"finned" poems
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
pets are hours of fun, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
their antics do amuse, owners love them to bits
owners love them to bits, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, Rufus chasing his tail
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
their capers never fail to get a laugh, what a show he puts on
what a show he puts on, Rufus chasing his tail
**** playing with a skein of wool, their capers never fail to get a laugh
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
behind the air filter goldfish dart, such a jovial spectacle
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, they're natural born entertainers
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, behind the air filter goldfish dart
such a jovial spectacle, they're natural born entertainers
they're natural born entertainers, feathered finned and furry ones
their antics do amuse, pets are hours of fun
budgerigar hop scotching on her perch, **** playing with a skein of wool
behind the air filter goldfish dart, Rufus chasing his tail
such a jovial spectacle, what a show they put on
their antics never fail to get a laugh, owners love them to bits
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth
The big-finned palm
And green vine angering for life,
As the immense dew of Florida
Brings forth hymn and hymn
From the beholder,
Beholding all these green sides
And gold sides of green sides,
And blessed mornings,
Meet for the eye of the young alligator,
And lightning colors
So, in me, comes flinging
Forms, flames, and the flakes of flames.
3k
from the smallest batch to the largest hatch
these cold fleshed beings are hard to catch
lurking slowly in dark places, but quick to find sight
when the cuisine arrives for their morning bite.
pellets, minerals, early catching worms
between swirling and dancing ferns
these wide finned beauties will show you a trait
making it hard to see them as bait
skittish and scattering from left to right,
to watch them and ponder is my true delight.
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 9:15 AM UTC
One of these days
I’ll turn into a rebellious wind
Rustling through branches and leaves
On the tree tops, the wings finned
Dashing into the heavens
Whilst slithering up the mountains
As whispering Brahmans
So, the thirsty river runs
5/9/2014
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 6:15 PM UTC
If I could melt the confines of my body and spread out into the ocean / I would / push through jagged unwieldy rocks in my path / take up as much space as I need / gently remind the unsettled shores of my presence / encourage my finned inhabitants as they trek across / race past the sharks without a racing heart / vaporize into the sky / and undulate with the moon for all eternity.
Apr 7, 2022
Apr 7, 2022 at 8:37 PM UTC
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .
Busy little bistro
Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose
Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay
Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a . . . pause . . . between paws . .
Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?
All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high
As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Caribbean waters wrench my gut
with an instinct to sail too far
into the blue plunge
of shark-finned waters
and sharp, yellow coral structures.
Those nature beasts rip wetsuit,
my sleek, stone shade wall from internal chill.
I am, feel, like a tanned fish
on these tire-weathered, cement streets.
Towering above are the heavy looks
down
from windows of sunned glass castles
of plastic and sweat.
They're calling,
pied pipers, to what is steel-stable
and rooted, in unforgiving fashion,
to the death of primal sense.
The urge to rip apart is tied back
around collared neck.
My boat is ashore
as I sea-dream-see of horizons unseen
while clenching an ill-fated
armrest desk of destiny
unexplored.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 12:00 AM UTC
(Creation to the end of an Ice Age)
© 2008 (Jim Sularz)
Sun’s first rise over life-less skies, the earth cools, and the waters pool -
the sun burns East to West.
And the planet’s broken plates quake and move.
Lightning strikes, the waters stir, and the bonds of life begin to churn -
the sun burns East to West.
And the waters swirl in a living urn.
Strange aquatic things, they all evolve, some spiny finned, start to crawl -
the sun burns East to West.
And they slowly stretch ***** and tall.
Eons past where the cunning reign, a savage place, with small sized brains -
the sun burns East to West.
And the dead surrender their twisted remains.
An asteroid streaks from the sky, blocks out the sun, cause most to die -
the sun burns East to West.
And all in the blink of time’s eye.
Footprints in stone, some on mountainsides, make it clear that rocks don’t lie -
the sun burns East to West.
And the fossils always tell the time.
Eons past and eons more, the fittest evolves, and man is born -
the sun burns East to West.
And the early brain, once fast asleep, begins to dream and mourn.
The first million years, man lives in fear, learns to hunt, invents the spear -
the sun burns East to West.
And migrates to claim the vast frontiers.
Tools from stone and controlled fire, creates language, that shake man’s empire -
the sun burns East to West.
And splash cave paintings with human inspire.
Life-times of hunter-gathering, and story-telling in the dark -
the sun burns East to West.
And a world spins with a million hearts.
The earth starts to warm, the oceans rise, and the waters shape the lands -
the sun burns East to West.
And when an Ice Age ends, then comes, the Age of Man.
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
Splish, splash, splish and splosh,
Katalyn always enjoys a laugh,
Her imagination running a riot,
Whenever she is having a bath.
Katalyn sees fairies inside bubbles,
Funny creatures her mind has made,
A grinning blue-finned-fairy-dolphin,
And even a singing, fairy-mermaid!
Together they sing bath-time songs,
Often sharing some staggering tales,
Adventures of wrestling an octopus,
Or riding the backs of giant whales.
Sometimes, Katalyn imagines a fairy,
Blowing magic bubbles round the room,
With the help of a very pretty witch,
Making bubbles with a magic broom.
Katalyn thinks bubbles brim with magic,
Like her imagination, so much fun,
Especially shared with funny-fairy-folk,
Until at last, her bath-time is done!
© Paul Chafer 2014
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
For a while now, I've had a thought swimming alongside my awareness, a fin cutting the water as I wait for it to save or **** me. Dolphin or shark? It came near enough for me to make out its shape recently.
**** or save? I know at least that it wasn't a fat guy with a prank fin and a snorkel. It closed on me and I realized what is most painfully missing.
When I am touched, it is simply that.
Dreamlike, my finned pursuer still refused to reveal its whole shape to me, and instead became the emotive image of a hand lovingly reaching for my face.
That small act of love is gone.
It means so much to me, that tenderness, that I ruined the last ship I sailed. I tore every beam apart in my search for what was just a three-legged spider deep in her darkest corner. So I burned down the good ship Treble and used the remains to float away.
I drifted to an atoll and chose a meek ******* It would certainly do, what better place to spend my remaining balance of time?
The breezes whispered and wouldn't stop.
Tides eroded and regrew my ******* until the even rhythm became inherently strange. So steady.
Evenly, unknown, eternity.
When the bottle washed up, I jealously guarded it from the ******* I should not have called the ******* Wilson.
Apparently Wilson controlled the weather.
Several gales and at least one hurricane punished my foolish hide. But the bottles kept coming, encouraged by the raging.
Shortly after, I learned to surf.
Well, I wasn't good at it. And Wilson didn't approve. It only took a little inclementation to sweep me away. If Wilson did control the weather, she must have been exhausted by then.
What a flimsy board.
It was my shield, held wearily up against the hungry ocean. Before my encounter with the amorphous beast, I was just drifting, again, unsure what quixotic urge took me so far.
And then the fin arrived.
**** or save?
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
"Forgive me, Father…for I have sinned"
This is how all my thoughts begin
Their ritual of villain regrets and sorrows.
They come, they lie, they spin…
Misguiding words and blinding the hallows,
While tears pray for the everyday forgiveness,
The tyrants chain my finned tomorrows
Forever consumed in acid of my illness.
Forgive me, Father…
For I have baptized my thoughts in holy water.
Their slushy sins dived into a cruel slaughter,
Leaving me senseless…hopeless…
My tongue have lost its ability
To cut the truth from raw evilness.
In this shell of madness there's no tranquility
In vengeance, burning wounds don't find stability,
In anger, blurry paths lie in selfishness
And so I lie there senseless.
The way back home
Can't be guided by crippled lights,
Redemption has got me in too many fights
Between me and my reflection,
I breathe and I bleed with no defection
While violins cry over my lost pure smiles,
Their grave shrouded me into a foolish disguise.
My lungs shout for Jordan River.
'Cause I can't go on like this…
Lies, mistakes then hinder
Every time dreams are never what is real.
Hear me, Father…
Here I stand in this place my tears used to gather.
Give me a rain drop so my eyes can heal,
Give me myself again so my skin can feel -
My thoughts are unsafe and they will ****
My insides as a sacrifice meal -
I can hear their evil whispers, late at night…
Don't leave me drowned into this tight well,
Where my pillow is creasing words of farewell.
Thoughts sing lullabies in a shallow swing
Words like "Forgive me, Father…For I have sinned."
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 1:37 PM UTC
An Indian Poem
I
She sate upon her Dobie,
To watch the Evening Star,
And all the Punkahs as they passed,
Cried, 'My! how fair you are!'
Around her bower, with quivering leaves,
The tall Kamsamahs grew,
And Kitmutgars in wild festoons
Hung down from Tchokis blue.
II
Below her home the river rolled
With soft meloobious sound,
Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam,
In myriads circling round.
Above, on talles trees remote
Green Ayahs perched alone,
And all night long the Mussak moan'd
Its melancholy tone.
III
And where the purple Nullahs threw
Their branches far and wide,--
And silvery Goreewallahs flew
In silence, side by side,--
The little Bheesties' twittering cry
Rose on the fragrant air,
And oft the angry Jampan howled
Deep in his hateful lair.
IV
She sate upon her Dobie,--
She heard the Nimmak hum,--
When all at once a cry arose,--
'The Cummerbund is come!'
In vain she fled:--with open jaws
The angry monster followed,
And so, (before assistence came,)
That Lady Fair was swallowed.
V
They sought in vain for even a bone
Respectfully to bury,--
They said,--'Hers was a dreadful fate!'
(And Echo answered 'Very.')
They nailed her Dobie to the wall,
Where last her form was seen,
And underneath they wrote these words,
In yellow, blue, and green:--
Beware, ye Fair! Ye Fair, beware!
Nor sit out late at night,--
Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come,
And swallow you outright.
1.1k
There are hooks in you
I am only fickle finned
I cannot swim fast enough
To **** my mouth onto yours
Because-
There are games in you
A hunting sport
A terror red ravaging game
You relish it as the juices drip down your chin
There are hooks in you
And I am only fickle finned
Pulling me into you
Teeth and claws sharper, gashing deeper
-Secret pleasure in the raw raw flesh
There are rumours shrouding you
Bullet words hurtling through my skull
Plumetting through leaves, through everything I know
There are hooks in you
And I am only feather winged
I cannot float fast enough
To embed your bullet in my chest
Because-
This is a game to you
A hunting sport
A biting, sinking, blood filled game
There are hooks in you
And all this hunting, swelling, biting
All this heaving, sweating, fighting
All this terror, flying, swimming
All this hooking, shooting, chasing
Does me no good,
For I am fickle finned
I am feather winged
And this is a game
To you.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 4:17 AM UTC
A glowering beat ******
shuffles frayed hems over avenue
I, propped up preened,
through the door he trips,
to find a pew
All this, I watch
with a dour view
Down in a beanery where souls are served
coffee with a shot consciousness,
who nibble on curated cakes of ****
Awaiting liberation from these surroundings
It's a cacophony of diatribe, cackles,
Disenfranchised, dim-witted opining.
Counting,
quarter time of a song I’d sing to myself
if this woman before me would just
stop talking
over the music in my headphones;
she's talking to me from a bag of bones
“You resemble my brother at Microsoft.”
I asked, “well, is that good?”
And then she asks if I too work at Microsoft -
I detach one earplug, and spit at her feet
"I can't imagine why I would."
Crazy. We, those, who dare to thrive
like dew clung to a thin thread of spider silk;
and how we slide
down, in a moment, a little more
when the breeze of our prey,
quivers the chord
My deeper thoughts ride out
on the tip of a swordfish
dipped in fine finned fears;
from the undercurrents of this vicious tide,
to throttle the banshee that screams with eyes
filled with crystal tears,
that fall into my coffee mug
and sweeten the slake
of our bitter drug.
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
Misty blue, I swim with sea souls
Along shores powdered in grains of white gold
Silver finned creatures slip through this oceanic miracle
All around me, mystical and uncontrolled
Plants varying shades of jade and emerald
Spinning and playing, it's wonderful
To immerse yourself in a universe so ancient and old
Discover the forgotten, an entire world of it's own
Whispering waves pull, they are everywhere
We slip through waters that feel like summer air
And dive down together
Forever
In pairs
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
Smalt sky smelted over running sky: swoop
down for me and switch (very lightly!) your blues.
(No dizzying aches, please, because of too much
hurled change, speeding spirant through my loops.
It would tunnel me, with its head, even more
abhorrently
in two.)
Okay, I’m—great!—upside down now, float splashing
with finned wings in cloud falls and snowy rapids!
Up above, before now I guess, was just a bedlam
like below, and below: just reflection of its head spun.
The running was glinting, mirrored tails shimmering
of wind fish. Believing them, I fed them, then laughed
under wet sun.
I am lying, truthfully. I am inside my house. There was
no sky or sea. Maybe somewhere, but not here. I think
of my love when I sit down. (I don’t really think
much anymore.) And the blues is a saying.
The dizzying aches I do have (It was a joke.)
and the hurled change I am is inside me making
me this.
My loops, me tunneled—that is no joke, that’s the
timelessly wrought result of extruding what hurts
from my sockets and chambers and lobes and pockets
and the given gifts to me I hated, never used, only
wished I could—I can’t—because I can never
pin me down. So they can’t be really
for me.
I am furiously disappearing in obfuscating, invisible,
paralyzed paradoxical paroxysms.
Such as: I am not here I am just here. Lying down
sometime. Today I think. On my bed. Napped or slept
or just wrapped. Barely awoken. And more gone.
Each day awake. Going.
More gone.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 6:14 PM UTC
The sound of bubbles
greets us at mealtime.
I lift the lid &
the family meets me
near the surface
of clear-waters.
I pour in some flakes
& watch them feast.
Hungry
golden-hued,
finned-buggers,
so radiant,
inhaling sustenance.
I love to watch
them feed & float,
their vibrant colors
remind me of the sun.
Watching them breathe
keeps me grounded.
They are indeed
my greatest companions,
swimming
in their
glass palace,
inside
my humble home.
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:07 AM UTC
Hollow, seeking out loneliness
like a fish seeking water
in the ocean that is your eyes
those dead, finned creatures
floating along your irises,
I can feel you reaching for
something to touch
like smoke to my match, that
sad & hungry spider gnawing
at your mouth
frightened & working to
become free.
But what if I caught you
in my glass jar, my forgotten
Promise?
And housed you on the shelf
beside my porcelain skeleton,
my twitching fingertips,
my spellbound mouth?
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 10:01 PM UTC
You speak like willow wise
Briefly about your dream
You had descended on spider
Satin to the
Land of the dead and remained
After eating a pomegranate
Seed.
Siren finned and black eyed
Combing your long silver locks
With the bone of a sailor
Who crashed upon the sea rocks
Now queen of the dead
A maiden once
Beloved kindred
We mourn like winter over our
Loss of your tender touch
We're a dismembered brood.
Spinning an old violin
Humming a music-box carol
Spinning pale blue spinning to
The oceans tune
Triumphantly swinging to
Eternal slumber in a sleepy
Melancholy
Chthonic mistress weaving hymns
For the dead
Lullabies for flickering-by souls
To march to in purgatory
Haunted carousel with thrones
Made of coral and seashell
Pleasing is your disguise
Fleeting like a butterfly
Over a frosted lake
Kissing the blue flowers
Wilting as they weep
Your dreams sound like
Christmas lights
Glazed Luna visions
Redeemer of the night
Guiding souls to caves
Gateways to the underworld
Bedecked in starshine
Howling from the entrance
Beseeching a worthy weight
To add to a library of ghosts
Wandering from the night
Jade necklace on a sinewy neck
Powdered-chalky scent in dew drop
Dusk
Absinthe spilled on a vanity set
An old China vase cracked at the
Spout
Halos of oleander
Eyes dilated
***** sips on a gentle decay
The shades block out the day
The paper lanterns shine luminous
Rays of lavender
Across lips curvaceous
And rosy
Cooing at each other with limbs
Dripped in nectar
From a divine waterfall
Outside a window a
Nocturnal wanderer on the street
Of stone carrying a lantern to mourn
His widow home
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
I love to photograph
the wild things in the land
If it weren't for the finned and clawed creatures
We wouldn't understand the
technology in our hands
Sonar is what we use to get a glimpse of pre-born babies
We have sonar from dolphins and bats
and yet we scream, "Rabies!"
We wouldn't understand infrasound if it weren't for
the elephants
But we only see their ivory, not their intelligence
Tigers and leopards are born to be trained assassins with
their patterned camouflaged coats
But we make them our trophies because humans need to gloat
We owe omega three's to the schools of fish who gave us healthy brains and hearts
But instead we fill their bellies with plastic and tear their reefs apart
Savannas and forests are turning into deserts because of climate change
But we insist it's just a theory
Who cares about polar bears anyway?
Yes, I love to photograph the wild beasts with
fins, claws, and tails
Because I'm afraid that someday
future generations will ask,
"What was once a whale?"
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 6:06 AM UTC
It starts like a spinning top
Hypnotically spirals
Then it swirls
Round like a hurricane
I look into the eye of the storm
It seems to smoulder
Delicate and warm
Yet distant
Unstoppable and yet serene
The vortex drowning my thoughts
Swirling me round
A turbulent sea
But I feel also peaceful
Overcome with serenity
Harmonious music
Drunk on its melody
Does it draw me
Towards rocks or bliss?
This shimmering cocktail
Sweet and heady
Why is everything so hazy?
Is it steam?
Is that a swirling bath?
An aromatic lagoon
Stirred by a gentle hand
Soft skin and porcelain
Inviting me in
Beckoning me in
Does it invite me
Or does the door close?
Leaving me indignant
And alone in the dark
Like a ballerina
Ever faster, ever lighter
Seeming as if to rise
With each revolution
Up and up it goes
Swirling and swirling
Now slower and slower
As it quietly dissipates
It circles now above me
Finned silhouettes overhead
Swimming around and around
I hope they’re not sharks.
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 5:28 PM UTC
sensual is the casual touch of life's playground
the back of a hand on a thigh
a lip on an earlobe
an eye to eye rush
a cry sounded out
from blue seascapes to misty mountains
from the tops of trees to the burrows of furry things
night and day onward rushes
with sensuality
touch soft and hardnesses in the dark
frittered forces familiar
to every two four eight legged
finned
bipedal and quadri and non
forever
it gives birth to life
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC
romola grey plays the glistery xylophone, one foot perched up on a potato mountain. in her arteries are gold rushes, klondike blood and moody oxygen. there is a particular grace to her madness: she used to be a seaweed keeper in carmel, long-finned pilot whale watcher in cork, hoary hair weaver in aix, newspaper delivery boy in columbus—she planted soulful cacophonies of watermelon kids who ice skated around her ankles.
romola grey hits the notes in vernacular solicitude, her fingers in antarctican winds, sloughs off half of the continent of dry skin. she looks for a wolf-boy who will listen to her calls, and her musical outpour of thunderous howls. but there is a nome-alaska body in her gut, corpuscled deep in her legs that trench a frozen pumpkin patch—for she is her own snowy witch with the back of a lion.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 2:52 PM UTC