"creel" poems
i'm your o so wanna be lover
I'm afraid not what you would expect though
i admit to being a difficult pleasure
perhaps
a tad strange looking
squishy with long tentacles
half man half octopus
with a winking cycloptic eye
i entreat you
looks can be deceiving
how many pretty boys have you loved
crawling worms for a soul
that have left you a ruined creel
a jagged cry chattering tears of desolation
have you ever asked your self
who adores you
who would give all to protect love and cherish
i'm waving my eight arms at you
from the center of the universe
i eat black holes to kiss your ***
am i not a cosmic horror
with my big Cthulhu smile
quivering with tenderness
do you hunger for butter **** lollypop
i have two big **** heartbreakers
with teardrop curves
a feast for your ravenous holes of emptiness
and many armed tentacles to hold you tight
to slither all over your tender woven caves
to pull you into me
with suckers that thrill
during swirling inky *****
i will unravel your mind
your soul tilthed
if you can get passed
my
gray rubbery boneless head
i can push this shape-shifting balloon face
through your annul tubular contours
all the way up your beautiful ***
licking
salivating
tickling into your
tender bowel and throat
like a great dancing tongue
a stretched waving goodness
entering your mouth from the back side
can pretty pretty do that?
come slowly unto me my beloved
i am all chromatophores
endless glittering nightlights
incandescent
so we may wander our way through long dim nights ******
in the deep deep dark
with tentacle ***** galore
an infinity of entertainment
for every crevice and desire
and one winking cycloptic eye
that pierces your soul
Apr 15, 2017
Apr 15, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark, as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fools' Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.
Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our traveled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
12.9k
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
*I'm a black dog
with a torn heart
you
are carved out of light
heavier then rocks
my bowels
a crumbling fortress
dire
in my emptiness
you
make my blood run down dark gutters
to the city of your legs
pooling at your soft pink feet
i strain in prayer
for your love
a black dog in panic
i run seven miles a day
to **** you
my body lean and wire muscle wet
women look on dreaming
as i search for you in their faces
i run killing myself
till your dead
all curving sadness
and broken creel
a hallowed
crypt of desolation
you
a sword through me
farewell*
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC
*she said
being a feminist
i have forsaken the temples of normalcy
for dark gratifications and base seduction
and discovered that those who know the pleasures
of objectification
and frenzied ****** lucidity with strangers
are wiser then the children of sweetness and light
as marriage betrays the need to satisfy
secret dark labyrinths desire
and in its place
repeats ad nauseum
blunt fortitudes
in dim sunless rooms
for fear of the transgressive
satans *** nail
is conventions essential creed
exhaustions hand maid
rendered imagine-less
bereft of the new
until a mere stand in
for true desire is left
like a starved ghost
on a dead moon
a desiccated morsel
left for a hungry mouse
is romantic marriage a poetic conception
by love starved victorian imbeciles
vanquished in increments
by petty spats of blood and thunder
who know not the joys of the whips blood toothed kisses
purgation's brutal sensuality
and a creel
of ramming butter **** gang bangs
in secret fetish gardens
of cries and coos
that leave the *** wilted
and the soul lite
like a butterfly in heaven
slave girl asks
as hips sway
to sacred dionysian storms
in the smoldering pangs
of the heart
as backs writhe and arch
flex and sweat rhapsodic
and viscera panic with desire
are not such delicious degradations
pleasures ravage despicable
cause for an ecstatic celebration
kindling
fiery vapors incense
en-flamed dragons blood
for drooling kisses
that talk in tongues
in a language that everyone understands
infinitly preferred
over the rolling eyes of disapproval
in the tepid marriage bed*
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:48 PM UTC
my eyes
tongues of desire
a soft gauze
upon drenched red silk
stigmata
a river of marrow
flower of blood
creel of moist honey
hold not yourself apart
I kiss your wound
bell moon
crescent ravine, dark tears
like a spay of stars
arched spine
your raised ****
like scrambled eggs
curves to the heavens
a steep canyon aching
weeps blue darkness
legs wide in souls shadowed grove
tattooed pistols and knives
pierced by my autograph
for every letter, scimitars plunge
jeweled ******** ringed
sweet tarnished petal
gashed mouth; flower de luce
memories that burn
blotted like an eye in ink
to fly winged *******
your face
hieroglyphic of weird
crimson smear; cackle
with feet below hell
wanting to live
like fire in the sky
hot witch riding a broom handle *****
scummed mouth
the world soul destroyed paradise
and your form
hideous kisses
falling red ribbons
i am puddled;
a runny yolk
shameless for your open hollows
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
YOU waves, though you dance by my feet like children
at play,
Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and
you dart;
In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves
were more gay,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
The herring are not in the tides as they were of old;
My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the-cart
That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when
his oar
Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart,
Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
3.3k
Fishing early morning
On this great big lake
I can’t get a fish to bite
Don’t know what it’s gona take
I tried trolling plastic
Looking for some Eye
When I couldn’t even get a tap
I thought I was gona cry
I went and got some minnows
For ****** I would go
Thought I would get some dinner
But even they are slow.
Sitting here two hours
Not a ****** in my creel
If I try and fish for Perch
Maybe they’ll get real
Catfish on the bottom
Should bring something in
Still haven’t caught my dinner
My patience wearing thin
Running out of options
I don’t know what I can do
I guess I’ll have to buy my meal
When my fishing’s threw
Rew 6/6/10.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 4:47 PM UTC
Hoping to get to the volcano over there,
The volcano of truth!
The Mariners at work
And merry unceased,
I also fell in love in the middle of Titanic.
The crew seem not to worry,
But our creel fell!
We still aim at the verdant volcano,
A strange movement of sharks,
The vultures be the losers?
Then a sudden movement of wind,
The Mariners and master unrest,
Tabled emptied of hands,
Only left with cup of beers,
Time for valedictory speech!
The tempest against our nation,
Fighting our culture,
The volcano in our fantasy,
The truth that is afraid to show forth,
So we died In failure!
Jul 5, 2016
Jul 5, 2016 at 9:18 AM UTC
A hard north-easter fifty winters long
Has bronzed and shrivelled sere her face and neck;
Her locks are wild and grey, her teeth a wreck;
Her foot is vast, her bowed leg spare and strong.
A wide blue cloak, a squat and sturdy throng
Of curt blue coats, a mutch without a speck,
A white vest broidered black, her person deck,
Nor seems their picked, stern, old-world quaintness wrong.
Her great creel forehead-slung, she wanders nigh,
Easing the heavy strap with gnarled, brown fingers,
The spirit of traffic watchful in her eye,
Ever and anon imploring you to buy,
As looking down the street she onward lingers,
Reproachful, with a strange and doleful cry.
1.1k
Melting snow creates a stream
running down the mountainside
like a vivid night of dreams
ending in the foaming tide
Valley lake full of trout
top of water, insects float
on the edges cattails sprout
not sufficiently deep for a boat
Cold clear water in I wade
casting my fly to the shore
I spy motion in the shade
stripping back cast once more
The fly hits the cattails base
a swirl and a flash below
moving fly, trout gives chase
incoming, stripping slow
Trout is caught and in my creel
wade back to the lakes edge
in the truck behind the wheel
driving home on mountains edge
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 11:03 AM UTC
There is a part of us
that isn't quite alive
until hollow-starved lunacy is sated
while showing the bright side
her hidden darkness emerged
when i tricked her into hurting herself
she would say come on trick me, trick me, trick me
and i would tell her
Count Dragool with ****** tube fingers
would take her slow
if she hit her self hard across the mouth
and she would scream to Eden
bash mashley thrash me
i want the men with red tridents
and ding **** tails too
while she watched my eyes
like surveillance drones
as if a great confederation of *****
marched towards her
certainly not painless
but the pain of an addict
who knows all to well the pleasure of the needle
first the little sting and then the great oooow
she is butter on the stove
im the rare drug
a Do Do bird beaking flesh
a cold hard ***********
she a yielding intricacy of complications
a bald Rapunzel
feeling under abused till now
with black crow lips and bangled earings
like a long jangling math problem that ends
with a big O
O popping blood berries
like pink flower hysterical *******
shooting bullets from tattooed
hip belted pistols
on a singing red bed
her limbs a yawing stretch
a torn zipper
being yanked up and down
a frenzy of crying blasphemies and raw kisses
dancing the bend over
on knotted knees
incised a writhing dance cha cha
creel of blood
cha cha cha
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 2:57 PM UTC
The wind is stretching her fingers
Kneading the waves
Into darker, worried scuffs
As the sun teases her
With silver treasures, always distant, elusive
Thrown onto the sea
Through cracks in a sky
Whose slate-grey mood
Could be mistaken for malice
As creel-boats see to their lies
Off Flodigarry, in Trotternish
Mar 12, 2011
Mar 12, 2011 at 8:48 AM UTC
*My Zebco 33 is part of my family
you see , on many a troubled day this
precision piece of machinery has helped
to foster great clarity , encouraged playful
lakeside banter , put many a panfish or two
in the creel as well
This old reel has ne'er skipped a beat in
thirty plus years , a faithful friend , riverbank
companion , an American workhorse in the blue
collar tradition , the 'go to friend' of a grateful fisherman* ...
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch
The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,
the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,
the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,
the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,
the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,
rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.
Keywords/Tags: shape, mourning, bolt, steel, locker, memory, memories, penance, wake, keepsake, memento, rings, crosses, paraphernalia
Apr 13, 2020
Apr 13, 2020 at 5:47 AM UTC
I've been dry for a time,
i struggle to make these words rhyme,
or even a pacing flow and
i thought to let you know before all you begin to think so low.
The irony in this passage for help
is more of a message
to tell you i have no self-
worth or motivation,
like the rest of the nation,
work needs motivation,
i need a motor-vation sensation,
to propell my accumulation
and prevent the inevitability of defication.
I lack the currency to do as i please,
but not neccessarily
for we could stride through the park with
backpacks and water,
some sorta thing i'd like to do with my daughter.
Or Son in the sun,
either way, a child, we've won,
But right now it's our time to shine,
embrace what we've got between the lines.
I'd come back to this later but let's be real,
if my writings were fish,
they'd be banned from the fishermans creel.
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 9:20 AM UTC
Glass flat water clear as a crystal
No blemish detected not even a ripple
4 wheel drive brought me here
A tent some food and a cooler of beer
A week here will be just fine
All alone, to clear my mind
Commune with god in my outdoor church
Untangle my thoughts out of this lurch
A couple of fishing rods, tackle and bait
Looking for dinner, fish to pull my line straight
Put on a chub on let it sink to the bottom
that one sits, take a walk, see if I can spot them
One rod out, fly rod in hand, ease around the edge
Cast out with my fly, I see a flash by a ledge
Trout hits my fly and the fight is on
Work him in until his fight is gone
Dinner in the creel, I look around
Other rod bent over clear to the ground
Run over to it and set the hook
Something pulls back, deep I can't give it a look
The fight is on reel screams out drag
whatever this is will cause me to brag
I win the fight, a 42 inch pike
Stocked for the week, I'll go on a hike
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Your jurisdiction ends over my veil
You are nobody to rule on my zeal
This limited sovereignty is mine
Where I am free to cry or peal
Don't let your dubiety ask me
If I am leal to your creel.
May 21, 2020
May 21, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
Out in the wild
Stream trickles through the field
I continue to hike, I will not yield.
Stop for a bit, sandwich bite, onion mild
Continue on to a spot I know
Hiking on with my pack
Sweating, almost there though, oh my back
Nobody but me has been there though.
Approach so I don't cast a shadow
Pack down, gear unpacked, rod assembled
Line fed, leader tied, tippet and fly, mayfly resembled
couple of back casts out into the meadow
Cast made, fly lands, begins to float downstream
Into the eddy, as it swirls across smooth stone
something eases to the surface looks at the fly, clear water shone
Life is good, water trickles, standing in the sunbeams
No bite, the line whips back
different landing spot
Middle of the day its hot
Fly floats into the shade of black
Strip line back a few times
allow the fly to swirl into the shade
huge splash the fly has paid
The price and tightens the line
Lift the rod, keep the line tight
strip a time or two, reel quick
Trout runs, stay out of the sticks
Fish landed, I win the fight
Into the creel, dinner tonight
walk aways down the stream
Look in the water for a flash and a gleam
Cast again looking for a fight
Creel full of trout
gutted and clean
hike back, keen
for dinner and a stout.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:22 AM UTC