, I smoke a joint,
is there a problem, get to the point.
I take acid, I like trip,
I love the trail of a moving whip.
I like ****** sugar, I snort coke,
no wonder, I'm so **** broke.
I pop pills for stress, some for pain,
you'll never hear me complain.
I shoot ******, then I dose off,
my life is just a total loss.
I make and smoke ****,
hoping it takes my last breath.
Special K is my favorite tranquilizer,
I use it as a drug appetizer.
I smoke crack, don't ask why,
don't knock it, til you try.
Ecstasy makes me feel so good,
it always puts me in a special mood.
I sniff gas, I sniff glue,
then I ask, who are you.
Sometimes I smoke hash,
I live a life of white trash.
Morphine can't be beat,
my brain has suffered a defeat.
I even take ****** and steroids,
***** big, ***** small and I'm paranoid.
Been to counselling, been to rehab,
last time I went, I ended up with *****.
Now finally, I'm clean and sober,
been that way since mid October.
I admit drugs are more fun,
but in the end, God finally won.

— The End —