"minnow" poems
A country lane, which eats animals, earrings and experiences,
winds in spools around the oat-house and follows the broken wall.
My sister’s bottle green jeep made waves along the hedges,
she shook out her hairband and the conversations of the evening.
An owl asks on all sides, and would seem to answer himself as
the field barracuda, the vast wide eye for the minnow-mouse.
She put a pearl in the bushes, dangling spit-like,
an orb, a moon-berry, full and dead forever.
She drove faster, as the english night slowed down,
down by the where the willow covers the road sign.
She killed a badger,
as if they had both lost something here.
Sun-cooked,
crisp at the curling edges
he’s a dark patch, like a fixed pothole.
his bones tested her michelins in the morning
again, glassy eyed, stillened,
retroflective and blind to the shimmering shadow of flies
rising up through his skin like a spirit.
But both her ears are full.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 3:40 PM UTC
I have nothing better to do
when it rains so I go to the pier
on vacation with my pole and chicken necks
and rusted traps, drive down
to where the kayaks wait
in the mud, stop to smell
where fresh fish float through
brackish waters and tie a knot
at the end of my string, attach a bob
and minnow and cast
out towards the bay spotting
dead skates and hope
for mackerel and striper,
how my father taught me be gentle
I tie the necks to string and let the meat sink
below the surface and wait to be caught
up with delicious ****** poultry
to feed on and get trapped behind
the jailed walls. I hope the blue
crab knows I had to drive over
the county line in my shoddy white
pickup to the quiet co-op
when she bites into the chicken
for our dinner.
Nov 30, 2014
Nov 30, 2014 at 11:06 PM UTC
What if the sun was a fish of golden flame
What then would the moon reflect
Would the earth be a bubble
Would space be a sea
What would become of
All this human misery
If the sun was a fish
With fins of fire
Swimming here and there
Going wherever it did please
Would the moon be a minnow
Forever bound to follow
Would the earth be a dream
Would god be the water
Would the devil be the worm
Would love be free to swim
Without fear of aches and pains
Without mans clumsy hands
To break the heart
Of the sun swimming
With golden fins ablaze
Anywhere and everywhere
And never ever
Ever
Would love be
Touched by our
Human misery
Jul 10, 2016
Jul 10, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,
A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I'm sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly
Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.
She waded in under
The sign of the cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be
A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ's palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.
5.6k
Prowling through the undergrowth
In our barging juggernaut,
Ploughing the rolling hills of water,
Which crease as the narrowboat sluggishly gliding past,
Brushes the bulrushes like a tiger in the reeds.
For four intrepid days
Our film and photographs are empty to show,
No sign, only missed whispers,
Of the hummingbird blue blur.
A darting flash cresting the morning chill,
Regal turquoise stealthily steals
Our attention, our focus, and our tiller
Noses toward the bank hugger.
And we have him.
Small amber-royal fisherman,
Eclipsing his heron heralds
And the swans silent vigil
In majestic lapis lazuli.
Swift and sure he graces the water,
Fisher King,
Which bends beneath his dive.
Resurfacing, his golden breast
Mottled with silver minnow.
There recluse in his exclusive spot,
Fish foundering still in the ******
The kingfisher's poise frames his catch
Aperture, shutter, captured shot.
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
Minnow, go to sleep and dream,
Close your great big eyes;
Round your bed Events prepare
The pleasantest surprise.
Darling Minnow, drop that frown,
Just cooperate,
Not a kitten shall be drowned
In the Marxist State.
Joy and Love will both be yours,
Minnow, don't be glum.
Happy days are coming soon--
Sleep, and let them come...
4.6k
On the low-flung periphery of the salt marsh bay,
near the twisted beach, an eddy--
Sun low with the tide going up
where softly and under I lay.
For a pillow I was given
a yellow shell.
My ears were listening.
In its restlessness and reaching,
my tongue and its languages
felt lashed and closed.
I shall not leave
my waterworld.
But I must go,
ashore.
Hermit crab
raised itself up.
One silvery minnow played
across my open eyes.
Then, a cloud-blue sky
answered me
with a white seabird,
overhead circling.
So strange and beautiful,
this land of my dream I see--
in my amphibian way.
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 7:57 AM UTC
Eyes of glass, in the ocean, deep and blue.
Like fabric of white-
worn to grey.
No where in this world are there people to shiver,
yet the people, we live without day.
No morn' to see.
No rooster to crow.
No light to show our way,
yet we as humans',
lives continue,
while our mother's love makes us okay.
There be..
there be..
moonlight..
dear be..
lukewarm water,
so in which it sway.
If I may run,
I may yonder,
for I'm a mere symbol,
a minnow.
To which will force up ponder,
if rather or not,
the fishy is gay.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC
There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
and inside lying fragments of it's history,
I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;
The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.
A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,
Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,
A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 8:35 PM UTC
Deer loved one
Please bear with me,
owl bee with ewe as soon as possum bull.
Rhino that things have been on paws lately
bat remember I toad you;
Toucan always find me some plaice warm in your heart
if I'm not lion there beside you.
Giraffe nothing to fear, no one can break the lynx we've made.
Mine is a love that'll never panda, narwhal it
hound any other sole but jaws and yours alone.
You're the porpoise I wake up every morning.
Wren all otter things are bleak, you're my ray of sunshine.
You let minnow weevil always have each other.
With you, newt time passes but stops still.
Love you with vole of my heart
ant i'll never desert you.
Until hen Gobi good
Yours truly
...
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 6:40 PM UTC
Walter was history's best fisherman -
history's best minnow fisherman.
He combed and cleaned his net
like a lint trap or a summer screen door
so delicate, seaweed fibers, mussel shells.
He fished more of a dance, a twirl
his arms up and down and around and always
spun in the shallows like a waterspout
he would glide his butterfly net through the lake
and capture little fish he placed
into a sand castle bucket filled halfway with water
he would always pour back into lake.
He was strictly a catch and release fisherman.
All the mothers on the beach would stare
at Walter and his water waltz and at his mother
who stood next to him so he wouldn't fall.
It was hard not to stare at Walter
always alone with his aged mother
and he had to be at least a teen by now.
Perhaps it was hard to tell, autism doesn't age well,
but we had been beach regulars for fifteen years
and Walter and his mother had for ten.
The last time I saw Walter he danced and fished.
I laid on the beach with my cousin and we observed
his patterns and his mother his rock who stood there
for ten years with the minnow fisherman.
The next day my own mother cried
more than when her own mother passed
and she told me, she died
Walter's mother died
Even now I stand in the shower skin deep in water
and think about where Walter is now.
I see him in my mind dancing in some bath tub
with a butterfly net in some foster home
without a mother to break his fall.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:30 PM UTC
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC
When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;
Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.
Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.
After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.
Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.
After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates
and somehow,
“the page is printed.”
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Whatever the cost I pay up at the minnow pools.
I don't know anything of the misery of these trapped fish,
or the failure of the marsh I'm so hidden.
Up above is the island with its few houses facing
the ocean God walks with anyone there. I often
slosh through the low tide to a sister
unattached to causeways.
It's where deer mate then lead their young
by my house to fields, again up above me.
Pray for me. Like myself be lost.
An amulet under your chest, a green sign of the first
rose you ever saw, the first shore.
Then I wash my horse, dogs, me behind the barn.
Only the narrow way leads home.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 12:44 PM UTC
Melanie of the morning
Sailed by my parapet
She says, “there’s no use in mourning
When the world is your puppet”
Won’t you come through my window?
For my legs feel frail
She says, “just moan like a minnow
And I’ll be in your mail”
And what a lovely day it is
Flowers taped onto a sign
When the sky is an orange wisp
I’ll be by your side
Oh, I long for her
Searing, fading hair
Still-flowing, spotlight fur
Delouse my glare
I spun around in my chair
Until the white walls caved
I’m ready for her stare
To hold me inside a grave
Soon, the bottom of my ship
Will hold gilded fleece
To keep her warm for a trip
Can a sailor only love the sea?
Melanie, Melanie will come to me
Mar 7, 2019
Mar 7, 2019 at 7:28 PM UTC
The silver moon
falls
from sight
as the rising tide
kisses
adjacent piers.
The cool morning
rests
over the gentle bay
as clouds
commute
covering the light of day.
Brown thrashers rhythmically
mimic
stolen song
as they
traverse
the canal.
Barefoot toes
roam
freely
frequenting familiar
footpaths.
Minute minnow mouths
toy
with the bait
bobbing
the cork.
Experienced hands
handle
seafood
adopting its scent
while the blue *****
boil
into crimson.
Afternoon showers
cool
the earth
as a mysterious moon
lowers
the tide.
Night
falls
again
in Mississippi.
Jun 6, 2023
Jun 6, 2023 at 4:21 PM UTC
There is always a way
Hidden from plain sight
So many crossroads
We have to tackle
Surrounded by structures
And then busy boulevards
Higher and higher
Ambitions kissing clouds
Vertical limits not set
One feels dizzy
Like a minnow
Pushed around
Sprain in the neck
New phobias
And health scares
Spine gives way
To modern marvels
Can’t bear the load
Anymore
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
the first thing I notice is the jetty
the waves littered with little feet and bouncing foam and
bobbing buoys of women, two of which
call me to remove my boots
and let water lick clean
old clammy toes
but I walk out on the jetty
past the rock where scuttling children fear their mothers will forget them
past the crop of young fishermen, smiling between tides of beer and
counting the fish they have yet to catch by the worms they have
in their new tackle boxes
past an empty can of Budweiser
past an old bucket of bait that even the gulls wont touch
deeper into the bird **** that paints this rock thumb
pock marked with bowls of orange soup-
carapace and minnow bones
denying a smoke in favor of the ocean’s oyster breath
trading the cooling molten gold of a California beach
for something I was sure would only be found
where this putrid jetty purged into the sea
and I was close
even as you drove me home
I couldn’t forgive you for following me there
Dec 13, 2011
Dec 13, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
A minnow that's forgotten it's in water
A buzzard who's forgotten it's wings
A primate with no hands and feet
A star with no mass
©2024
Jun 25, 2024
Jun 25, 2024 at 9:16 PM UTC
.
Bleeding ripe woman,
wet naked stone;
honey rock dries--
fast star bone.
Dead memories change
just like laid,
wants fly open--
soul sky parade.
Sea moon dreams,
daddy heard stars--
known little face;
death drives cars.
________*________
Rainy days wash--
brick looking mud,
blank reality strings
dry midsummer blood.
Dog's child minds--
revolution spreads wings,
***** molten other
fraught angel sings.
Corner ocean waves--
milk sounds morbid,
freeing minnow slaves
gritty condor kid.
________*__________
Catch passing eclipse--
my suicidal dream!
Kissing dying lips,
conscience eagles' scream.
Roots stop barely--
silver burdened rhyme;
river's metal tracks
help God remind.
Lofty smokeless breeze--
bird's echo box.
Ice burg floating,
saturates frozen socks.
__________*___________
Rings pulled strangers
silk blossoms singing--
remembering ancient maps
deep words bringing.
Canon pirates' soup
dreamer's record stalkin',
river's whole amount--
dead man walkin'.
Instant scattered corona
clenching eagle drowning;
rubber slamming secrets--
reading Robert Browning.
.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 4:11 AM UTC
Water gushing down a stream
Reflecting the sky like a dream
Nurturing the plants around
Making a calming sound
Leafs floating on the surface like a boat
Shivering in the wind as it stays afloat
Minnow darting away in the current
Shiny wet pebbles gleaming in the playful light
The suns ribbons making the sand look bright
Tall trees showing off their height
Squirrels over an acorn, they fight
Birds learning their way to flight
While I look on at natures might
~21/3/21
Mar 21, 2021
Mar 21, 2021 at 4:00 AM UTC
Bad Day
Woke up alone, with tears in eye,
this answer, I hope to find the why,
one night stand, never said good-by.
Lost my ten year job,
boss was as a rich snob.
Caught my girl with the neighbor,
super huge line at The Department of Labor.
Ran out of gas, had to push my car,
worst dinner ever at my local bar.
News filled with corruption and ******
me filled with high powered bi-polar.
Doing shots with reckless abandon,
all this plus living in Camden.
A true New Jersey **** hole,
drugs everywhere except birth control.
My best friend died last week,
there goes our hanging out winning streak.
Tomorrow will be a year since my parents death,
everyday I still have to catch my breath.
Left the bar with as female,
bigger than any sized whale.
She sat on my face, and I said holy fat,
don't remember much after that.
Sneaked out of the hotel, before me,
having a bad day, wouldn't you agree,
went home, and lost the house key.
Cut myself breaking a window,
felt like a hooked helpless minnow.
Can't blame this on the rain,
or the disease in my brain.
This was a long time coming,
my nervous breakdown was forthcoming.
I think now, I know the why,
life ***** and I'd rather die.
I'm so much better than that,
Getting rid of my welcome mat.
Played country backwards, to get my life back,
nothing but torture and an occasional hack.
Well now i know the reasons why,
I'm just a regular fall guy.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
We were once mountains
Standing tall, standing proud.
Mountains of great girth and of great pride.
We were once, the top of this world.
Landmarks, conquest, tourist attractions.
We were once as tall as the clouds.
And where safety , for the Eagles home.
We were once.
We were once, great boulders of strength and of size.
We were once great boulders hanging on for life.
We were once in the mids of this world.
Added beauty and charm to the mountains side.
Became steps to help others achieve their goals, became hidding spots for smaller animals to hid from their prey.
We were once great boulders.
Relatable, reachable and visable.
We were once.
We were once rocks, that have fallen from the highest of peaks.
Rocks that have been broken, slammed, stepped on to help you achieve.
Rocks that made up the lower grounds of a stream.
Planted, stacked and buried
As a bridge for your feet,
To keep you dry.
We were once rocks.
Used as a grip for your boots, to keep you safe.
As a path to guide you, to all that you achieve.
As caverns for the minnow and his family.
As a safe haven from the piranha.
We were once.
We were once dust
The wearing,
the fragile truth.
Looked upon as not a thing.
We were once.
We are once.
Once
We are all dust.
Once,
We are all the beginning.
Once,
We are all, the foundation.
Once,
We can see, we are all needed
Once,
We can hear, we are all our own strength.
Once we accept, all for who they are, all of what we can be.
Once,
We see truth and strength
In unity.
All is just as import to building a powerful mountain.
Once,
All this,
Then, this rocks dust can rebuild
His majestics mountain of strength.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
Truly gifted poets
Straddle their crafts early on
Some even in adolescence
They have been cursed or blessed
To be kings and queens of utterance.
I never dreamed of becoming a poet
It was furthest from my mind
Then in a sudden twist of eardrum
It happened in my Mid-thirties.
Out of the recesses of Time
Came the lure and a hook
Shining in enchanted brook
And before i knew it
My heart was snatched
And my movements flustered
When i bit on ambrosiac bait
Drenched in Muse's wine
Drugged and drunk
On sounds and images
I struggled in a pool of words
To assemble what held me infused
To make sense of orphaned views
Swaying between shade and light
Like dancers deprived of audience.
My poetic rapture began
In frenetic rain of ink
preposterous in direction
A poetaster rapt on vapid rhymes
With sounds of poetic crimes
But my craft developed
In piecemeal fashion
And rendered my pen composed.
A minnow of long ago
Has grown into a mackerel
And longs to become a whale
In the ocean Ars Poetica
Though it seems a pipe dream.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 1:09 AM UTC