"minnows" poems
How can my eyes hunger for tormentors bodies
where in my soul can I find desires for sadists
Eves threw on fitted coats of Marquis de Sade
borrowed his manuals and added even more pages
pierced the heart of a Dove defending his nest with lethal pins
And in joyous indignities with devilment aplomp
they reclined and crackled in wanton doltishness
He thinks of and desires us and wants to make amor with us
How can a heart marinated in love truely sincere
a soul ready to die rather than any harm to Eves
Be mother or sister or perchance even a stranger
alas in utter ********** and grotesque situation dire
Come undone with healthy pristine heart ripped to pieces
hung drawn and quartered and sliced in tiny morsels
Like fish baits for mice and minnows or hens clucking
All at the hands of Sirens who worshipped in Satan's cravens
How can a soul with only the spark of Salvation aglow
where it once housed his heart and enduring humanity
With brimful joy and devotions in fitting measures true
as all Eves where to him nowt but sisters and earth angels
Now his burning blood runs cold like rivelets in the Arctic
their words ring hollow and smiles shows rapiers of snakes
Nothing stirs desires for all Eves now seem and look like wicked corpses
Delilahs' wrecking vengeance on Samsons in wickedness supreme
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Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 4:31 AM UTC
This world is,
compiled mostly of;
SHARKS ,
or
MINNOWS,
and
you have to be a
Jellyfish
or you will die.
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
Third weekend in July
I love canoeing out on Northwood
Lake, early morning hours melting
into the pines, as I head toward the
island where the wild blueberries
lie. Tiny morsels, abundant and packed with
the taste of summer and beepollen and freshwater
and snow. Minnows nibble my toes, each one
a solid worm for the biting, as I slowly
fill a one-gallon jug, berry by berry,
to use for breakfast pancakes and
Belgian waffles cooked golden from
the waffle iron. Some of the ripest
berries plop into the lake. I swipe
them up before bass or sunfish
see them; always leaving the
green berries behind.
Pausing to taste some, they
split between my incisors;
I marvel at the flavor
while a loon’s haunted red
eyes stare at nothing.
Blueberries split like
relationships
occasionally do,
sour at times, always
leaving a taste on your
palate. Families, young
lovers picnicking on the
beach lake, confused couples;
they branch off, moonlight
silhouetting their outlines;
silent elegy softly blossoming
downward as their paths skew.
They won’t cross again.
My jug filled, I oar
back to the dock,
ears filled with
humming of birds,
insects, boats;
brimming with
the bream from berries
splitting apart,
and the intense
silence of blueberry
picking in late July.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 3:09 PM UTC
*As I close my eyes
my senses know no bounds
my body becomes weightless
and my joyful song resounds*
I try to find my bearings, and
I hold on to myself.
I've never put someone so close;
My self upon a shelf.
*Every fiber of my being
has room to stretch and grow
my steps spring forward lightly
and my smile is wide, aglow!*
So come unto me, siren.
Give me room to grow and fall.
Sing for me a beacon; silly boat
Is sinking slow.
*I swim to you in haste
my hair flowing wild and free
and water courses around my limbs
as minnows accompany me.*
And so we're freed by water,
Unalone and unafraid.
Need no more one breath to take,
Nor single blessing said.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
229
A Burdock—clawed my Gown—
Not Burdock’s—blame—
But mine—
Who went too near
The Burdock’s Den—
A Bog—affronts my shoe—
What else have Bogs—to do—
The only Trade they know—
The splashing Men!
Ah, pity—then!
’Tis Minnows can despise!
The Elephant’s—calm eyes
Look further on!
4.7k
i just want to go some place nice,
somewhere the sky is pretty- like you.
i want to be like you.
you know, i have a lot to give to the world i just-
don’t know what it is yet.
but i’ll get there. i promise i’ll get there.
until then my heart will be in that pretty place
there, the trees will be tall,
and it will always feel like autumn. warm,
but cool. and the leaves
will always be in those orange-red hues,
the water will stay so clear and blue, that
you will see little minnows when
you dip your toes into the creek.
i’m not used to living on the edge, i’m just living
and that’s alright with me,
because i don’t want to be someone
i am not.
i am careful.
i am not reckless.
in that pretty place, the sweet little people
will be in their sweet little homes.
although, some of them will not be home they
will just be in a house.
a house they wish was a home,
but it can’t be because
home is where the heart is and as pretty as that
little place is,
their hearts are not there.
their hearts, like mine, are elsewhere.
perhaps with the stars and their blinking lights,
or at the bottom of the sea,
where the pebbles are rough beneath your toes,
and you try to hold your breath forever
because you are no longer
in the shallows.
you are somewhere deeper.
i want to go some place the water is deeper,
and the people think clearly
through all of the fog
and it’s all pretty
like you.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
Night covers the pond with its wing.
Under the ringed moon I can make out
your face swimming among minnows and the small
echoing stars. In the night air
the surface of the pond is metal.
Within, your eyes are open. They contain
a memory I recognize, as though
we had been children together. Our ponies
grazed on the hill, they were gray
with white markings. Now they graze
with the dead who wait
like children under their granite breastplates,
lucid and helpless:
The hills are far away. They rise up
blacker than childhood.
What do you think of, lying so quietly
by the water? When you look that way I want
to touch you, but do not, seeing
as in another life we were of the same blood.
3.8k
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:17 AM UTC
Atletico’s progress to this stage has been somewhat sloppy to say the least, following a second leg showing at the Vicente Calderon which allowed minnows CE L’Hospitalet to walk away with an historic 2-2 draw.
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The loss at Valencia on Sunday for a near full strength Real Madrid returning from victory at the Club World Cup and a winter break came as a shock to everyone.
A title race is well and truly on again this season so it may come as some relief for the players of both camps to lock horns away from La Liga.
Failures for both Barcelona and Real Madrid at the weekend mean Atletico are level on points with Barcelona, each a point behind leaders Real but Carlo Ancelotti’s side do have a game in hand.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
If not for your blood,
We could have won easily,
Such minnows you are.
You saved our Holi,
Losing yesterday's match,
Which was a thriller!!!
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 12:02 AM UTC
Mourning - you flew over indigo waters,
landing
Stealthy stalker you walked the shallows
billing silvery minnows
On rust red stilts, you're built
to move in watery fields
Eyes piercing depths of algae blooms
rippled, your swaying seaweed room
Silent hunter,
feathery plumed
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 11:19 AM UTC
bae decided that he wouldn't go
to the show just because he feels low
the flu is about him, he has aches
but that doesn't mean he has to be late
I'm sad as heck for bae being sick
he's annoying, my bae not named ****
he won't stop txting me weird things
I wish he could have normal thinks
stop turning minnows into whales
stop telling such outlandish tales
I told him to please not go to bed
but he decides to be sick instead
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
Ethereal and Base a harmony so diametric a solid.
Wisdom's forgiveness lands to the unyielding new,
white spray on black lava, merging
elemental minerals in salt water.
Life the mediator, yearns for compromise
algea harvests sunlight at the hard shore, grows into plants
fish munch coral creating sand washing up, a tree's foothold creating soil...
can rock become Earth any other way?
Mother's beauty, an unknowable generous smile
and confident grace from the sun.
Ages
sitting wrinkled and depleted to her waist,
beauty transforms
into unknowable generous laughter alighting graciously from wise eyes,
like a flock of Heaven's doves so close to home
stirred by her running children: daughter and son.
All the while all the yearning is unrequited.
For her children, Beauty is vertigo,
painful reality rooted to the shore.
Eyes long for the horizon, Vision Country
between sky holding its breath and water measuring out patience,
The heart spills out futile on the crystalline sea,
but Sadness, belonging to clear water,
lightly buoys lonely Ecstasy,
Completes the voyage.
The Vision pairs selfless love with unmet desire,
opposites' harmony the firmament,
but the sound breaks from tension and the echoes fade,
and the senses footing gives way;
vertigo with dove's wings tied shut.
Descending minuscule between dissipation
falling through molecules of bliss,
and diffusing atoms of despair,
to the last remaining positive and negative
and the tension's silver thin wire between.
It cuts tied wings free,
slingshots the dove's soul back up,
at the last second, the tension's iridescent thread tangles loosely on her foot.
She hurtles back up through the scales of size:
Microns, amoeba, minnows, birds, primates, people,
over trees, looking down at cities, mountains, yet higher
borderless nations, green and sand continents,
and again all the crystalline blue seas.
The silver filament draws taut, holds the dove's ascent,
wings slowing in awe as she views Mother Gaea
her intensely brilliant sphere accompanied by vivid tiny stars.
in a cold cold soundless night...
Grandmother teaching her children to fly;
Beauty's yearning realized complete.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:52 PM UTC
Moist, moist,
the heat leaking through the hinges,
sun baking the roof like a pie
and I and thou and she
eating, working, sweating,
droned up on the heat.
The sun as read as the cop car siren.
The sun as red as the algebra marks.
The sun as red as two electric eyeballs.
She wanting to take a bath in jello.
You and me sipping ***** and soda,
ice cubes melting like the ****** Mary.
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines,
all htis leprous day and then more *****
more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies,
the pond ******* out the throb.
Our bodies were trash.
We leave them on the shore.
I and thou and she
swin like minnows,
losing all our queens and kinds,
losing our hells and our tongues,
cool, cool, all day that Sunday in July
when we were young and did not look
into the abyss,
that God spot.
2.5k
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne
<>
these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,
you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,
the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught
and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,
"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,
and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
*sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I*
lay down with a lie?
Jul 6, 2025
Jul 6, 2025 at 2:52 PM UTC
The moon reflects my face
in the rear view mirror
as I drive forward,
passing strangers
late at night
Trees like weeds
they flutter, lean
street lights: stars
the radio keeps me comp'ny
as I slowly lose your voice
Submerging
in thinking;
drowning,
stars losing their twinkling
it's so dark down here
in my sea of dreams
Swimming underneath whales
with concrete bellies,
and lined, gray backs,
covered in minnows
as small as I.
It makes little sense
why I swim away from you
the stars no longer shine
down where I follow the line
of skinny, yellow fish.
Faster, faster
I dart to the grotto
of coral, reef, sand
It's my home for now
though it's fathoms away
from you.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
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
it was the moon that fell through. a lump of gray astronaut
pale acne-blasted, an orphan of the dome, floating in a pond
face down; gasping... green brass minnows surge through diatoms
that have no word for moon; a legion of blind unicorn gall stones -
invisible to naked eyes; uncountable geometries horde the dark waters
they cannot disprove or disobey. large mouth bass inhale calcium polygons
they have never met; that have no word for large mouth bass -
that hasn't always been unknown as september is meaningless
now, even more so, the meaning is less,
without the moon... so
the last tide is false. a satellite has lost it's grip and displaced a placid
jewel of ice cold pause. in the backwoods of these. words. a. moon.
is. breathing. in. a. void. teeming. with. ancient. life.
it is a void, unfamiliar to a native of heaven. this void used to rise and fall
in obedience to the wax and wane. in accord with her orbit.
but now it burns the ocean of serenity with irony's forge.
pounding the stainless steel of unfathomable loss;
even the dross sustains a shape of things to come undone -
when the hammer falls and the blacksmith is a poet
born to ****** fables from mayflies. a natural.
the hammer was in the hand before the moon gained
a face or an ocean to adore it. it was there,
ticking like a season, burgeoning with locusts -
holding off the mob; the moon was long ago, slipping off the roof -
long before firemen met lightning.
the tide was a pious fool.
the measure was not the span of the impending verse, but the hour of it's
callous beauty, assembled. a lunacy, stripped of all moons.
and only the sun remaining -
to behold the uncanny descent of a faithful, vestigial goddess.
a yellow throne. a yellow eye. and the sun's first chill...
as wave after wave of syllables sum succulent sorrows -
savoring sacred symmetries, asymmetrically... summoning -
super luminary strawberry switchblades,
saving sanity for questions with question marks.
this poem fell through. a lung collapsed or not.
and the moon is at the bottom of my heart.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 11:07 AM UTC
As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow. Now, a willow, I drowse above the pond where their bodies float—skin gilded with algae, lips parting the surface, chests arching to the sun. Her sighs ripple outward—her lover drinks them in.
They are wet-silk hair, glistening sweat. Tracing each other’s folds, a slow, open arc startling minnows. Their toes stir the mud where my roots explore.
The blue jay died mid-migration. I barely recall her. Here, they are the only sonnet: lips on sun-warmed skin, their kiss that bends reeds. Below, their legs tangle like my branches—fluid, unpruned.
A heron spears the pond. Startled, they sink. For a breath—water holds them. When they rise, the town whispers of hauntings.
They are not ghosts—just peaches overripe in August.
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 7:09 PM UTC
the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call
the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
It smells like summer on the island
Like laundry and leaves
Like late-afternoon lakewater
And pollen-filled breeze
I remember my summers on the island
The bunkbeds and bonfires
Beaches, bikinis
And dirt roads under dark tires
Birch trees and blackberries
Blue birds and sour cherries
Two hours on the ferry
Summer on the island
Lawn chairs and lemonade
Hammock-hanging, holidaying
Laying in the lazy shade
Hiking high into the bright blue sky
Deep inhale and satisfied sigh
We had been waiting for this
Our summer on the island
Cold tides and closed eyes
Penny candy and pecan pie
Crop-tops, flip-flops, tree-forts and drop-offs
Crayfish, crayons
And breakfast on the dock at dawn
This was summer on our island
Millions of mosquitoes, minnows and movies till midnight
Eating smores in the smoky firelight
Running through the trailer park in the rain after dark
Our summer on this island
Everything was my favourite part
I loved it all
The grass
The trees
The foamy waterfall
Sun, seagulls and sand dunes
Either services or sleeping in till noon
Sweet island summer, over too soon
Summer on the island
Was a lifetime ago
The island was my summer
But I’m letting go.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
Mourning - you flew over indigo waters,
landing
Stealthy stalker you walked the shallows
billing silvery minnows
On rust red stilts, you're built
to move in watery fields
Eyes piercing depths of algae blooms
rippled, your swaying seaweed room
Silent hunter,
feathery plumed
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
I rush forward and jump
I feel the wind rush
Through my damp tangled hair
Then the chilling sensation
As cold water engulfs me
I open my blue eyes
To find a world
Unlike any other I've seen
Minnows dash and ***** snip
There's something else here
Something that pulls me close
A tug of fascination
A whole universe captures
In the blink of an eye
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 6:13 PM UTC
Do you remember when we saw the Milky Way
Looking up at the night from your father’s cornfield
We were too far north for tick checks
Wading under the bridge
Minnows eating dead skin off our toes
While hornets buzzed at the banks
Shooting guns at old VCRs and broken microwaves
Laying on our backs on the grass
We watched his Fourth of July fireworks
The embers landing in our hair
And when the smoke cleared
The Milky Way, again
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 6:54 PM 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