"moby" poems
“Moby **** Herman Melville
<•>
~for the lost at sea~
after a year of saltwater absence and abstinence,
return to the island caught between two land forks
surrounded by river-heading flows
bound for the ocean great joining
the Atlantic welcomes the fresh water fools,
bringing with them hopefully, but hopeless gifts of obeisances,
peace-offerings endeavoring to keep their infinite souls
sea accepts them then drowns the
warm newcomers in the unaccustomed
deep cold salinity, which
sometimes erodes
sometimes preserving
their former freshwater cold originality
I’m called to depart my beach shoreline unarmed,
no kayak, sunfish or glass bottomed boat needed,
walk on water and my toes, ten eyes to see the bottom,
no depth perception limitation,
reading the floor’s topography,
millions of minion’s stories infinite,
many Munch screaming
god’s foot, heavy upon my shoulders,
a daytime travel guide, hired for me,
not a friendly travel companion, nope,
God a pusher showing off a drug called deep water salvation,
designated for the masses, can handle large parties
my in-camera brain eyes,
record everything for playback -
the lost and unburied, bone crossword puzzles
walk shore to ship, on soles to souls,
is this my new-summer nature welcome back greeting?
puzzled at the awesomeness of vastness,
conclude this clarification for me of the occluded-deep,
is a stern reminder of my insignificant existence,
my requirement to walk humbly, spare my sin of vanity, and
forgive my trespasses upon the lives of others
perhaps then the infinite of my soul perchance restored,
older visions clarified and future poems
will write themselves
and sea to it my predecessors
be better remembered
Memorial Day 2018
May 28, 2018
May 28, 2018 at 11:53 AM UTC
It was after we passed Moby’s Dock
that Ebony met her first thresher shark
He was five feet long or so
two feet shark, three feet tail,
and had just been pulled from the surf
to be proudly displayed
by the fisherman who had caught him
Ebony stood transfixed
her every muscle poised
her feathered tail twitched
as she leaned closer to inspect
and then recoiled from this cold-blooded beauty
still dressed in fleetingly iridescent
blues and greens and purples -
As the sun’s fading beams highlighted
the magnificence of this dying shark
I mourned his loss that night.
The noise and tourists
in the Pier’s arcades and bumper cars
did not detract from the peacefulness
of the Pacific in her chaos
for this was August
and they would soon go home
I watched a distant storm at sea
flashing fire against the deepening twilight
I stood, and Ebony,
gazing at the flashes of lightning
My hand felt her softness and warmth
as I stroked the waves of her black fur
relishing the cool wind on my face
listening to the rigging
of the boats resting at anchor off the Pier
Thinking about thresher sharks
Willing them away
from this place with its fishermen
and cold, baited hooks
Cori MacNaughton
13 Sept 2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 1:11 PM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
it's not like a finger
it's more like an arm
i am not a mod *******
but i do have my charm
will take you by hand or
by foot if i hafta
but i'm going down south
and make you cry 'fasta'
what nobody sees,
nobody will repeat
we can do this quick
and must be discrete
darlin', your intelligent and
i love to hear you talk
but today my name is jack
and here's my beanstalk
the more you poke at it
the more it will grow
the more i poke with it
the more you will know
grab ahold tight
and don't let go
because this moby is wild
and ready to blow
sweetheart, i love you
and now that you know
thanks for the good times
but ***** you gotta go
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
Calabash Squash
A Poem by Eclipsing Moon-blood red
entry for a contest...rhythm
Hip- hop jury swapped
Hippity- hoppity sequestered they stop
Bibity- bobity alone on the cobblestone.
falling in- falling over
The balcone wailing, and buckets pailing, and hailing, and
Scaling
The walls and ramparts the cannons were whaling
Moby dicking and schlicking the schlock of the clock… hickory dickery ..where is the Doc?
Blind mice made the move..up one "grandfather side.
... and
Over the top .
Now wasn’t that a quainty dish to set before the Queens …
in drag
© 2011 Eclipsing Moon-blood red
Sep 15, 2011
Sep 15, 2011 at 4:04 PM UTC
my love is an ancient curse
the bruised fruit that falls from trees
has been taken from a cavity deep inside
is what those who dream want to seek
but please don't go please don't go
maybe i'm your annabelle
maybe you're my moby **** / /
but there's too much confusion here
it's just walls walls walls
buttered chicken has been worshiped here
a deity i've prayed to almost every night
my love is winter frost,yet taller than the sycamore, wider than the infinite
and it's okay because it's always fine
i've got nothing but time anyways
and i could be a superhero instead
because i'm dull and evil
because i could be anything you ever wanted//
anyways i hear you're doing fine
so i don't know why i'm still bitchin'
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
Drinking at the bar, I suppose it was that time of night
When the Drink itself starts doin' most of the talking
And the guy says "I've been through the **** man, in this life, I've waded knee deep through it... the deep ****
And the other guy says "What **** you talking about ?"
So he told him, yea! He spins out his tale of woe
Of hurts and grievances, injustices and false accusations, bruises and batterings received both physical and mental
A whole sorry catalogue of troubles, of fights and quarrels, anxieties and illnesses, struggles with various multiple monsters..."
When he's finished the Other says rather dismissively "You call that **** that ain't **** that's ******** Sure my **** was bigger than that, much bigger
The **** I went through, Man! Some of the **** I seen...indescribable man'
So then he starts to spin his tale of woe... more ****
And when he's finished the Other comes back at him saying
**** You call that **** that's horseshit!
My **** was bigger than that, much much bigger!!
Your **** it's just... it's just *****
And so, there they were the two of them, at the bar arguing to and fro
About whose **** was the bigger
Till suddenly over in the corner, out of the shadows, with his face half obscured
This man, he clears his throat rather loudly
Causing them both to momentarily stop their bickering and look over
He then slowly raises a glass of JD (Jack Daniels) to his lips and takes a long sip
Then he says "What do you know about... the **** ?
Huh! (said in disgust) You don't even know what **** is
Why, my shit's bigger than both your two ***** put together"
Then he smiled a menacing smile and said "You wanna hear my **** story"
So he spins his tale of woe, a real shitstorm...
A real Moby **** of ****
The others they listened in awe
When he'd finished, One said very impressed
"Man!..Man That's... that's some ****
Then another said "That's Big **** !"
And another "That's real Elephant **** Man!"
Then silence reigned in the bar
Until one sighed and said wearily
"It's all **** this ***** isn't it?
Nov 23, 2022
Nov 23, 2022 at 7:53 AM UTC
-
Of Mice and Men
Red Sky at Morning
Moby ****
Global Warming
War and Peace
Paradise Lost
Ulysses
Robert Frost
The Bell Jar
Cannery Row
Speaking in Tongues
Did You Know?
Atlas Shrugged
Get In Shape!
Body Language
The Naked Ape
In Cold Blood
Subconscious Thoughts
The Holy Bible
Believe it or Not!
SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/10/2016
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 7:30 PM UTC
Moby **** geometry, physics.
Study every subject everyday.
Homework is an indicator of future success.
Success is not necessarily happiness but it helps.
Freedom is to formulate your own definition of success.
Happiness is an imaginary tree, its own reward, and a fact.
Facts and fiction may be memorialized in memos or found in dreams.
The story starts thus: Each summer the honeysuckles and the
huckleberries . . .
The web is that extra brain we've all been dreaming of having.
Like jumping 4 meters or flying without a plane.
To fly like that must one first have homework?
Some say yes, some say don't. It depends on how you vote.
Happiness is what happens when everything that happens
Fits the time perfectly and it's all out of your hands.
Not exactly. You don't let go of the steering wheel while driving fast in
the passing lane.
You look left and right and check your blind spots.
Homework is an introduction to everything you're not
And all you do not know. It's supposed to help you learn to know where
you want to go before going where you have to go.
Otherwise you end up on Ulzana's raid
Bleeding, without a bandaid.
All the achievement in the world won't relieve your loneliness
Or satisfy your ****** longing. What girls are like behind their eyes.
Survival, procreation. That's all there is to love.
But the loved one is the one who can be trusted with your life.
Whether Christ or your wife. The Muslim moms.
On my walk in the woods I come to a sitting spot
Above a small gorge cut by a stream through hemlocks.
Here someone has left a statuette of the Buddha and the flags you see
Flapping in the wind at sky funerals.
This is a pretty good place to sit quietly and think about homework.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 7:14 AM UTC
Moby ****
may have been
a
big
BIG
fish
and Ishmael
didn't have it so easy
But I need, I dream
of the epitome
of a flawless
ideal
piece of whitefish
A Succulent Bite
A Taste of Right
Hand battered
Deep fried
A
crunch
into heaven
Mouth-watering
yet light
Next to
crisp
oh-so
crisp
fries
Draft Rootbeer
Foam
in a mug
of delight
Mmmm Mmmmm
Seafood
See, this food
tastes like hope
Up North
I salivate
thinking of its
taste
thinking of
perfection
Man
Oh, Man
They don't make it
like this
anymore
So
so
fresh
This piece
Creates a sense
of peace
Harmony
on your palate
It turns
you up-turned nose
down
to the aroma
of a fisherman's skill
Natural Salt
of this world
brings you to a world
of pleasure
in a nibble
A coming together
on my plate
Skin-lined
Red Skin
potatoes
Frothy
Quenching
Rootbeer
Whitefish.
Simple Things
I found this fine trip
Combined with waterfall air
to breathe deep
My taste buds
had
gone up in
smoke.
My tongue
realized with
surprise
the possibilities of life.
May 19, 2010
May 19, 2010 at 2:15 AM UTC
"Call me Ishmael..."
Holy sea, holy sea!
Reading Herman Melville's
"Moby **** at Caribbean Sea
I'm reliving his ocean reveries—
Those mystical vibrations
This magnetic virtue of the ship
Last night's circumambulation
Today's balmy afternoon
A meditation or dream
Leading us to nowhere
But the phantom life of the sea
We become free to drown
In our own mesmerizing images
Like Narcissus did
Or like that fellow Ishmael
Abandon all the respectable
Toils, trials, and tribulations
Jump on a sail
To catch white whales
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 6:17 PM UTC
Mind body lump
sushi tastes people
blanket's warm sausage
loopy plaid pants
mimosa fueled mathematics
map making pancakes
waffles don't know ****
Add chicken and enjoy.
Dance like a coked up Napoleon
ecstatic to heard Vincent Price reading Poe
while Moby **** writes rhymes opined to killer wale
princes and lords.
Service the dinosaur's automobile
when you get a chance
don't dance on like a midnight acid FLOWER
power of the hour scours the loud crowd
to life after death.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 12:26 AM UTC
*The music in the library was you,
My saving symphony, a silent movie,
That Jason Reeves song which
Never fails to wow me,
A whisper,
A ***** whisper,
The ancient sound of a page's
Turning, a bell-ringing
From the ***** icecream vendors
Of my humble Homeland,
Or the comfy sound
Of an oven-toaster.
I was enchanted
To meet you.
Had you not come to me, love-ling,
And fling the old cobwebs away
From the bore of a book called
Moby ****
Which my life was,
Then all the dust of the Earth,
Of the shelf, of my flesh
Would have gathered
In me, burying the papyrus,
The scroll, a fragility—
My heart,
My ever-lost.
Time ticked like a man clambering,
An ambulance, a clocktower
Pierced through the chest, the soul,
The spirit.
But your eyes sang, songstress.
My spirit hoped.
Your body leaned,
Communed.
Your ear
Touched my ear—
A melody, a harmony,
An embrace.*
© 2015 J.S.P.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Vast the landscape I watch that rolls out, ragged,
Before my eyes, hurt words describing, haggard.
Moby soothes me but a little as I watch still fractured sights
Of what was and is in Chernobyl.
Marshlands filled with death and mutation,
Homely houses putrid with abandonment and radiation.
Broken tokens of people’s former lives and loves –
Where are they now?
Their hairless dolls, sitting in the middle of rooms,
Bathtubs, broken and oblique, empty.
Soap washes memory and nothing else away.
The sky has spoken; it is broken.
Push the poison out to sea. To see
They hadn’t time to leave a memory,
But ran, already dead while living,
Not allowed to gather souvenirs.
There’s nothing left for them here.
But did they die?
Nobody told us where they went,
Or why
This happened.
They are gone now, dispersed in Eurasia I suppose,
Like ash in the wind, like their future or past ghosts.
They haunt the places, the buildings and the waters,
Engulfing fish, and drying fungus on the northern trees,
Watching wolves still move through winter freeze,
Still beautiful in the taiga sun.
Tainted yet rife with energy not destroyed,
Trying to paint its passion on the sides of walls,
To venerate the people here and their lives,
Their animals, their clothing only frozen.
Sep 9, 2017
Sep 9, 2017 at 11:35 AM UTC
to be frank, I never cared for fall
not enamoured by the warm-hued leaves riding the winds as they fall
to the ground where they crunch
too cold for my old mimosa littered brunch
the rain also won’t stop
who could claim this season and for what reason?
I miss the sunlight and the warm embrace of the wind
I miss the stressless summer bliss
instead, here I am racking my head, studying for exams
hoping I can just get back again
to kayaking in the blue, wearing my swim trunks like a tattoo
instead, here I am racking my head, swimming in the deep end
will I drown who knows, thank god I love to idle and float
or else I would be meeting Moby **** when the depression hits
Oct 28, 2021
Oct 28, 2021 at 10:43 AM UTC
How very lonely HP is,
In the middle of the night,
Reading long ago poems by friends,
Tapping little red hearts,
Only time I'm available,
After dusk; hours before dawn,
Reposting poems, my fingers just as assailable as Moby ****
Or Hansel's and Gretel's witch,
I stare at blank, gray suns,
Wishes I, I had some to use,
To uplift; to free,
All the beautiful poetry,
Even the ones with coquetry,
I rapidly kiss plusses with my right thumb,
Adding to worthy collections,
Of addictive confections,
'Till 2,
When alas I sip hot coco,
Scratch my ****
And fall asleep beside my cat; momo.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 12:50 AM UTC
Think how he felt,
chased relentlessly
on the ocean blue,
in high tides
& in low ones.
Powerful,
majestic,
he was a fighter,
not having much fun.
His blow hole
finally blew blood,
harpooned for his
blubber,
a little oil,
and a gold coin
nailed
to the mainmast.
Swim Moby swim,
may you carry on forever.....
blowing like the wind,
over the endless waters
& into the glorious sun!
David Crosby and Graham Nash,
"To The Last Whale: Critical Mass/Wind on The Water"
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qoek1e8t2K4
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 11:42 AM UTC
I am drinking a beer
And waxing philosophical
On topics like war, and peace
Moby ****
White whales and insane old men
Reminds me of my grandfather
Which brings me to the topic
Of my grandmother
My Japanese grandmother
“coochi” grandma—our name for her
because her yellow skin hung in folds
I am drinking a beer
And the heavy feeling in my head makes me honest
And I am musing about my life and my father
Who has always been the magnet
To my compass
That I have worked so hard to deny
But my needle is true.
I am drinking a beer.
And thinking about my culture
And how I want to visit the bright
Streets of a Japan
That aren’t bright after those quakes
I am thinking about cleaning those streets
And holding the hard, cold men that have lost
Quiet, soft wives, until they are healed.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 1:57 PM UTC
When a woman says: she likes
The man to take the initiative;
What she is really saying is:
*“Yes, I will **** you, just ask.”*
As I write these words,
I rent The Eugene O’Neill Theater,
Located between Broadway &
8th Ave, on West 49th Street,
No shabby venue, I might add.
Then I stage & cast the play,
Choosing for the role of me,
Myself: Queequeg.
Ishmael’s Crypto-Gay,
New Bedford, Mass bedmate,
A large, well-toned, muscled
Man of much ink & few words,
Just short pigeon-English phrases,
Utterances such as: “I likee.”
That’s right, playing me is
Melville’s freaky, tattooed,
Polynesian harpooner,
Right out of *Moby ****
And should the ****** imagery &
Metaphor of me—yours truly—
Packing a harpoon in my trousers,
Prove a trifle too scrumptiously
Potent for you, consider please the
****** potential of a three-way with
Chingachgook.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
the only jeans with holes,
the polo shirt with "passionate peach" paint
from the kitchen remodel she wanted, the yard work shoes
these were the raiments he chose for his final drive, the one in "park"
in the garage, with the engine idling, its humming a monotonous lullaby
sung by compliant pistons
he wandered through the house
like a sated forager, looking at everything, for nothing,
old pictures on the walls--children, parents, one of himself,
the Yale mortar board tilting on a face who could
have been a stranger, and was, that last afternoon
books on shelves, mostly read, their stories now forgotten
even Moby **** his favorite--eight silent vertical letters
replacing a white whale he relentlessly pursued with Ahab
a sink with one small plate and the disposal's shining ring,
the burial ground for his last, uneaten meal
those were the visions he chose
before writing his notorious note,
"BYE, ALL MY PAPERS ARE IN THE ROLL TOP"
taking the keys from the peg, and taking his final steps
into the cluttered gray garage, to his 2011 Volvo
when some hand turned the key,
igniting a welcoming flame, a few intrusive notes
of a Beatles song came through the six speaking speakers
yanking something in his gut, pulling his hand
to the handle to open the door, to return to the house,
the pictures, the stories on the walls, but the other,
the right hand, ejected the CD, rejecting the beguiling voices
that would have him stay, for another dull, deaf day
he folded his hands in his lap,
allowed his chin to rest on his chest
where his eyes could see the holes in his threadbare denim
taking solace in the fact that he had chosen the right clothes
so those still in the house, yet in the blur called life
would have only whole and clean reminders of him
to fold neatly, and leave on the porch
for the Salvation Army
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Oft had I thought ‘twas meant just for a male
And mindlessly I’d chosen not to read
Until one day I was summoned to heed
Melville’s epic tale of The Great White Whale
The wandering sailor - “Call me Ishmael”
Captain Ahab - vengeance his greedy need
Reckless, careless; anything to succeed
Yet, his destiny, rightly, was to fail
Hodge-podge of cultures from all walks of life
Scruples, beliefs, tenets, lessons and more
Adventure and religion - all were rife
Herman challenged and gave voice to it all
The world then - the world now - deeply in strife
When will we learn and stop fighting the war?
Sep 11, 2011
Sep 11, 2011 at 8:28 PM UTC
if your dad tells you 'get your grades up, son'
beat that nerd to death with his own copy
of moby ****
what a square.
if your dog's breathing sounds like a vacuum
and strangers look at him with pained remorse,
give him more food,
go ahead,
but if you want to play the clarinet
to your hungry heart's content,
well dear, no one
WANTS TO HEAR IT
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 11:53 PM UTC
Another day and what to make of it? Tu Du list.
Things start to happen, don't worry. Don't stew.
Water down darkness. Ask the sun for a light.
Loot Frederick's of Hollywood. Cultivate pompous grass.
Rewrite *Moby **** as free verse. Irritate life with art.
Plant Rhino rhizome and grow ***** Turn over an old leaf.
Take a road trip to a state of anxiety. Try chewing gun.
Play the Jew's harp in a mosque. Pray for drains.
Steal a cop from a donut. See if LSD still works.
Listen to Rockabilly noir. Experiment with dysentery.
Set out buckets to catch sky. Talk with, not to, turnips.
Insist on having the last word. Get it. Die.
Or just admit another wasted day,
lonely as your heart, not as grey.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
This isn't a poem or a story this is stream of consciousness baby a dangerous thing cause you might drown and you might get bored but I am arrogant as hell and I believe to the souls of my feet that I am a glittery gleaming river of crystal and fire cause that's a soul baby and we are made of the square root of energy-over-the-speed-of-light the same stuff as stars and God's breath and hot **** that's a wonderful thing that we are alive darlin we are alive so take a deep breath cause when's the last time you did that I'm looking at you love and I like what I see you're a pretty nice guy really though implying a question sorry dear but you know we don't really talk and why is that oh yeah we are surrounded in practically prison by busybodies guards again sorry dears but you know it's true and is that the reason or is it that we have nothing to say empty like an old cocoon butterfly's fluttered by and that's really what I'm hanging like a small winter coat on I'm getting slightly dusty musty so come and wipe me off I want to see if we can have an actual conversation I know basically nothing about you except you like Moby **** and you can dance both of which I gotta admit are major pros but I know that being young handsome and pleasant to be with are bad reasons to love someone thanks to Nellynicole are you Heathcliff dear lord I hope not he is such a bore according to the Cardplayer although he was a joker lets not kid ourselves here but come on he's related to Liesel and she loved Rudy and that was good and right and terrible and tragic and heartbreaking and oh god Rudy why did you die sobbing over you I loved you like a friend a brother a lover and you aren't even real so why am I hung up over YOU?!
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 1:05 AM UTC
I hope that I'm your Moby ****
I hope I'm the sneering, many-toothed crocodile from your Captain Hook head.
I hope you awake, late in the night, sweating, hearing a ticking sound,
Because I hope I'll always have just enough of you to haunt you.
I have great confidence you'll think of me often,
so perhaps that's why I could stop thinking of you.
I don't attribute myself much besides longevity,
and to you,
not even that.
One stormy day,
You'll find me,
Covered in ink, washed ashore in a bottle
on the same sands that
tick-tick-tick
your hourglass away.
My message will speak simply of your failure to toss me beyond the tide.
The mind is no place for hiding things, and fate has a way of showing us that.
But perhaps,
Darling,
you're still defying them both.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC