"sturgeon" poems
from The Song of Hiawatha
By the shore of Gitchie Gumee,
By the shining Big-Sea-Water,
At the doorway of his wigwam,
In the pleasant Summer morning,
Hiawatha stood and waited.
All the air was full of freshness,
All the earth was bright and joyous,
And before him through the sunshine,
Westward toward the neighboring forest
Passed in golden swarms the Ahmo,
Passed the bees, the honey-makers,
Burning, singing in the sunshine.
Bright above him shown the heavens,
Level spread the lake before him;
From its ***** leaped the sturgeon,
Aparkling, flashing in the sunshine;
On its margin the great forest
Stood reflected in the water,
Every tree-top had its shadow,
Motionless beneath the water.
From the brow of Hiawatha
Gone was every trace of sorrow,
As the fog from off the water,
And the mist from off the meadow.
With a smile of joy and triumph,
With a look of exultation,
As of one who in a vision
Sees what is to be, but is not,
Stood and waited Hiawatha.
5.2k
18th August
You see me floating over the water, over your home at the lake bed.
Your eyes are closed but I know you can sense me in your slumber.
I’ll be honest with you, as I always am, I always was honest.
I just wanted to know.
I wanted to know why you ***** everything you come across.
Why does everything you touch fuse to you until it begins to rust and rot and fall apart?
Why do the plants you touch wither and die? What poison was scrubbed over your skin at birth that caused you to be the embodiment of misery and death and suffering?
I know you want to love. I can feel the wanting leaking out of you
like sunbeams. I know the warmth in your heart, but I know also
that it is chained and locked inside and your flesh likr frozen metal with poison spikes and anger that hurts like the plague.
I’m leaving in the morning; I’ll be back at night.
I’ll find a way to heal you
and you can give birth to life.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 1:59 PM UTC
Nicola Sturgeon
Needs no urging.
Scottish trouble,
Let’s burst her bubble.
She wants to split the UK
And make it rubble.
Theresa May thinks she’s the dregs.
The papers? They only ask,
(Nicola and Theresa) -
Who’s got the better legs?
Paul Butters
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 2:17 PM UTC
I mean, it felt like I was a dead fish
Or something, left to rot out there in the sun,
Left there on purpose, you know, like it was
A threat—and Charles, it stinks—you know that?—
—the stench of all those old thoughts—
Yeah, thoughts…you know,
Like guppies maybe, sturgeon, or flounder.
You laugh? Why? Fish can think, can’t they? They flounder.
Suppose as we grow old the ancient thoughts
Appear as songs a child might sing—sotto voce.
Suppose they’re like the masks the actors wore
In some Commedia dell’Arte farce,
Or like the web a spider strings across
A road, hidden, dark, all subtle tension,
The strands still wet with the coagulate air…
Too wet to breath, Charles, way too wet.
There’s more. Suppose a face inside that mask
Looks back, looks out. Suppose the rings run circles round
The eyes, for fear. Suppose it’s an old face of yours,
Charles, smiling too, with all that sullen pride
You once were so capable of…so proud.
This is not the Lone Ranger, kimosabi.
Not Zorro either. Man is least himself
When he talks in his own person. So let’s
Try on that mask, shall we?
One for you and one for me.
Masks aplenty, masks abound,
Masks askance…
There, it fits. Welcome, Charles. Welcome back.
And welcome ghost.
…a ghost to prompt you in your mask, a ghost
off stage, and hoarse from shouting, diaphanous,
just like the real thing: for curiously,
at that moment while he is in you,
in situ, as it were, I will be left
au naturel—yeah, me—king for a day.
We were all meant to crawl away from the sea,
were we not?
…and I count the collective ghosts here too,
Charles…
… atavistic, frightened, unaneled,
and openly integumentary
(thus, open to the sea, but repellant
to air)
—owls, Orion, a star-scarred sky,
too cold to breath that night,
too cold not to, eh, Charles?
Like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza,
like Hamlet and Horatio,
out with the watch, in search
of ghosts and fathers…
ghosts and fathers, Charles.
You remember that?
Back then, when you used to listen to me
when I spoke. You did listen, then, Charles when
I said things, right?
All those old thoughts…
When I could sing…
Charles?
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 8:52 AM UTC
He is said to have been the last Red man
In Acton. And the Miller is said to have laughed—
If you like to call such a sound a laugh.
But he gave no one else a laugher’s license.
For he turned suddenly grave as if to say,
“Whose business,—if I take it on myself,
Whose business—but why talk round the barn?—
When it’s just that I hold with getting a thing done with.”
You can’t get back and see it as he saw it.
It’s too long a story to go into now.
You’d have to have been there and lived it.
They you wouldn’t have looked on it as just a matter
Of who began it between the two races.
Some guttural exclamation of surprise
The Red man gave in poking about the mill
Over the great big thumping shuffling millstone
Disgusted the Miller physically as coming
From one who had no right to be heard from.
“Come, John,” he said, “you want to see the wheel-pint?”
He took him down below a cramping rafter,
And showed him, through a manhole in the floor,
The water in desperate straits like frantic fish,
Salmon and sturgeon, lashing with their tails.
The he shut down the trap door with a ring in it
That jangled even above the general noise,
And came upstairs alone—and gave that laugh,
And said something to a man with a meal-sack
That the man with the meal-sack didn’t catch—then.
Oh, yes, he showed John the wheel-pit all right.
1.5k
Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******** clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Plant your voice on the anvil. I write my name
in rust just as you in soot. And you
in skin. Riveted by flint. Coated by grit.
Send me on my way.
What I will find in the foundry
is slag. The husk of some steam shovel
lurching over asphalt. Rip my organs
from the mouth and bore into me.
Bellows amid sparks. Flame in columns.
There was a puddle I would stand
in to quicken the surge. Groping
wholeness in each crescent flare.
My family alone far away. Valley Forge
wet with orange. Tossing crumbs to ducks
from the path. I would join them.
My hands would split open crab.
We row to the dam’s lip and wait
for sturgeon, rocking. Pumice and sand.
Beat and grind and reduce me bare.
Tongue fumbling for the tip.
I think she would be proud of me.
Dec 15, 2011
Dec 15, 2011 at 3:48 PM UTC
The UK General Election has run its course.
A “win” for the Conservative Tories
With most votes and seats
Though they lost their parliamentary Majority,
And can only govern
By doing a deal with the Northern Irish DUP
Who oppose the rights of gays and women
And want to bring back hanging.
Yet Labour too are celebrating a win:
Halving the gap between the Tories and themselves
And winning loads of votes and seats.
OK they finished fifty odd seats behind,
But hey!
And then the Libdems “won” four more seats.
Plus The Greens held Brighton by a merry mile.
The Scottish Nationalists still got thirty five seats,
In spite of Nicola Sturgeon calling for
Another referendum on independence.
Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland got more seats too.
And the Welsh limited their damage by Labour.
“Winners” all, except for UKIP.
That’s politics.
Until the next election.
Which might be fairly soon.
Paul Butters
Jun 11, 2017
Jun 11, 2017 at 5:48 AM UTC
Look to the moon of August
From any place or time;
Write a little poesy,
Name it in a rhyme.
You can call it Sturgeon,
Red, Green Corn or Grain;
No matter what your outlook,
It still looks the same.
You can call it Dog Days,
Fruit, Dispute or Lightening,
And calling it a Woman's Moon
Gives rise to all that's ripening.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
Those cranes have earned
their sack of seed
They pulled these pencil turrets
through a sturgeon curd of feckless wet
to leave them where they lay.
Because of this
i sit indifferent, satchelled
in an unmade bed,
a simple- headed almanac
of beige and sable rhetoric.
My heritage;
an Eton mess
of trampled roman candles
left, by careless midnight masses
that come scratching at my door.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
sturgeon moon hides
behind woolly clouds
fishing at night
Shell✨🐚
Aug 11, 2022
Aug 11, 2022 at 6:58 AM UTC
18th August
-Before the autumn arrives
Fourteen more sunsets to witness
Fourteen more endings to caress
I'll watch sturgeon for the last time
Gonna get 'ma-aslama' from August very soon
'Fall' will be evoked for what the September strives
Gonna have an eye-catch since it's a 'corn moon'
Summer will kiss you for the last time
Before the Autumn arrives!
Have to suffer a few more starks
Season leaving autumnal marks
My cozy lights ambering my darks...
Final Equinox in the doorway is driving
These elm splinters are substantiating
That the autumn is arriving!!
My darkened panes
reminiscing autumn rains
Rains on the crisp dead leaves
Triggering seasonal pains
'Ash' will perform his last ballet
Before he dives;
'Walnuts' will play their nonchalant rhythms
Before he arrives!!!
Leaves and the branches parting ways
Trees bearing insane death
Four are over already in these verses
Now the days are ten left! ~vairagya
Aug 24, 2024
Aug 24, 2024 at 12:36 PM UTC
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Signs, signs,
Signs and wonders
Look at the truths
Look at the blunders
Lift up your head
Look at the light
Notice the angles
Beaming so bright
The textured ceiling
Whorls and waves
Parishioners kneeling
Warping the staves
Choral reflections
Bounce off the walls
Such genuflections
With genuine *****
Lysergic clergyman
Sturgeon and stews
Blue hairs with hats
And how-do-you-dos
Echoes of people
You’ve known in your past
All are connected
And all will contrast
Pick down the mountain
A way sure and true
Past frozen fountain
Through deep midnight blue
~
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 5:06 PM UTC
*White Oaks display tenuous longevity
Tethered to red dirt , moss populated
living testaments , etched in black decay
like tombstones marking an ending location
What man did fire in anger from this hillside
Fire for daily bread , wracked in hunger , steeped
in the unknown , slighted by his brethren , ill
recompensed , foolhardy leg deep sagebrush
foraging lonely wilderness outposts , a foreign beast
racked with chilblain , feverish at deaths gate
Hickorys cry golden kin in frosted wind , red inquiries
mingled in dark earth decay , vermin infested rot ,
pungent pile reeking recompense , scavenger trolled
dead carpet , crying in fog drenched stupor , collecting
in leaf well , motif sunbeam , signaling the birth of midday
shine neath Maple umbrellas
Beside talking waters , ravenous , diamond temptress , committing Summers deceased corruption to the sea
Mosaic sands , evergreen curiosities , glass creek- boulder
kaleidoscopes , lapping shorelines , mud foaming froth
hiding unknown depth
Laughing , forever cascading artery without mercy
Teeming with pan , bream , perch and sturgeon
Alligator shell scavenger , water moccasin , consumption
Pine labyrinths , sunless Fern gardens , Snake , Dew , Red berry
briarpatch mazes , rolling countryside without fence , encaged in Crescent Moon , lantern fly obscurity with voracious Aedes vampires , humid , blistering night without end* ...
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Jungle bells are ringing out
across the nation, Boris is to
play Santa Claws this year,
so, reinforce your stockings.
Corbyn is going to be Scrooge
in The Christmas Carol, hoping
to cook Johnson's goose which
he will share with the hungry.
Arlene Foster will be filling
the empty pies with minced
words which are to be served in
Bowler Hats avec blue berries.
Sturgeon is going to Hog as
Many votes as possible while
the rest are gorging to the Pogues
Fairytale of New York & London.
The Lib-Dems have an anthem
by Jo Swine Song about spit
roasting a Pig in the stocks
outside Downing St. Syndrome.
The Greens are looking for this
years largest Cucumber which
they have decided to stuff. They
have declined to say where.
Cymru Plaid's have decided to
make woollen scarves for the
homeless Corgi's after the Queen
is evicted from Buckingham Palace.
Nigh Gel Farage is going to
lubricate a Tusk and shove it up
Barnier's (( in the presence of
Jean Claude Coke Nose Junkier.
Oct 30, 2019
Oct 30, 2019 at 6:48 AM UTC
Salad, tossed face embossed got no floss chewin at all cost
Laying in the moss you know the forest but I ain’t no Gump
Or Trump tryin to destroy us filled with joyous boisterousness
Enjoy coitus with a moist ***** tied your *** to my truck hitch
Drag ya through the ditch, aint actin rich once I shot a snitch
Squealing like a stuck pig hooked him with a sturgeon rig
Took him to the reservation dig left him pining like a twig
We all danced a jig around the camp fire pulled out some plyers
Did my impression of Michael Meyers I started stabbing fools
With shiny dental tools took them all to school, then proceeded to break the rules
Splashed their face with jewels that others refer to as stool
Slapped them with my **** until they were covered in it
Peanuts gleaming in the night, asked them if they wanted to fight
Told my little dog to bite, lit out til I was outta site
Alright –
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC
Trump missed a step today. It's sad to see
such gaffs in a political career.
The morn dawned clear and bright. Humidity
had moved out overnight. (Precisely here
was Donald's chance.) Sweet-tweeting sparrows trilled,
bees buzzed industriously. As Nature wept
for joy dew sparkled, zephyrs fresh and mild
wafted the greenery. A sturgeon leaped.
Had Don been up, inspired he could have said:
"Were I your president I'd get my way,
o people of America, instead
of Tuesday I'd declare this Saturday!"
Then even a hard-nosed realist as myself
might vote for such a winning furry elf!
....naahhh :)
Aug 28, 2016
Aug 28, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
The scalpel is much like the pen,
In the hands of caring & skilled surgeons.
Tuna, Sturgeon, Trout.
If you loosed a seam
Stitch it or cauterize it - heal it,
Otherwise it's all down-stream.
If you offend,
Make right by making amends;
You are stricken by lightning.
If you misrepresent,
Apologize & correct your error by proper interpretation
Or to the caves be sent!
Judge not the judges,
For you are one & this inclination is only a natural one,
Lest you receive an unjust verdict.
Jul 9, 2025
Jul 9, 2025 at 1:18 PM UTC