"fowler" poems
Under the old house
cast in conglomerate mix
the cataract window
and cracked sill
broken joists
and cross beams
wringer wash
and saddle set
A draw string light
brings life
to the corner bench
fowler toads
and fingerlings
jitter bugs
and dazzy vance
dirt planks filled
with mason
crown classics
Buggy whip
and whippletree
shelved on the
chopboard
tackle and mucks
stacked at the back
horseshoe and jack rod
bend the pike pole
a sawhorse placed
for the Martindale push
Gallon jars
and growlers
prepped
for the taking
ropes and reins
for transport
and fest
goggle eye
jumps the flyer
setting up nicely
for the
Haldimand town fair
Jan 28, 2017
Jan 28, 2017 at 12:31 PM UTC
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
Whither, midst falling dew,
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.
Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?
There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast--
The desert and illimitable air--
Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere,
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.
Thou 'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.
2.3k
He that dwelleth in the
secret place of the most High
shall abide under the shadow
of the Almighty.
2 I will say of the Lord, He is
my refuge and my fortress: my
God; in him will I trust.
3 Surely he shall deliver thee
from the snare of the fowler, and
from the noisome pestilence.
4 He shall cover thee with his
feathers, and under his wings
shalt thou trust: his truth *shall be
thy* shield and buckler.
5 Thou shalt not be afraid for
the terror by night; nor for the
arrow that flieth by day;
6 Nor for the pestilence that
walketh in darkness; nor for
the destruction that wasteth at
noonday.
7 A thousand shall fall at thy
side, and ten thousand at thy right
hand; but it shall not come nigh
thee.
8 Only with thine eyes shalt
thou behold and see the reward of
the wicked.
9 Because thou hast made the
Lord, which is my refuge even
the most High, thy habitation;
10 There shall no evil befall
thee, neither shall any plague
come nigh thy dwelling.
11 For he shall give his angels
charge over thee, to keep thee in
all thy ways.
12 They shall bear thee up in
their hands, lest thou dash thy
foot against a stone.
13 Thou shalt tread upon the
lion and adder: the young lion
and the dragon shalt thou
trample under feet.
14 Because he hath set his love
upon me, therefore will I deliver
him; I will set him on high,
because he hath known my name.
15 He shall call upon me, and I
will answer him: I will be with
him in trouble; I will deliver him,
and honour him.
16 With long life will I satisfy
him, and shew him my salvation.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
The Story Of The Littlest Angel
As Christmas Day draws near
I get lost in memories,
of colored lights, mistletoe
and loved ones by the tree.
Of all the priceless moments
I fondly do recall,
a story that was read to me I
cherish most of all.
The Littlest Angel was the title,
and through the magic of every line,
I learned the value of life on earth
that a gift from the heart was truly Devine.
Even though a lifetime has passed
the angel who read me this treasure,
dances in my heart this Christmas
and always will forever.
In Memory Of
My Auntie
Marion L Fowler Rose
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © November 30, 2013
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:57 PM UTC
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none,
Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men?
They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be
Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free;
Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there,
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.
By Nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,
To make us like and love, must I change too?
More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me
Allow her change than change as oft as she,
And so not teach, but force my opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land is captivity,
To run all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters stink soon if in one place they bide,
And in the vast sea are more purified:
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,
Then are they purest. Change is the nursery
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.
1.6k
In pigeon light
this damp day
settles itself
into lamp-room grey.
The trees intone
farewell farewell:
An autumnal valedictory
to reluctant leaves.
Yet a few remain
bold coloured
*Porphry Pink
Fox Red
Fowler
Sudbury Yellow*
hanging by a thread
they turn in the stillest air.
Then fall
Then fall
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 2:07 AM UTC
I'll See You In My Dreams
I wished upon a star
first one I saw shine bright,
I also said a prayer
I'd see you in my dreams
tonight.
Since you went to heaven
my life's not been the same,
memories of years passed by
in my heart will ever remain.
When I look into the mirror
I'm starring back at you,
proud of who I am
and everything I do.
I'm a reflection of your soul
the legacy you left behind,
to show the world how to love
and stop to take the time.
The way you always did when you
went the extra mile,
I miss you Mom so much, I hope
you're proud and I've made you smile.
I'll see you in my dreams until
God says it is my time.
please know you're always with me
in my heart and in my mind.
In Memory Of Shirley A Fowler
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © Jan 2014
All Rights Reserved
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Some days we'd lay about the milled plank deck
eyes to the sky
shoulders pinned
deliberating
on the hickory trees
and pillow clouds
and heavenly contrails
the warm caress
of a mid-summer wind
whispering through the hayfields
coondog at our side
sandhill crane still
feet in the shallows
of the Haldimand pond
a soft trickle coming
from the Pickerel stream
creaks from the woodshed whistle
as the Massey Ferguson
putters her way
up the county line
catharsis in place
(in this ethereal space)
just a garden variety day
...with fire ants
and fowler toads
and golden honey bees
Aug 20, 2021
Aug 20, 2021 at 2:40 PM UTC
Sitting down by the pond the other evening,
Taking in the sunset and listening to how nature puts her children to bed,
I happened to notice my amphibian friends.
Now, I love sounds, loud ones, soft ones, booming, and whispers.
Got a right fetish for listening to nature.
As I sat there entranced, my ears started picking out different frog calls.
You know, them boy frogs trying to sound all handsome and friendly to get a wink from their girlfriends.
And not just the frogs either, ya know, there's some toads out there too.
I was hearing big ole Bullfrogs, boomin' louder than a drum in a parade.
Tiny spring peepers, with their loud high pitched sharp peeps.
There was Fowler's Toads out there too, sounding like ole Henry stuck a knife in his wife's chest, and she screamed for her life.
Them there grey tree frogs, well they are somethin'.
Chatterin' like a monkey missin' his bananas.
And don't get me started on those green frogs, boy howdy, they can twang with the best of em.
Right funny if you don't mind me saying.
But, that trilling those American toads do, out shining those short trillin' Western Chorus frogs evra time, is somethin' else.
Why they can hold a note pert near a full three minutes.
Never can tell how rich wild life is around ya til ya sit a spell and take a listen.
You may not see 'em out there, but shore nuf, life's a going on.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 3:58 PM UTC
The Locket
I have a special locket that rest above my heart,
it holds your beautiful pictures while we must be apart.
It's my hope that you're still with me no matter come what may,
so I know that I can talk to you every single day.
When I walk into a storm you're watching over there,
guiding me to sunny skies with tender loving care.
I'll never have to be alone you're always next to me,
you show me love in different ways the eyes could never see.
Your spirit fills my soul with love beyond any explanation,
with pride I'll wear it every day in total admiration.
Of the woman who changed my life and patiently awaits,
arms wide open to welcome me when I reach heavens gates.
It's never really good bye if in your heart you do believe,
a mothers love is endless, and never ever leaves.
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copy Written and published through
Family Friends Poetry
In memory of Shirley A Fowler
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
To Always be Splitting Infinitives
Those who neither know nor care
[about split infinitives]…are a happy folk…
-Fowler’s Modern English Usage, 1926
I seem to always be
Splitting infinitives
And between you and me
These are definitives
Jul 31, 2021
Jul 31, 2021 at 8:22 AM UTC
Get the spirit of science, robot
The painting eating kissing teaching Park
Silver & legs to the canticle is from the
contribution to the diaphragm; A bunch of free
of sand, & the prophet, & brought him
to w/ in her ******* the language of the rabble?
in Latin, however, the knowledge of the ability
of the power of the gods in the track club cops
care; looking for wood of the table itself
But in the mirror on the bed Forty-plastic letters
Lakes turning away from the center of the top;
buried by the beginning of the new ****
he fell to listen to the voice from the NGO's
When flies were dancing w/ burning eyes,
so gun-sight & both its nature equipment
will be cut off at the knees; Remember my story
It is written in back of the dragon that loves Glory;
the corporate life it can be the best of smoke
To have the mind of a pretext for their home
to paradise, to change of teeth, & begin:
Earth to need a cool blond child to read
holding flames, understand abstract;
Glory to the bottom lay the empty gun's
skinny ****
He caught wind Bob Christian, Adios,
broken vigilance sought by Einstein
J's daughters' simulated bounce
The skin until the end of Bettie
Then, the mysteries of the House of leather
Garth inspired state Ephraim was held & Kissed
Mad floors language barrier as at 5, high blood
Adoni'jah's six villages; A fool also be used
for developing a speech, mindful of the message
& the heat from the sun, the stranger spoke
of P. & Woolf lived for sports Friday & walked through
the wilderness, he began to to ask for, to put him
with garments and blessed is he, Love was
a weapon in the shadows but the hot drink is
To receive a ghost; The light open in the middle
Wide took it to a table in the Libyan day to day,
1 for the first time; He turned the sea into the right side
of the enemy; claiming pretty mountains; number
of years of starvation; half of the Jews: but the real
point early in the morning is 1 Fowler Robert Kiyosaki,
consort to the Queen of Drugs
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
For those whom live Psalms91 Life's here on the earth everyday.
God opens your eyes to the senseless killings of the innocence.
My heart breaks for those that are killed needlessly by evil one.
For I watch true life stories of evil people whom are being lead.
By the demons themselves killing needlessly those without cause.
But Christ is leading many as well, protecting them from them.
He that dwells in the secret place of the most High, shall abide Psalms 91;1-3
Under the shadow of the most Mighty.
I shall say of the Lord he is my refuge and my fortress.
my God in him shall I trust.
Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler
as well as the noisome pestilence
For these lines spoke my life thus far here on the planet earth.
For I have faced death many of times yet still I am here my friend.
Look back on your life and you shall probably see the very same thing.
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:56 PM UTC
Like a dispirited spectator watch his
favorite team, in a long losing streak;
He sits quietly, on
the cold wooden floor,
staring at the ceiling,
with a belly full of shame,
guilt, and pain. His mind is
running fast and furious, with
hard core life questions. He is
on hells wheels, with no
destination, in sight.
How do I go from here?
The void of hopelessness.
What went wrong?
Why, why, why me?
A whirlwind of;
Incurable disease,
lack, dark secrets,
death of a love one,
rejection, unpaid bills,
divorce, loneliness, ...
O' the night season, is long
How I yearn for the crisp mornings;
Peace, life, and wholeness
Earthmaker, please bath my heart with
life and free my soul, from the snare
of the fowler.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:29 PM UTC
*“Writing is easy. All you need to do is stare at a blank sheet of paper until the drops of blood form on your forehead.”
—Gene Fowler*
It’s fun to look at the poet struggling, like at this
moment: he stares at the blank paper,
ready to do his performance, when in all he doesn’t
have any wound anymore to let the blood
flow in. Or at least he doesn’t have any more
on his head. He stops. Looks around. Think
about the horizon, burning outside. How
the orange is slightly burning off the sky
to a violet ; an ocean where every star
glisten like salt. He doesn’t make sense
upon thinking this. So he looks again.
Took out the set of knives. Scatter them around.
Names them his past lovers and beloveds. Thinks
about tombstone. Or last two weeks when he
buried a stubborn photo album out of its
existence. Now
the light in the kitchen distracted him. The white
light at the end of the tunnel, he thinks. Believing
if death comes at his doorstep, is he in white
like the moon is supposed to or is he in robe
of black just so the neighbors won’t notice.
And he looks again. Thinks again. And then
he rested his dancing fingers, he apologizes
to them. How they don’t dance
to the beat of his heart anymore. He looks at
the blank page. How the cursor blinks simultaneously
with the beat of his hearts. He’d sooner question
his memory. There’s a pizza he left in the oven.
He went back to the kitchen, looks at the oven window,
sees how the cheese melt, the meat embedded
at the crust. And how the crust, slowly unfolding
itself to the pizza that it really is like
a blooming flower.
He looks at the blank page, again.
Tells himself, “this will be
my poetics.”
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:57 PM UTC
Dance On Angel's Wings
Dance on the wings of an angel
in your heavenly kingdom above,
rejoice with those gone before thee
and bask in his infinite love.
In all your awesome splendor
remember not far away,
your memory is alive and well
in the hearts of us who wait.
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © 1995
In memory of
Caleb Fowler Jr
1911-1995
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 6:42 PM UTC
He who dwells in the shelter
Of the Most High
Will rest in the Shadow
Of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, He is
My refuge and my fortress,
My God, in whom l trust"
Surely he will save you
From the fowler's snare
And from the deadly pestilence.
He will cover you with his features,
And under his wings
You will find refuge;
His faithfulness will be
Your shield and rampart.
You will not fear
The terror of night,
Nor the arrow that flies by day,
Nor the pestilences
That stalks in the darkness,
Nor the plague
That destroys at midday.
Sep 25, 2017
Sep 25, 2017 at 11:48 AM UTC
blood thin. her arm was at ease,
but cooked in her mind were beings like fleas.
They only grew fowler, more putrid with the heat.
she only grew weaker as you do in defeat.
well when you accept it anyway,
Ive known a thing or two about it
but she couldn’t hear me through curses she was shouting.
I guess that was the hardest thing:
My mind would keep guessing
as the fleas were surfacing.
So thats why I put her at ease.
For her head was for bed, so take her now please.
My own head is sweating, I need her still and to sleep.
So take her now please, before they burrow deep.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 6:55 PM UTC
We were just a bunch of teenage boys
Who’d grown up playing with Dinky toys
Who now sat in this Master’s class
Exams upcoming we had to pass.
With Fowler’s Usage in his hand
He strode amongst our hapless band
And taught us all of composition
And how to use a preposition.
He always wore a teacher’s gown
That seemed to match his careworn frown
With his long chin we called him Drac
While flirting ink-bombs at his back.
His language classes were of renown
And in them none would play the clown
He made it ever seem such fun
Including always everyone.
He also taught us English Lit
The class that was my favourite bit
Though as most favoured Shakespearean pickings
My personal choice was always Dickens.
While Edward Lear wrote tales of Nonsense
Charles Dickens had a social conscience
Writing tales of deprivation
Still he entertained the nation.
Our Master taught me all of this
And lost in books I am in bliss
And I thank Tom Davis for it was he
Who opened my eyes and set me free.
©Joe Wilson – The Master 2014
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 7:07 AM UTC
Is what I see through these eyes of mine really what’s in front of me?
Would anyone agree or reply instead, on the contrary.
Some things look so real but lack the fiber that’s required to being.
Allusion turned illusion, translation delusively believed.
Truth rejected, blatantly refused involuntarily due to brainwash of mainstream.
Maintaining distorted beliefs perpetuated by erratic theory.
When did it all turn upside down?
Like an hourglass it won’t last but an hour now.
How much longer will it be until justice is found?
Anyone dare object?
The Fowler should proceed with caution.
Where are the uncorrupt are they anywhere to be found?
It isn’t right that we truly have no rights.
Injustice profound.
Appropriation of our Constitution.
Can we turn this around?
Jun 10, 2020
Jun 10, 2020 at 5:36 PM UTC
1 Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.[a]
2 I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
my God, in whom I trust.”
3 Surely he will save you
from the fowler’s snare
and from the deadly pestilence.
4 He will cover you with his feathers,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart.
5 You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
6 nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday.
7 A thousand may fall at your side,
ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
8 You will only observe with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.
9 If you say, “The Lord is my refuge,”
and you make the Most High your dwelling,
10 no harm will overtake you,
no disaster will come near your tent.
11 For he will command his angels concerning you
to guard you in all your ways;
12 they will lift you up in their hands,
so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.
13 You will tread on the lion and the cobra;
you will trample the great lion and the serpent.
14 “Because he[b] loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him;
I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name.
15 He will call on me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble,
I will deliver him and honor him.
16 With long life I will satisfy him
and show him my salvation.”
Jan 24, 2015
Jan 24, 2015 at 6:33 PM UTC
The house of commerce commercializes my vignette of nostalgia through various panes. As I am lost to the neon coast of degradation, a forward conquistador berates me for my due impertinence. This migraine doesn’t match my previous excursions, as it is lethargic and fat in deep feeling. My raincoat is a bed that remains a typewriter, that which I reject. I hate it with precision. “This is not an observation, and you are a boisterous fool that rests on the laurels of institution!” But lo’, I am not that impish man! My pen is renewable, unlike my reserves of happiness. If the Quotidian Cycle remains so mundane, then who am I to adhere to the seers of ingenuity? Planets ingest the polygons that compose my mind to the sound of Igor Stravinsky. The definitions of words coalesce into a redundant gestalt, threatening to escape my clammy grasp. Brats and weasels complain of their jeans and fur, soaked in brandy and tar. I live like a dissident; this vagrant is cold to the sickening nods of animals. God, don’t let me remain an anthropomorphic beast. The suffering is daily, the void is lonesome and lays my spine on stone. Melatonin is a pensive friend, a foolhardy palliative to the disease within a footstep. I’ve no footsteps. Not any of note or worth.
Not a single thread to pride myself in. Conversations and dime trades happen around me at generous speeds while I remain a stranger. Christ, I despise my face. I’ve dug my heels into depravity, the exile from woman’s hold is a wrench in my innards. O, to even think is a crime! Who could love the mind deloused, the small and prudent mouse (but little did they know, he facilitates a disease between him and the universe). Intoxicated, my love knows no bounds, but my lust is rendered sterile and sullen. Who can hold me? Who can hold me? Who can hold me? God god god god could hold me. He is not strong, is he? Somebody hold me, now.
Oh, I know yes I need to indulge in the incessant whispers, for my status of a guileless ***** will have to suffice. A cigarette leaps out at my cursed visage, a container of maroon liquid coagulates in mine eyes. There, voices. Cyclic conversations, cyclic conversations, hep! Help! Take me! Take. Take. Take. Me! I belong in the boon, mister fowler. Take me! I don’t hold weight in this world! So take. Sedate me. Please, almighty, nullify me.
Feb 19, 2020
Feb 19, 2020 at 6:26 PM UTC
Circus catcher,
Max Patkin in a total clown outfit,
Willie Mays remembered,
hot dogs,
the soothing nature of baseball on TV,
talk of a Yankee rebirth,
me projecting that the Cubs
will repeat
if Jason Heyward spells Dexter Fowler
the breezes of spring
appropriate spring clothing,
major league baseball box scores again
right under the fresh major league baseball
standings in the sports section
college baseball on ESPN (I guess it's on already)
teams filling out their 25
man rosters,
sweat of the brown, rooting
for your team,
these are just a few of the signs
of the rite of spring
May 31, 2017
May 31, 2017 at 10:51 AM UTC