"sardines" poems
We live in a world, that's loaded down with greed. Man will do anything for money, falling to do a good deed.
Man will take a chance, to traffic people across the boarder. They pack them in like sardines, and like a selfish hoarder.
We will never stop allowing drugs, from entering our land. Men thinks that they are cleaver, by planting drugs, within the body of man.
With the technology we have, something need to be done. The slavery of woman who 's brought to our country, to them, it's not fun.
By, Sandra Juanita Nailing
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Hollyhocks, sandals with socks
Knickerbocker glories
Salty air, old caravans
Magical bedtime stories
Fish 'n' chips, sticks of rock
Climbing fragrant evergreens
Endless hikes, stunning views
Sandwiches with sardines
Long car rides, minor quarrels
Enid Blyton audio tapes
Forever etched in my memory
Our annual escapes
Jul 8, 2014
Jul 8, 2014 at 8:48 AM UTC
Packed like sardines
inside a jeepney—
Too full,
with a jeepney strike going on.
Rushing,
mother and child ride along.
Greasy, ***** malnourished…
The woman holds a can—
a makeshift drum.
Little boy hands out envelopes,
he looks like he's 3 years old,
he's most likely 6.
Woman beats her drum,
nobody listens
chatter drowning out the rhythm…
Invisible ears to go with
invisible envelopes
His head touches my legs,
dissipating heat—
an indicator of how long
he's been under the sun and smog
The thought chills me…
He stares at my sister's shopping bags
with searing eyes…
Windows that I can’t bear to look into,
afraid to see my reflection of clouded guilt and frustration
I shake my head, no food to share
but my hands reach out to his,
to give him some money.
My sister remembers a bottle of iced tea,
and hands it to him.
He has a hard time opening it,
and asks for help from the school girls…
Invisible again.
I reach out and get the bottle from him
Temporary refreshment
for a body that is parched,
for a soul who is thirsty for so much more.
I cannot help but gulp in guilty air.
He sits on the aisle,
savoring the tea
as his mother thumps on the can.
The little boy retrieves envelopes, all empty—
as hollow as the sound of the beating drum.
What do you do,
what can you do?
The jeepney stops.
They alight from it...
The mother looks back
and says, "Salamat."
It goes straight to my heart.
Her eyes move me most—
one eye is cloudy, grayed out,
perhaps a manifestation
of the storms in her life?
That single word seared through me,
and I felt how much she meant it…
Her thank you
made me want to give so much more,
to call out to her and give whatever I had at the moment
but they are gone...
Lost in a crowd of faceless people,
and I myself want to get lost,
hide my face in shame…
What can you do?
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 1:06 AM UTC
relaxing? relaxing would be a sin against myself. see God spun and wove golden bits of wisdom in these curls that are mine. see these curls spring loud with
songs of my Nubian
mothers and war cries of my Rasta fathers. see these curls bounce proud to the rhythm of tribal drums and the foot prints of my sisters from Manila reside
there as they roll
lumpia between the coils and springs. see these curls have moved sandstone bricks cross deserts, building divine architecture so perfectly aligned
with cosmos and
planets until Moses told Pharaoh to Let My People Go. these curls have traveled cross oceans and triangles packed like sardines squalid below the decks
of ships. see these
curls have been ***** by the nasty ***** in the big house and suffered sun strokes in cotton fields. see these curls sing loud and strong. See these curls
were branded and forced
at gunpoint behind ******** barbed wire fences gassed to death in the name of so called purification. see these curls bleed the pain of fire hoses and dog
bites and whites
only signs. see these curls wont back down gainst no burnin crosses gainst no swastikas gainst no elephant ******** talkin all that jazz on fox and cnn. see
these curls dance
wildly off beat to straight rhythms that drone on in 4/4 time c major sixty bpm. see these curls are Mas and my Grammas. see my curls are too proud to sit
back and chill and won’t take no **** or heat or hot air. see these curls cannot be contained in braids or scarves or jars of creamy crack. see
these curls dare you
to force them to
coerce them to
straighten up
their act. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls. my curls.
my curls will not
******* relax.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:03 PM UTC
A shoal of silvery sardines
press tight together
for protection from dolphins.
They need fear no-one
in this tomato sauce sea.
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 11:25 AM UTC
Don't you dare speak those words.
You know exactly what they will do,
to you,
and to him.
There will be no more
you and him.
Like the peach blossoms
broken from the delicate, young branches,
the verbal hail storm,
the weight of the ice,
will knock him to the frozen ground.
Raw,
Unsure how much affection he can return,
of how his own whirling thoughts fit with yours.
Your tale, far from fairy, will end.
Your open heart will shrivel,
like the salty sardines you left on the wooden picnic table
in the burning sun.
You will regret your thoughts and
you will regret your feelings,
but know, sadly, there was nothing left to do,
but leave too soon.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 10:42 PM UTC
Our eyes filled with wonder
Our minds twisted in change
Much like hobbits going afar
Then returning to sweet home
Our lives were changed forever
We rode slow and flew so fast
In tin cans from here and to there
Never taking off our shoes
Hardly touching the ground
Hardly touching Africa
Hiding behind camera lens
Wearing our face in masks
As a people not African black
Who worry not the future
Living easily in time’s moment
Like sardines aligned in tight
Wild creatures within confines
Electricity, steel, and wire
Tall fences stopping escape
To other worlds and realms afar
Except the leopards of night
Who easily roam across
All defined or artificial borders
Escaping cramped tin cans
Basking in Africa’s buttery light
Except for our African guide
With Christian name of Dexter
But named actually as
Tichayambuka Nekutenda
Nenyasha Chikerema
More comfortable sleeping in
Deep bush amongst beasts
Without down comforters,
perfumes, socks, or shoes
Living life in happy quiet freedom
A man raised speaking Bantu
in a small Shona tribe
Born in the Zimababwan village
Of Mutekedza in Mashonaland
East in the Chivhu Area.
From his father’s family
Given a totem of Zebra Brown
Then recited in love poem daily
by his proud mother
To affirm him as a man
Although he must also
be like the leopard
Unconfined in simple borders
Or tin can walls all around
Able to traverse the world
We as tourists were and are
Salty, smelly, near rotten sardines
I see him smile
And I laugh, and I know
Ndino ziva anorarama se mbada
© 2017 Jim Davis
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 1:02 AM UTC
This is my favorite dress.
I bought it from a store I managed on Haight Street in San Francisco when I was 24.
It was a sample, one of a kind and I felt like a fairy in it.
It required no bra and I required no restrictions. We were a good match for each other.
Some might say it looks delicate as the lace flutters around my thighs, but, I know. This dress sat on sidewalks chain smoking cigarettes in the Castro. It danced in drug induced trances with new and old friends where we lived like sardines.
This dress moved to NEw York City with me and we endured cat-calls and harsh words. A casting director called me plain in this dress. He explained, to a room full of people, wasn’t it amazing how my talent shown so bright while I was so very plain. And as I walked along side Madison Square Park I saw myself shining in car reflections and my dress told me I was beautiful, and I knew it was right, and that man was insane.
In New Orleans I was invited to a party and I went because I didn’t know anyone. I was New. I wore my favorite dress and as I put it on I thought of the cold California beach breeze grazing my underwear throwing up my skirt, I thought of that mad man calling me plain, and I thought how scary it is to go to this party alone. I rode my bike in the humid air and I felt my pink slip clutch my waist. I felt safe. I sang a song out load. I felt like me. And when I got there you were there. You looked at me like I wasn’t just my dress or what was under it. You told me one truth and one lie and it made me smile. And now when I turn to my favorite dress like an old friend, for comfort or confidence, you are in its history too.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
Sardines:
Their daily lives are bland,
For they are canned.
Nov 30, 2011
Nov 30, 2011 at 9:02 PM UTC
It all started with a passionate touch which
aroused the adrenaline rush
We lose all sense of our bodies
Of our minds,
as we grind with passion
forgetting all our hurt
like we have no worries,
Until we reach a place with
no pain or regret.
Like lighting, a feeling of euphoria
Curses through our bodies
leaving us in ecstasy
as we forget about everything.
Our bodies, packed like human sardines
Gleam under the moonlight glare...
Heartbeats chasing…
Breathless we collide
and together we are one,
as we fade…
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:22 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Suffering from cabin fever, I raided my cache of end-time sardines and went slipping and sliding down to the dock to feed the near-shore birds.
One lone Repelican sat upon a bollard by the boat launch seeming frozen to the spot. He was looking pretty grimm.
Taking pity on this cold, hungry waterbird former Marine-turned-Feeb, and apparently not stuck on I-275, this kindhearted Democrab was soon out of end-time sardines.
Telling him that I was sardine-poor but had one question I would like to ask concerning an investigation into questionable publicly financed bollard homesteading practices, the repugnant Repelican was not happy with me and stuck his long bill in my face while threatening to break me in half (like a boy) and throw me off of the effing dock before flapping away in a huff.
He called me later and asked to do lunch next week. Sardines on him.
r. ~ 29Jan14
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
Cincinnati is a family
town where cookie cutter
houses are bunched up like
sardines painted in pastels and
white. Where East and West
only meet in the
middle of downtown.
Orange barrels dot
the potted streets and
neon clad men work
in 90-degree humidity
just to earn a lower class
income.
The Queen City’s throne
is the revolting Ohio River,
a murky green waterway
filled with monsters and
dead bodies.
Polluted streets are
flooded with homeless caravans
mimicking
sewer rats and everyone
wants a smoke.
People worship a Bengal tiger here,
Oh, and pigs can fly.
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 11:45 PM UTC
silence
sweet silence
like none other
despite the library door
slamming everytime
someone leaves or arrives
it seems to slam louder
when they leave
i am not perturbed
or distracted, nor am i
expecting not to be
here, alone, surrounded by books,
i just am
lamenting this place not being
as busy
as it should be
who’s fault is that?
celebrating this place not being
as busy
as it should be
guilty as charged
all these faces i see
it’s like a small town here
sometimes abandoned
sometimes inhabited
once again,
i don’t care
how can i?
my head, full of
Aurelius and Bukowski
doesn’t have space to
well, deep down,
i guess i do care
but not as much as
i suppose society begs i
should
how can i?
i’m too busy figuring out
who i truly am
and the books help, Bukowski
was correct, these philosophers are
like brothers to me and i speculate
my deep “connection” to them
to men whom i never met
yet felt more fatherly care from
than my own
maybe that’s the root
sometimes, all this reading begs the question
do i like books
more than people?
or people more
than books?
i think i know the answer,
eureka!
i love books, and individuals alike
i don’t like people
especially when they group up
in congregations and crowds,
strangers in a
can of sardines
with no space to possibly
ever care
only to survive and barely breathe
or to escape such a reality
how could i?
when they don’t
even care for themselves
it’s disheartening, really
to witness such potential
in one soul
and watch it *******
melt away
around his or her friends
around their families’
incessant influence and needs
abusing providers
consumed by their personal troubles and struggles
and vices, infected by the amplification of
a hang out
girls night
boys night
the clubs, the bars
the gossips of nonsense and ****
that simply isn’t their business
sewage
their obvious and yet
radiantly painful,
like a sunburn that isn’t on you
but hurts to look at on someone else,
avoidance of themselves
begging the following:
could these souls spend
an hour, alone, with a book
and paper and pencil?
how could they?
they’d like to, i’m sure,
but hate themselves just enough
to not be able to.
-melancholicreator
Feb 27, 2024
Feb 27, 2024 at 4:30 PM UTC
It's cranberry sauce
That’s it, I’ve done it
My brain is mush
Heartbeat through a megaphone
I’m pulling on my pant legs
Tightening my veins around my bones
& I think the thermometer in my brain needs reprogrammed
I. Now I’m a cozy embryo
With cotton in my marrow
Last of my breed so the bad men can’t see me
I’m sitting here in my own bullet train
Flying through metro lights at night
With coruscating sodium vapor
Vibrating in my peripheries
My appendages do not exist
II. We are the carbon monoxide leak
We are the cold coaxing hypothermia
Still trying to define the agony of existence
& Beauty of meaning through definition
III. “If you don’t get old, you die”
Shut up & pay your taxes old man
I can stay young for as long as I want
I am healthy
I am eternal
I’ve got all the cotton in the world
IV. I wonder if all sentient life deals
With the same paranoia as humans do
It’s the reason we never shut up
& hold love for vague idols
V. I like smiles
& I like sadness
VI. What does loneliness see when it chases its
Shadow?
You’ve got a mouse in your hand that cannot know that you are
Sentient.
You are a wooden giant from outer space that burned upon
Entry.
Where does apathy sleep when it has had too much to
Eat?
Why can’t you see your house from three million miles
Away?
If you need help breathing then you deserve to die in
Appalachia.
If I lie here long enough under enough blankets, then
I'm not real
Is it possible to save up enough money to avoid humans
Altogether?
Just like that, the spiral ceases
We were packed
Like sardines
Wrapped in butcher paper
Blind night vision
Then deer in headlights
Kissing the pavement
Mutually requited
Uninterest
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:41 PM UTC
I found you, cast away in the shadows,
hiding from the laughter, of those
painted clown faces
I found you, on the rooftop
sat with your arms, clasped
to you, wrapped around
Searching through the crowd
blinded, the lights of this
crazy, maddening fairground
Colours forming, moving
the Northern lights, blazing
blues, green, pinks, yellows
Kids and lovers, screaming
the Matterhorn spinning,
a frisbee gondola swinging
Midsummer Fair, a fresh green common
distracted, I turn, the Midnight Express
decorated, loosely dressed women and men
Axles rattling in and out
Ferris wheels, bumper cars, waltzes
Ray Davies playing, side stalls and games
Rubber ducks hooked, fathers shadowing
***** misplacing baskets, a high strike to the bell
in among mirrors, I now find myself reflecting
A cacophony of sounds, noise
music of Bob Bradley penetrating
these convex mirrors, movers and shakers
I pace past drag queens, circus freaks
footsteps moving in timely accord
the Helter Skelter, confused, disorderly haste
I am the whirlwind, climbing outside
the spiral tower, to the top
stars and constellations above
At its peak, I see you
you've climbed onto the rooftop
again
I always found you here
hide and seek, morphed into
children's games of sardines
I find you, you have hidden
I stay with you,
until we are found
Together.
© Sia Jane
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 5:15 PM UTC
so you call yourself pro-life
okay, I guess I can pretend to respect that
which then means that you must also
respect the fact that I am very loudly pro-choice
and thanks to science
I know that a bundle of cells
and a living child are not the same thing
because an actual fetus is not fully formed
until the third trimester
and by fully formed I mean that it is
for all intents and purpose alive
but before that
there is nothing but a group of cells
there is no brain
no heart
not even pearly pink fingernails
so now what, huh?
you’re probably going to keep protesting
Planned Parenthood and harassing the people
that work there, right?
because all that Planned Parenthood does
is condone the vicious and inhumane ******
of defenseless, unborn children, right?
right?
either way, you don’t care about the child
once they’re born
all that you care about is making a woman
and other individuals who have a ******
carry this thing that is literally feeding off of them
and why should a child be brought into this world
if the circumstances through which it was
conceived are non-consensual?
because, if you really did care
if you really were “pro-life”
then you would care about the child
after it is born
or better yet
you could turn your attention and time and money
and anger to all the millions of orphans living
in the US
ya know, the living children?
with no homes?
with no parents?
packed like sardines in orphanages?
what about them?
do they not matter because they are not a group
of cells, and therefore not defenseless?
and therefore they do not matter?
because,
if you only care about that bundle of cells
and because some states actually make women
and those with uteruses
have funerals for the aborted “child”
then by default whenever a man
masturbates and then **********
shouldn’t he be made to have a separate
funeral for each of the thousands of children
that he just killed?
because one of them could have cured cancer, ******
and tell me
when I was still menstruating
should I have said “amen”
over all the potential children that bled out
of my body and into the pad
and the sides of my boxers?
should I have
said “grace” over all the
little pad mummies that I threw away?
should I have cried when I flushed
the ****** toilet paper?
because,
since I have a ******
how dare I want and feel as if I should
be owed control over my own body, right?
how dare I believe that
each and every woman
biological and otherwise
have a say in what they do with their body
how dare I be pro-choice, right?
well, let me knock you down
a few pegs with this closing statement:
if you only care about the “child” when it is
just a group of cells that doesn’t feel a **** thing
and couldn’t care less about it
once it is born
and homeless
or an orphan
or queer
then you are not “pro-life”
what you are
is an *******
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 10:12 PM UTC
We rode the endless plains
in supercharged
armored people carriers,
rolling like thunder
wasting not time,
which seemed to stand still
during the firefights.
We baked like sardines
in our metal box.
Some days,
we faced the wind
from the turret,
others away from it,
from the smell of burning flesh,
those dead pakoled-foxes.
We rode the endless plains
in supercharged
armored people carriers,
rolling like thunder
wasting not time,
which seemed to stand still
during the firefights.
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 5:30 PM UTC
I don’t know what to buy nothing seems to
be enough for me
I think about all it took to get to that shelf in
the supermarket; all it took for them to place
that can of soda on a shelf
And then I thought to myself that the same
applies with everyone and everything
How is the twinkle in your left eyeball (the
one I’d stare at as you’d fall asleep to the
sound of my stories, the ones you didn’t
like) any different from the can of sardines at
your local supermarket
I propose that we are all products in an
increasingly capitalistic market
No one wants you in the end
You end up in someone’s cart for twenty
minutes
You take a ride; whilst suffocating in a
plastic bag
You are used and eaten and beaten
You are merely an item
And then you’re over
And then you are to be thrown away
Brought to a landfill
Buried
And finally you are to be forgotten
And the worst part is, that you thought that
you were special
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 7:31 AM UTC
based on the painting “Loving Bewick” by Paula Rego
He would feed me sardines perched above me
every night before we ****** in the big white lighthouse
I never bled more than I did that summer;
his beak digging into my back as I pulled handfuls
of feathers – but I loved the thrashing of his wings
and the uneven wood beneath my arched back.
He covered me when
we finished and I could smell the oceans he had swam
over on his neck. In the morning, he would open his gull and I
climbed inside as he flew me back to the city.
He would never let me sit atop his back to see
the flush of green or the meeting of mountains. Only inside
his mouth did I belong. I wished more than anything to be
a sardine – to be dangled above others, to have their adoration
proved to me before I slid between their teeth forever.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 5:26 PM UTC
Skeletal trees loom
Like old fathers, emaciated.
The dead walk the streets,
And wind pierces flesh.
There is no snow;
The sky could buckle
From the weight of the clouds,
Smothering you with their
Stark white, dense light.
A shuffling row have eyes like lead,
And their skin is grey and beaten.
Their presence is a weight.
Rows and rows, like sardines
Packed without air.
Shrug it off.
They'll dissolve soon enough.
They'll be washed away
By the coursing river of time.
Why act when you'll have forgotten
By next week? The sun will rise
Tomorrow, why interrupt or
Stamp your foot in the stream?
Avert your nervous eyes,
Cling onto something without consequence.
Swallow orders like pills,
Let them envelop you,
Until your mind is a vessel
And the images presented to you
Are the host.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
A Mean machine in obscene gang green
The Candlelight flicker in busted T V screen
Scream queen Ilene in paralyzed dream
Dean Irene exploded her spleen
It seems when she ate some beans
Kathleen drank from a canteen of benzene
Said sardines soaked in saline make the best cuisine
Eugene came between Kristine and Janine
When they went to the ravine in Racine
Teens hopped up on caffeine convene
With Thirteen marines on Halloween
On routine to clean and preen the latrines
I’m keen to notice the things that you’ve seen
?
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
?
What if you could unseen what you've seen
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
I
A hungry black-backed gull,
ready for the ****
circled over a school of sardines.
II
Beyond the black-backed gull,
an old boat stood still,
waiting for a place in the harbor.
III
At the top of the hill –
in the back -
rose a lighthouse and a mosque
Who,
through their small windows
Gazed at the aquatic scene.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Jul 12, 2016
Jul 12, 2016 at 7:08 AM UTC
the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
the nest did lack space, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
sardines in a tin, the plot needed thinning
the plot needed thinning, accommodations were crammed
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space
they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
they sighted a surplus one, tossing overboard
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
what clutter it did cause, heave ** out you go
they sighted a surplus one, what clutter it did cause
tossing overboard, heave ** out you go
the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, not a tight squeeze
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, more roomy
elbows were able to span, not a tight squeeze
the place twas less congested, more roomy
the plot needed thinning, they sighted a surplus one
accommodations were crammed, what clutter it did cause
sardines in a tin, the nest did lack space
heave ** out you go, tossed overboard
elbows were able to span, the place twas less congested
more roomy, not a tight squeeze
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:34 AM UTC
They throw down cash,
throw back shots, and
throw me business cards
at lunch break —
Sardines wearing
headphones who ride the
same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
everyday,
in between sardines
wearing headphones
who ride the same express train
that stops at Lincoln
and Broadway,
everyday.
Wasting Brooklyn nights
for noisey lights till trash time.
Stinky sticky street
walk home past
empty bars
to Hugo meowing
down the door
for new litter.
But I am so tired.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 9:16 PM UTC