"puffer" poems
Willets cull the seawall
snapper on the grill
rock ***** swoon
in shallow lagoons
long boats pass
under quiet
palm shade
Plovers dance and flutter
handrails frayed and torn
graffiti spots
at lovers rock
frigate-birds fall
from a high
noon sun
Thatched roof on a mud wall
fish flags settle score
anchors arch
in front line march
pillar cracks form
under rust brown scars
Elegant tern and grebe
watchmen fall in cue
children play
on crested waves
whimbrels and notchers
perch above Tentaciones
Striped pelícanos
the bandits of the sea!
merchants grow
in steady flow
siblings jostle
in a tide cooled sand
Heerman gull and boobie
durango smoke in yurt
boiler shrimp
and puffer blimp
castle buckets and scrapers
under a dusk light cheroot
Six pulls on a lead line
painted toes in sand
shearwater run
in a rainbow sun
the portly mexicano
flaunts his tacos
and wares
Rooster house for swordfish
bamboo shoots and sails
broken shells
and ocean swells
rise
on the
perfect
La Ropa bay
Apr 14, 2017
Apr 14, 2017 at 2:22 PM UTC
on a sea strand,
have you watched empty shells
mercilessly tossed from sea to shore
and from shore to sea?
often I shrink and reduce to such a shell,
with jagged and broken edges
colorless and empty
among many a debris cast on the shore,
i lie half buried under the sand
waiting for some mighty wave
to wash me away
all the way to the sea
how tedious is my voyage
shuttling from him to her
and from her to him
unable to openly confess
who weighs more
on the balance of preference
through how many alleys and by ways
I have wandered, questioning my identity!
am I a puffer fish, being toxic
the fisher men have discarded?
a jarring note in a discordant symphony?
I wonder....! I often ask myself!
destined to grow
in mercurial climes,
planted in arid shallow soil
with the tap root trimmed,
branches pruned,
growth denied,
I, a stunted bonsai!
still I dream to be a towering tree,
that in profusion gives fruits and shade!
a ****** aspiring to be a Goliath
a hollow reed,
longing at once to be the singer and the song!
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 9:41 AM UTC
tattooed girl
hello kitty
in need of a purge
she **** first
in the whip me
with a wet noodle
pain Olympics
her fruit launcher
like a summer papaya
***** gush
kissey squirts
candy crush
all gobbledygoo
and lickyfu
ooow she swayed
to the whip back crack
her torso bent
heaven sent
dipped in hot ***
and laughing lady sauce
she squealed
for
bok choy
eel ****
and slippy toy
**** buttered waffles
and gummy worms
lime and cherry *****
with candy sperms
you can find her
in the bend over den
eating puffer fish
so very Zen
toes gooey wet
spread on a cot
oh so high
**** and squat
******* baby
tied in a knot
**** bobba bubble
and chrysanthemum tea
nut scented black beer
and milk pearl ***
its the end of the line
ready to dine
get the gag
flex the spine
face to the ground
feet to the sky
held like a dove
***** splash cry
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 12:16 PM UTC
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.Big black eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.
I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.
The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.
We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.
The Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******
Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.
Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.
Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
you know what undermines most urban coolios?
you know what undermines the majority of urban hippies?
imitations - clones - we might wear the same sneakers
but at least we think different - we think different, aye-right?
we do, don't we? we don't?! ah ****
but that's what undermines the urban crew - (ha ha, i love
the impromptu slang) - they work their ***** off
and tease their ***** off with twerks -
and then they package hamburgers
with a squeeeeeeezes of the ol' Nutcracker -
but in London so many harvesters -
so many - coolio did fabric off of
Bacon?! **** straight he did -
bring back 1990's bling boo ya ah
ICE CUBE FACE 'N' A PUFFER FISH (MINUS THE LIP) -
like ghetto 1994 - yo yo - ice ice baby -
white man on the Michael - leisure,
leisure, leisure leisure - lacerations and a Las Vegas
weekend - bro got smoked -
and mm hmm - fixed up my pauper rich-man
Porsche - called a dachshund Lamborghini gallop
buckling a dentist's appointment; fuck's sake
buck tooth, drop a gear!
n'ah n'ah n'ah n'ah (lost count) - hmm stirrup song
evened vogue - puck'ah poo or as i shoo
the airs under the carpet with an audience of one.
but believe me, countryside boy says it -
the cool individuals meeting a clone or a mirror
outside their thought experiment and
panic sets in... just another countryside boy
in an urban environment fiddling with a violin
like he might be shining a pair of black leather shoes.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
Schools of fish
Racing to the King's submerged hold
To pass a collective wish.
A procession led
Unfathomable leagues between the sky
To the One's bed.
From her birthcry rang
Sonic upon waves in all Seas
Bringing promise she sang.
In a voice that shamed
The very Sirens, their infamy
At birth she had tamed.
Tempests brewed in
Nine Seas and in denizens thereof
The palpable rush was no illusion.
Gargantuan fissures marked
The arrival of the Prophet,
As Dogfishes in the streets barked.
Coral caves echoed
News of the Deliverer
Back across the ocean and forth.
The Princess is birthed!
Rejoice! Swim to the King!
Of enthusiasm, was no dearth.
Millions of clans
Puffer, Cat and Gold, with servants in many
***** Oysters and Clams.
Eels, flying overhead
With Mantas in quick pursuit
Each racing to meet the beloved.
The nobility too was en route
Great White, the Hammer and Tiger
Forgetting around them, all the food.
Clownfish prepared their jokes
Animatedly chuckling at the time
The king called them funny blokes.
From every nook and corner
Of every Ocean, and Sea
Burst life even in lakes and rivers.
Drifting slow yet steady
The convergence occurred at the King's Hold.
The feast now ready.
Reef and plankton
In a million hues waved like banners
Proclaiming the royal standard.
Seahorses stood en garde
All semblance of a heavy cavalry
Songs were sung by the Bard.
Rows upon rows
Of aquatic subjects
Gazed upwards as the Herald bellowed.
All hail King Teal!
All hail the Princess!
The citizens went mad with zeal.
They raised their arms
As the King raised his own pair
Only to raise alarm.
The babe was godly
Hair as green as kelp
Translucent flesh glowing boldly.
Every colour ever known
Etched across her fins and legs
Majestic, regal, radiating joy unknownst.
Tears diluted the currents
As the folk witnessed their saviour
And cheered in a torrent
Of squeals, laughter and shouts
Praising till the land dwellers heard them
These fanatics most devout.
Thus was the day
Naifin was born into the Sea
Queen of Oceans, she was to be.
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 12:41 PM UTC
Don't forget that,
I whisper to
The pillow under
Your cool moonlight.
A sacrifice to
My God,
To your terra-cotta lips,
Warm and glimmering,
Like the tiles on a July day,
On that chateau we stayed at in Nice.
To your laugh,
Gaffawing at a viral sensation,
Bursting like the atomic bombs,
To me, it's a champagne cork,
That night in the balcony fountain.
To your eyelids closed,
The same ivory shade of your breast,
And our children's cheeks
As you held them, cuddle them,
Tickle them, sob with them,
So right in our roomy, rickety home.
To your breath,
Taken in like a quick pull of a line,
Your arching spine,
Parallels the bridge above our heads,
As we sail on
Catalina in the Sound.
To your hands,
Crinkled soft like paper,
Tears ran down those creases
As we passed through the shadows.
But don't cry, wherever you are,
For I am with you.
In the creaking of the pedals,
As you tumble off your bike.
The sheets pulled over your face,
Your body racked with sobs for
Some boy, a cosmic second.
I am with you in the bright gold of your cords,
As you cross the stage for your diploma.
I am with you on the dreary playground,
As children in puffer coats and hats pick fun at you.
I am with you in the collegiate cologne
of the moment you gave it all up,
Some boy, a cosmic second.
But I am with you most in
The moment you gained it all back,
That supernova, explosion
When we realized, like two old friends
We'd been there together all the long,
Birth to *** to birth to sick to death
And all the love between,
And then there was no part.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 12:57 AM UTC
The smell of cigarettes reminds
Me of my father, but not
The thick chemical smell
Of most cigarettes, no he
Smokes an all natural brand:
Oxymoron Lights.
Which will still **** you, but
They smell so much better.
I used to hate that habit of
His, but now I know it's
More complicated than the
Addiction they warn about
In health class.
Kindergarten was the first
Time I learned about tobacco,
Properly. The teacher asked:
'Whose parents smoke'.
My tiny hand shot up with
Eagerness, pride even.
She had those of us with
Our hands raised get our
Jackets from their hooks
On the wall. Our classmates
Took turns smelling our coats
To determine whose smelled the
Most of cigarettes. The winner
A small blonde boy who's name
I don't remember, only his
Brown leather jacket and the
Stench so strong it has stayed
With me fifteen years later.
I know now that my pink
Puffer coats lack of odor
Was a sign of my fathers
Good character and love.
I know now that he is not
Perfect. That he carries a
Life time of pain and regret
Behind his eyes because he
Thinks that I can not see it there.
And that cigarettes are a much
Lesser evil than the demons that
Haunt his past and the he will
Not let them haunt my present.
I know all of this now, but
Back then I just wanted
To smell like him.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
the fostry boys and clair-n-tine hills
will wrest away their fears
like marcks-alarns and floaty badge
and puffer-nickel stills.
they'll bother beat with ever chills
and lime-lack in the surf.
I'll wait for time appronaheed,
I'll ferret out the mirth.
you'll not buy wick-ends in their fall
nor taste their merton soot,
you'll waste your fully throtton ball
and save your lamest foot.
as they're the childs of never-been,
the cartwheels at street and rue,
unghost their face as your beating slows,
these boys, to res-cue you.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:33 AM UTC
I find myself eating strange things
Strange things in different forms
An avocado-flavored Jell-O
Or the fine zest of a rose's thorn
I find myself a curious person
But curiosity killed the cat
I fear that if I eat too many strange things
My body will just grow too fat
Even now I can't stop myself
From devouring these strange creations
I still need a bite of that puffer-fish sandwich
Oh, how I always give in to temptations
Fried Tarantulas, how they melt in my mouth
Slime Sandwiches, the texture is amazing
I can't let go of this hobby
To stop would just be infuriating!
But now my Fridge is empty
But I still have a craving for strange food
So I'll go to the Farmer's Market
And once again I'll be in a good mood
You may call me a mad scientist
Since I always try to make something new
And also because whenever you come inside my house
I guarantee that you'll be sure to say "P-U!"
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 6:56 PM UTC
She used to place behind each ear
a little dab of this sweet smelling scent.
It is not till I was much older and all grown up
I realised the reason behind this and what is meant.
She (my grandmother) had a secret kind of life
You could see the magic behind her eyes.
She had some stories to tell if she could
Stories that were placed in a locked disguise.
She loved Devon, the fresh sweet smell of Devon
Its fields full of mauve sweet violets for miles
Miles and miles of purple haze and the blue sea
I have memories of those stories and her smiles.
Devon Violets in little fancy bottles
with a puffer dangling from a tiny string
Beige lace, china cups with tea leaves around the rim
Tea leaf reading stories and the hope this would bring.
I wish I could hold her hand, her lovely warm hand
To keep me company just for one more day.
Now I am sitting in my silence with my dreams
just wondering what if I had that chance what I might say.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 3:47 AM UTC
The leaves tell stories in the form of footprints
Some separated from themselves
The wind comes at breakneck speed and takes you even farther from what you once were
The wheels of cars don’t break you, they just make you smaller
And when the humans get fed up the large metal hand comes and snatches you away
You were once a playground for the adventurous
The most important things can still be temporary
You forget that this tree’s memory was dead before you even met
Society makes sure dead things aren’t looked at for too long
Well, then why are you looking at me?
Your crunches are haunting my memory
I walked inside my house with your stems in my shirt and shoes covered in dirt
To find another thing I knew as dead
Too many chemicals to the head
But that lady wasn’t stepped on
She wasn’t driven over or thrown
She was lifted up by the girl covered in leaves
Because she had just spent time with the dead
She said it's not bad company but it leaves a bad memory
She didn’t want another one of those
Oh ms believer told its story in the hospital waiting room
The leaves told their stories from inside of my shoes
The doctor didn’t say **** to the 9 year old looking as innocent as she ever will in her blue puffer coat and no-lace converse, she's thinking about the dead leaves
This 9 year old knew what death was
But only looked at it with peripheral vision behind interlocked fingers
Or looked with a smile as she jumped right inside of it
Its been 8 years,
She now looks death in the mirror
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
A heart plays charades
with a
m
i
n
d
Guessing the possible out comes
of that moment where glances
collapse on floor of another's.
Sm
ile broken in two,
not fully gathering the
words
that were played between
A heart and mind.
A breath is inhaled slowly so
not to look like a puffer fish.
And then words, syllables entwined
breath out slowly...
"Hi how are you,
Then a smile by both ensue,
the charades of the
heart
&
mind
get it right on this occasion
and both are pleasantly relieved.
Nov 15, 2017
Nov 15, 2017 at 10:34 AM UTC
Acapulco, the 1950's jet set age
of glamour and allure
a bay of high rise flats
edged along the shore
A golden bay of sandy grains
the longest beach it's famed
with glistening lights upon the shore
reflecting window panes
I find a puffer on the beach
and dive for large pink shells
my soul is filled with adoration
for this city gels
At night the city is on fire
with mariachi sounds
silver blue sombrero hats
colourfully spinning round
The soul is beating loud and wild
inside there is pulse
I feel it pressing me inside
true and never false
The colour hits you like a bolt
vibrant in it's treasure
a spicy flavour on my tongue
Acapulco's been a pleasure
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 6:09 PM UTC
18 feels like..
Being caught between the door and the wall
In a game of hide and seek
A gasp hanging over your head
A breath shrinking your chest
18 is the eager freshman
Stumbling down the hall
Schedule in hand
18 sounds like it should be some bigger picture
Than 9x2
18 feels like an adulthood indoctrination
For the forest fairy believers
18 is the first trip to a strip tease
Full of chanting and discarded dollar daughter smiles
....
18, you could've done worse to me
...
18 makes me walk as though I've atlas' own shoulders
Like a puffer fish,
Bulking up
As though I am anything but prey
18 makes me wonder when the world shrunk so
The house has never felt this small
And I,
Grow ever more aware of just how much space I occupy
18 needs not hold my hand as I walk across the street
I know how 18 goes down like age old whiskey
The burn must come before the warmth
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 2:18 AM UTC
There were twenty women and fourteen men
From the wreck on that tiny spit,
Lost in that mighty ocean, just a
Mile was the most of it,
There were pigs galore from a previous crew
Who’d been wrecked some years before,
And plenty of veg, they fished from a ledge
Jutting out, and over the shore.
So in time the fourteen had paired them off
And it left, forlorn, the six,
There wasn’t a single partner left
For the girls to scratch their itch,
So they huddled up and began to plot
How to thin out the ranks of those
Who took up the men that were meant for them,
They started by shedding their clothes.
There were naked ******* that they thought would test
The men in the rival camp,
Would lure them off in the undergrowth
To lie where the earth was damp,
And it worked for some, though the men returned
To the partners they chose before,
‘The only way that they’re going to stay,’
Said the six, ‘is to go to war.’
Charmaine was found in a grove of trees
With her face, all covered in blood,
And Derek didn’t seem too displeased
He latched onto Maxine Flood,
But the thirteen said, her blood was red,
And they looked askance at the five,
‘We need to arm, and raise the alarm
If we’re going to stay alive.’
But a dozen died in the camp that night,
The soup had given them cramps,
Eleven woman had taken flight
And the one old man, called Gramps,
That left a surplus of thirteen men
And the women numbered seven,
‘There’s not enough to go round,’ they said,
But the women were in heaven.
The six bereft of the men were left
To mumble and scheme and plot,
‘We need to **** at least six of them,
Whether we want, or not!’
So late at night in the pale moonlight
There were shadows abroad in the trees,
And before the dawn, the six had gone,
Beaten down to their knees.
There were six and six, you would think it fixed,
In a year they’d be in hell,
For two of the girls lay down, were nixed
Gave birth, in a winter spell,
The men denied said they had their pride
And attacked their mates of yore.
But somehow managed to **** all three,
So now there were three and four.
‘We’ll keep the fourth in reserve,’ they said,
‘In case of a sudden death,’
But Maxine Flood was in no such mood
Though she sat, and she held her breath,
They made her fish and they made her cook
While she worked upon her wish,
And when just one of the men was gone
She fed them puffer fish.
‘Now there’s only you, and there’s only me,’
She called, when he wandered back,
Staggering into the camp, he said,
‘I’ve been in a shark attack!’
His arm was missing, he bled right out,
And died in front of her eyes,
While Maxine Flood had rolled in his blood
And cried to the empty skies.
David Lewis Paget
Feb 24, 2017
Feb 24, 2017 at 4:52 AM UTC
Aren’t you cold?
I.
Me?
the wind swept up the solemn yellow leaves, along with my
solemn yellow feet,
and dusted off the crumbs of yester-was
and yester-would
from the hem of my puffer...
Well,
listen.
I hold your heart in my hand,
it holds itself in my palm,
my palm holds itself onto your heart…
Hold your eyes a bit longer and soon, you too,
can hold mine…
So, no.
(Silence. I shivered from the core, to no avail)
II.
Me?
Meanwhile, Amber October and Brown November lie like crumpled,
dryad carcasses beside my feet.
Hm, I said,
I lament!
the skin on my fingers have frittered away from
countless, dead hours
in colorless computers,
but alas, not from the cold.
(trite)
Hmm, I said,
the skin on my fingers
hangs like a nail.
Never have I thought an unwise flick of a wrist could render me an onion.
(Dear Lord)
A curt laugh, cheap,
cheap-cheap, like the swallows.
but yes,
I am
alright.
(Silence. We both shivered from the core, to no avail)
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 2:13 AM UTC
A brisk wind pulls the rosemary branches
Too hard. A crow so dark it finds itself blue
Sings a taunting melody. Nothing ever sings back.
Snow falls, each one showing the world
Something new. The ground fosters dead things
And waits for rebirth. A girl in a yellow puffer coat
Walks by a fallen bird's nest, she doesn't notice
The boy with the dark hood following
A step too close. If only the sky
Weren't so gray. The rotting aspen seems
To tilt, putting the world on an axis. Silence
Is met with wandering hands as the snow
Pulls all the ambiance into mudded soil.
Only the scuffle of footprints is left to tell
The story of that coldness.
A crow so dark it finds itself blue
Sings a reassuring melody.
Nothing
ever
sings
back.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:49 AM UTC
From the highest level of our exclusive resort
there was a ladder you could climb down
not even slightly dangerous I'm sure
to reach excuse me the private beach
Where we'd witnessed horses frolicking in the surf
it seemed too idyllic for the likes of us and yet
here we are clumping down the aluminium rungs
onto the sand, hand in hand
Exploring this pristine zone, silent
and majestic, we come across the
bloated corpse of a puffer fish who
we name in our glory/ignorance
Puffing Billy, and whose graphic icon is now
recognised as the figurehead
of our globally successful surf clothing and accessories range
including wetsuits, swimwear and rash guards
Jun 20, 2025
Jun 20, 2025 at 4:50 AM UTC
u know i write for no one
not a single eye judges or plants bias into my
poetry or what i wish it could be
or how i want it to be perceived
i write for no one
not for my mother or the old lady at the grocery store
i write because if i don’t, i will bleed from the inside out
or throw up my guts and love that burning from the acids in my stomach
i write for no one
so nothing can phase me
i want criticism, i just don’t think i want to admit the genuine me
i will be fatigued by the corse fingernails digging beneath my skin
using me as a fix
i write for no one
because i write for me
without the pressure of a crowd or a community
it is me, the one singular being
i taste the residue of the tinted pages
and blow up like a puffer fish
while every rabbit of my emotional baggage
gets eaten by a snow fox
it’s at my fingertips
and i feel enough
i write for no one as i write to u
and that’s why it’s the most compelling thing to do
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 3:58 PM UTC
The cold ground feels nice.
I take off my puffer
And let myself feel
The bite of last nights frost.
A moon-lit trail calls to me.
The stars lend their sparkle
To the icy layer that floats atop
Deeply, I wonder, would i swim?
Or let myself become part of the
Inevitable.
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 8:40 PM UTC
Today is the first bitterly cold day of winter.
With a high of thirty,
I bundle myself up for my morning drive.
Puffer jacket, hat, scarf, gloves.
In the car, I wonder if its this cold in London.
I wonder if you're wearing the plaid, wool jacket
Or the black puffer.
Neither are long enough,
So I worry if your legs are cold.
Does this weather make you miss home?
Does it remind you of all those sad country songs
That you love to listen to around a fire?
The kind that sound better
When they unfold in clouds of frozen breath?
Are you still smoking cigarettes?
Is it becoming a hassle to take breaks in the cold?
It is for me.
But since you left,
I've needed them as much as I need you.
I wonder if we ever shiver in the cold at the same time.
So I wrap myself up to brave the bitterness,
And warm my lungs on the vice
I tried to rid you of.
Not only did I fail,
But i've picked up the distilled poison for myself.
Funny how you do that.
Taking my hopes
And turning them into a regressive addiction.
I can't be the first
You've had this affect on.
So tell me, is it cold in London?
Nov 29, 2023
Nov 29, 2023 at 2:28 PM UTC
Mentally I am at Phillies with my final
coffee of the evening, milk
frothed to perfection, a woman
in a cerise blouse who greets
my eyes with a noiseless hello
but this is not 1942, no
salt shakers and once-
bitten sandwiches.
There's a child in a red puffer
who waddles absentmindedly,
the spittle of his bearded father
I can almost feel fleck
my cheek. His tired cherry-lipped mother
pointing a finger, then
another, mouths opening
as if operated
by an unseen string and strangers
who scoff at the hawks in the room,
both jolted by each other's next barb,
with a toddler oblivious to art, to
shades, to the thorns his loved
ones drape across their throats,
this spat like a blot on the canvas
of my afternoon reverie
where I need a stronger tipple
and to make it home before the rain.
Mar 19, 2023
Mar 19, 2023 at 8:29 PM UTC