"crawdads" poems
The sky vividly alive, illuminated with the stars and planets
The night charged with vibrant summer sounds
The forest menacing with nocturnal creatures
Who upon our retirement, await to plunder the camp ground
The surface of the lake reflects the high summer moon
So peaceful and calm like an old mother’s womb
A feeling of true freedom like the owl’s evening flight
Time stands still this midsummer night
The campfire dances as we all gather round
Stories and laughter as our marshmallows brown
Peaceful is our sleep as our spirits smile
And even upon hard ground it’s all worth the while
We awaken to the early show so vividly underway
With just a hint of the morning dew the cool humid night has laid
A breeze so mild it forces a smile of fresh new forest green
Busy squirrels and singing birds enjoy all that life will bring
The laughing cry of the loons and swallows on the lake so old and free
The presence of Indian spirits in the surrounding ancient trees
Dragonflies like fairies fly embrace the tortoise shell
Yellow flowers on the lily pads where croaking bullfrogs dwell
Crawdads and minnows reminisce of yesteryear
When we were only children still wet behind the ears
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 6:33 PM UTC
Spring in Kansas.
It doesn’t come in softly.
It roars in with the wind and rain beating against a steel roof, washing into the old soddies and stone,
Clearing out winter in one giant breath.
The change comes within a week,
From dry dead, brown, to startling green, an emerald landscape of winter wheat.
The emerald isle has nothing on Kansas in the Spring.
Then the color starts, red buds against glorious green fields
and thunderous skies, a painters dream uncaptured.
And forsythia, the first blooms, beautiful and stark.
Crocus, daffodil and dandelion crowning the ground with gold.
The trees, bare of leaves, burst forth with flowers in shades of white and pink and the magnolias burst forth, ready to fly off the tree.
Our mighty cotton wood, drooping with frills that will become light catching tufts in the early summer sun as the leaves murmur their constant song, piling like snow in the heated streets.
Thunder rolls as lightning strike turning day into night with hail filled clouds and twisters striking like Greek gods, angry and awesome.
Creeks flood and clear the way for tadpoles and crawdads in streams and pools.
Spring comes, the earth warms, we all wake and stretch and wait for the sunflowers to do the same, yearning to the summer sun.
May 13, 2010
May 13, 2010 at 11:26 AM UTC
A sunny serenade of Cyan Skies
On a Strangely soothing Sunday afternoon
In the south wing
The White Rabbit tells me about
Beautiful Butterflies batting their wings
To the beat of a bohemian movement
and I blush at the gesture
And
The Mad Hatter tells me about
The Kevorkian crawdads clawing at each other
Under the crystal clear stream
Bent like a Candy Cane
And I cry for the dead.
I hear her, I hear her
But I also hear the
Marsh Hare
And
The Marsh Hare tells me about
The analytical anarchists armed with arms
Marching around the inner atrium screaming
"All hail Anarchy!", "All hail Anti-Society!"
Aiming for the heart
And I amaze myself
I hear her, I hear her
And because of her I hear
The chains and restraints
The Queen of Hearts tells me about
My fantasies of White Rabbits
My dreams of Mad Hatters
My imaginings of Marsh Hares
And how only she is real
The straps are too tight
The clothes too thin
The walls too thick
And she stabs me
With a Red Rose
All in white, The Queen of Hearts Says
Wake Up Alice
And now I can see
My sunny afternoon is shady
And
I am barred from my butterflies.
Jun 27, 2011
Jun 27, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
The bass grow as long as your arm
down by mr thompson's farm
the flatrock river licks it's muddy ridge
underneath of a covered bridge
emerald shiners mirror the light
a grey heron takes to flight
catching crawdads for a hopeful cast
while the shoals of minnows pass
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 1:26 PM UTC
Blip, blip, blip… It taunts me,
blip, blip, blip… appearing, disappearing.
That little bar, right where my last words left off.
Like a schoolyard bully he mocks me.
I cook, I clean, I pace, I surf, I do everything,
but still he taunts me. Blip, blip, blip…
Like a mad man I prattle on to thin Air,
I ask her, what would you write?
As always I get the silent treatment.
I scream in my own head, “oh words where are you!”
Torch in hand I search the pitch black catacombs;
still I find only a void air won’t inhabit.
I walk down the street to the city creek
and flip each stone; looking for syllables.
Like crawdads they swiftly scurry, side swimming
my hands as I vainly grasp at clumps of mud and water.
I make my way from the creek back down the long road.
By the time I’m home autumn has come,
each tree’s leaves wear a different color;
red for imagery, brown for alliteration,
orange for allegory, purple for metaphor.
Like a letter lost in the mail
Air’s answer finally arrives.
The leaves fall all around me!
With god like haste I rake them up
and swim in a pile vast as the ocean.
Let’s see you blip now!!!
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 6:45 PM UTC
Night,
is my lover,
with long brown hair,
green eyes,
like texas stream,
with tiny crawdads,
living in the mud,
Night,
a melody,
possibly composed,
by Beethoven,
one night,
on purple ***
that sailors drink,
after a storm,
and land,
is as unfamiliar,
yet is fantasized,
like the ******
dreaming of **** kiss,
Night,
long road,
Dharma bound,
bare foot,
hungry.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
It’s the cool breeze on windless summer day.
Tall grass gently swaying on a poise afternoon.
It’s the mesquite tree in the yard tolerant enough to grow.
A dry lively summer brewing in the dead of night.
A cool gust comes from the west dragging a pail of water,
The flooding the cracked and thirsty Earth.
It’s a five acre pond replacing the countryside.
Grass and shrubs drowning as they take a last breath.
It a crackle of lightning playing in the background,
Along with the thrumming of rain on the forming lake.
Bristles of hay coming down the creek,
And clogging the ditches introducing the crawdads.
It’s the chocolate lab running joyously through the rain.
Two brothers playing football in the puddles.
A father starting a peaceful mud fight.
It’s a mother cooking jambalaya and baking cornbread.
It’s Christmas in July.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
We awaken to the early show
So vividly underway
With just a hint of the morning dew
The night before had laid
A breeze so mild it forces a smile
Of fresh new forest green
Busy squirrels and singing birds
Enjoy all that life will bring
The laughing cry of the loons and swallows
On the lake so old and free
The presence of Indian spirits
In the surrounding ancient trees
Dragonflies like fairies fly
Embrace the tortoise shell
Yellow flowers on the lily pads
Where croaking bullfrogs dwell
Crawdads and minnows
Reminisce of yesteryear
When we were only children
Still wet behind the ears...
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 9:06 AM UTC
Today I want to crawl away and bleach my mind.
A balloon of Worries rises in my chest
compressing my lungs till it's hard to draw breath.
classes,tuition, taxes, fear, nothing makes sense, I don't know what to do
I want to crawl back into the recesses of childhood,
To the smell of the house in summer, open windows, old wood,
traipse through the woods to the creek,
spend hours digging under rocks for salamanders,
When I though a quarter was a fortune,
when school was just books and friends.
Sometimes I think I just want to abandon it all,
find a sweet, simple, country boy
settle down in a tiny house,
have children, a boy and a girl.
Elias James and Elaenor Elizabeth
I will take them down to the creek,
teach them to catch salamanders,
and crawdads without getting pinched.
Wash their muddy faces and feet
when they come in for supper.
Then I'll send them to bed, with a kiss and a story,
and my husband and I will sit on the porch,
hand in hand, staring at the stars,
talking about God and Man and all that is.
They tell me I would regret
not having a career besides that of motherhood,
but days like these sure make me think twice.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 9:11 PM UTC
Crawdads have a crazy *** life. There's not
much to courtship and no real copulation. Boring
as this may sound, it's somewhat engrossing
for me. Likely more than any lady crawdad ever
thought of it. I would think most women might
agree. Sadly, reminiscent of **** really. Males
act like ruffians, catching females like prey,
turning them over, and leaving a sticky deposit
on their undersides. Worm like sperms adhere
to her, which she carries with her until she lays
eggs. I've seen this while preparing étouffée.
Not the *** act, just the worms.
Life is a multiplex of convoluted situations.
"Please yes, oh no!" What's going on in those
crusty little heads? It seems such a foreign
lifeform. Still, eerily familiar to what I've found
at the bathhouse. I think I'll fatten up my tail,
wear some antennae and pincers this Halloween.
Mmmm... Étouffée.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Thanks for the drop
So Seemingly accidental
Kicked like a pebble along this gravel-road time line
I turn and glance a mirror
How introspective.
My ***** cragged shell
My thoughts tainted by my odious flesh
Mississippi catfish have seen better days
I can only swim backward if I’ve finally seen the danger
And the warning signs come a flooding
Crawdads taught me well.
A clam diving headlong into the sludge
Detritus never felt so comforting
Sand in my eyes
Sand in my eyes
Exfoliate your corneas boy!
Rotten fruit never tasted so good
Spoiled milk and flies
A dog to its own *****
Thanks for the shock collar
The pound
The castration
Hand that feeds
How sweet and tender-hearted
You cherish your convenience
I am a cursed man
Born dead
Alive and dead once again
As time is slowly ticking
I gasp for air
Salt water
Light to relieve me of crippling water pressure
It’s too dark down here
Why is the end of the tunnel above the surface?
I can’t breathe up there
Throw me a line
Yank me away
To an abrasive serenity at the hand of a fisherman in the kitchen sink
A plastic ring will do nicely
Might as well sink and feed my brothers
Might as well think to myself
Rather than lead others
Might as well smudge my words so that no one can read what I wrote
With the needle in my side
My thorns are innate
Yet I wield them as stripes
My fillet is laid
Across the plate at the last supper
My time as a bottom feeder is through
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC
The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.
“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.
“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.
In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.
As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.
Aug 6, 2022
Aug 6, 2022 at 1:10 PM UTC
Late Sunday mornings beside 'Rabbit rock' on the walk home from Scott Lake , across the highway down Hemphill Road toward beautiful Camp Creek ... Blackberry stained hands , prying waters in search of crawdads and mud puppies , jumping 'Bobwhite's' along the Pine forest edge .. Whitetail tracks in every direction , homeward bound through fields of corn and sorghum , summer sky filled with the glorious music of the Bentley Hill UMC choir , reverberating through the wisteria scented countryside ...
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
50 years have past
Those days now are faded
The sunshine of my years
Has now become shaded
50 years ago yet only yesterday
That I was a little boy
Running around the old home place
With a heart full of joy
50 years of memories
O ,the many faces I have known
A few here still remain
But many cherished now are gone
50 years have come my way
And 50 years have left
Looking back across the bridge of time
I see fading images of myself
How quickly from a boy I grew
Growing up to become a man
Given the choice if I had my way
How I would love to be a boy again
Spending my days as a soldier
Sometimes a cowboy true
Fishing for crawdads down at the creek
Under the azure blue
50 years past seems so long
But its really only a breath ago
Like the waters of a mighty river
How quickly the waters of time do flow
50 years of blessings
To me God has given
So many blessings undeserved
In this 50 years of living
This 50 years of life I have lived
Has been filled with tears and smiles and glory
All I have known and seen and done
Are written upon the heart of my 50 year story.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
There once was a man
who lived on down da bayou
went crabbing for his amors etouffee but before he got to dat bayou
he picked up his bon amigo
then dey headed down highway 41
Well the trip was going smooth
as the wind be blowin til they stopped at the station for some pane upon arriving to dat station it was being robbed for its payment and now they got a 3rd in company
Its been a long time coming, who dat cajun running, said he must've lived on down the road. Ain't stopped for no crawdads ya know they dont know where dey at, the ole creole man be ramblin again. Dey been back and forth, up and down, fought like a mule, acted a clown, dont think dey known theys right from left. Mason jar of daniels, open road in the high beams. Ain't no telling the cajun man's dream and his podners sceme.
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 4:19 AM UTC
My dreams are drying out by the salty shore
I may build sandcastles and rocky bridges until
The waves wash them out again, laughing as the surf
Swallows my ankles,
Forgetting the cuts and the burns and the tattoos
Sand between my toes and sun pink cheeks I may,
Forget I'm trying to hold on so tight, to dreams that easily
Slip away in the morning fog, I might catch them,
In a butterfly net, through the lamp of a lighthouse,
I might catch them like crawdads and lizards and keep them in jars,
To keep me company through lonely nights, like fireflies,
I might just make them stay, but for now they are dying
As short lived as mayflies and as easy to pass as a summer's cold,
Like music in the witching hour, hidden among the hills
Impossible to pinpoint, like thunder, rolling as ancient wars
Sitting here, letting tears seep from my eyes like steam from a kettle,
I wipe them off with a ***** dishtowel and wait
For my dreams to come home, like teenage runaways,
Or selkies upon the moor,
If I make it through tonight, if I make it through high tide,
If I make it through tonight.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
Adapting re
voluntary reading
to the future, when we've
nothing to do so, sub-con
science frictions call all men liars.
I am by no means chief,
I came from the Calebland Productions,
early Eighties,
Macintosh and Appletalk, and Silicon Beach
grand brainstorms insisting if we heat it
the entire idea of dust as us and our mites…
just willing to revolve with the planets will
enough all those old winds that twisted
like we did last summer,
wind up like
those ones, wow, so real.
Northwest Passage is open, and yet,
none acknowledge life in full control,
something literarily evolving
where the crawdads eat the corpses,
Bayou Blue, Barrios and Pepitons,
cheri mio, we had some fun,
we all sung, on that by
you seem to agree, we won.
we won the evolutionary war,
mankind, wombed and un,
ever so long ago, none knew, we did
but time is a bit of a Ouranos cycle,
looks like a great ocean churning gyre,
of which the last swirling tide reminder
fit to an old spider web designer,
loser backslider
with a gambling wife,
who took a chance on me,
what do we see, but what we get,
generously, love is there
for the looking for,
and for remembering finding, and
really, when a man
from the molds
that made our we this kind of old man,
an individuated
NPC, in a cast of thousands,
acting stand in assistant to the
assisting intelligence time accounting,
massive messaging, is a thing
are you aware…?
your connection can self correct,
your bluetooth can whistle
in your ear,
eh,
we made it up.
The loss, we, laughed and made it all up.
Apr 24, 2024
Apr 24, 2024 at 4:11 PM UTC
They ask me, “Do you have a plan?”
I say, “I did my plan.”
They ask me, “Do you have another?”
My IV drips the same monotonous drip
And the catfish swim in it, releasing
Bubbles to my heart to fill me with
Some form of full I never feel
And I think of the Mississippi
I think of my mother's warning
Of the alligators, gar, and whirlpools
And I think that’s where my body belongs
Down in the mighty Mississippi
The great river my father played pirate on
The one whose call took him from his love
The river my grandfather built monuments to
To tame, to quell, because that’s what a man does
Stolen land and water, polluted by him
I think of how soft the mud must be
A cushioned pillow for my bones to rest
Crowned with cattails and pondweed
How the water might fill me like the bubbles
From my IV drip, drip, dripping
And the catfish smiles at me, his whiskers
Gleaming in the artificial fluorescence
Of the suicide watch room lights
They say, “Drowning is the worst way to go”
But I smile, and I say to them and the catfish
“I think that’s where my body belongs”
May 18, 2025
May 18, 2025 at 12:58 AM UTC
*On the day I pass I believe I'll stop by -
Orly Terrace to tell my friends goodbye
Check on love notes carved in Pine trees -
and hunt for 'crawdads' one last time at my
favorite creek , walk the side roads like they
were dirt again , chase the ice cream man
down the road just one more time , feet flying , half dollar in hand* ....
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 6:02 PM UTC
It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.
Jul 29, 2025
Jul 29, 2025 at 1:22 PM UTC