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Best Crab Poems | Poetry

Below are the all-time best Crab poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of crab poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Crab Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Crab poems are below this new poems list.

My Buddy the Crab by McGuire, Timothy
The Crab by Breidenthal, Laura
A Crab Story by R. V., Ram
Ballad of a Hermit Crab by Chos, Derek
Hermit Crab by Anderson, John
Ode to a horseshoe crab by goldman, lawrence
The Crab and the Caduceus by Misra, Karam
A Dead Crab by Buhagiar, Victor
Hermit Crab by Black, Robert
Crab Froth by Dutta, Anisha

View all new Crab Poems

The Best Crab Poems

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Sand Dollar Dreams

It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves. 

As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all. 

It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond. 

a vocal seagull descends toward liquid skies – reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more. The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish drifts beneath placid water – lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin? My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky. My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea? Written: November 4, 2015 For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2015

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Diamond in the Sky

A dead star that inspired this poem--the companion of the star 55 Cancri, in the constellation of Cancer the Crab--has now shrunk to only about twice the size of earth yet is extraordinarily massive, leading astronomers to conclude that its surface and outer crust consist entirely of diamond.

In slumber now and thence to dream
of space-time’s stirred and curving sweep,
where stellar furies set agleam
the velvet thrall of endless deep.

Here among a billion suns,
solo Klieg cued nascent spark.
Ensuing life o'er an eon runs
ere treading path of torpid dark.

Adorned in crystal, its bequest—
fusion’s fire did else abate—
bejeweled then, this orb compressed,
now fields of diamonds lie and wait.

Yet perish need to search the endless skies—
diamonds sparkle here in lovely eyes.

Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2014

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Death Tolls

The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.

Sigh makers 	they close on the beach 
at high tide, the horizon shivers      the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.

Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow. 
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines. 
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off 
to the mud flats of Carolina. 

First Published Eunoia Review January 2015

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015

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Nana's Garden

You won't find a yard like this anymore. You'd think it would seem smaller now that I'm an adult, but it doesn't. It's still enormous, stretching far beyond the house like a grassy sea. The hills roll like the tide, dotted with patches of melting snow that remind me of cresting waves. All around me, the gardens wake from a wintry slumber.

tiny buds cling to naked branches-- a robin sings
Time stands still here in Nana's garden; the ghosts of childhood haunt every inch of the yard. There's my brother, climbing the ancient apple tree, throwing crab apples at my sister as she plucks daisies. Even as she dodges apples, she plucks away - asking no one in particular if she's loved or not, leaving a trail of petals in her wake. And there I am in my grass-stained skirt, twirling and twirling, falling dizzily to the ground, oblivious to my sister's shrieks of protest and my brother's triumphant laugh. I shake my head and the vision clears. Now the garden is empty - still overflowing with trees and shrubs and flowers, but lacking in laughter, mischief, and innocence. Innocence has been replaced by wistfulness.
two robins glide across the sky-- a door creaks
"Tea's ready, dear." I glance over my shoulder at Nana. She stands on the back porch wearing her favourite apron and my favourite smile. Like her garden, she hasn't changed. A few more silver strands in her hair, a few more lines around her eyes - but she is still the same woman who took care of us, tending to us just as she tended to her gardens. She smiles at me now, as if she knows that garden has cast a spell over me. With another glance at the apple tree, I follow Nana inside the house - and I swear I can hear echoes of laughter behind me.

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

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The Apple Doesn't Fall Far From the Tree

You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb

(Irish from his Pop      Appendage from his Mum)

stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do

the apple doesn't fall far from the tree

I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!

(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)

the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground

Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can

(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)

Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets

the ground isn't just a place for our feet

Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes     giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence

(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)

Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight

our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple

We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"

I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...

... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?

The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...

Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016

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ocean commotion

wind lifts salty air
scent of the sea fills my hair --
fishing without care

pelican dives fast
shrimp on the hook was my last --
strips the bait I cast

turn with quick motion
see crab stealing sun lotion --
ocean commotion

*Entry for Carol’s Rhyming Haiku contest

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011

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WHO IS THE GIANT OF THEM ALL Animals or humans, who is the giant of them all? Bearing a two sheathed wings, the Hercules Beetles crash the Titans (beetle) growing more than six inches. Down the dirty waterways of China is the Mekong catfish extending at ten feet, tummy-filled with one full swallow of a child... Horrible! Godzilla in Japan's sea is the Nomora Jellyfish! However, the tipped nightmare fuel incorporeal spill is not at all hazardous. Jamison Stone, an eleven year old boy, killed almost, this wild giant hog of 1051 lbs. Lizards like the giant Salamanders aren't cute at all-- measuring six feet long: the largest of their kind! Nuisance to Australia's dangerous wildlife, cane toads, originally are found in South and Central America! Power and beauty quiets all his challengers when Percheron runs, runs fast in a horse race! Savory staple is the spider Crab but warning! Their claws can do some serious damage! Under a tree, don't be shock of the flying fox: vampires to sweet-juices of fruits in New Guinea... Weighing over a ton, Trigger is the cow for truckload of macs! Xenopos are Cameroon Goliath that can live up to fifteen years. Yes, humans are tough but compared to these behemoths, zings we have are just their toys! ______________________________________________________________________ ***Source: and ***nightmare fuel - stingray; flying-fox - bat ==Sponsor Name: Broken Wings== =Contest Name: Trashed #2= ==6th place== O. E. Guillermo 2:49pm, September 04, 2015

Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015

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Today we are having fun at the sea Mummy and daddy, Tommy and me. White topped waves tickle our toes Salty sea water splashes our clothes. Mummy and daddy are relaxing on the beach Tommy and I play happily, not far out of reach. The weather is cold and clouds block the sun, still nothing will stop us all having some fun. Daddy has a net and we searched in a rock pool We found a crab and sea shells, the water was cool. Mummy has packed a picnic for us to eat, how I am enjoying our beach day treat. I hope the clouds disappear and the sun peeps through then we can enjoy the beach neath skies so blue. We can’t rely on the weather even thought it’s June it was fun being together and we can come back soon. Contest Oil Paintings 1-2-3 Image 1 Sponsor Eve Roper Jan Allison 10~29~15

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015

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Sister -- a poem in 2 parts


End-Cut Prime Rib of Beef,  
Crab-cake, Lobster Tail,
Sea Scallops.

I feel — no — need to, 
eat those foods 
you asked I get you. 

So I scour the internet 
for upscale Manhattan 
restaurant menus, listing, 
first and foremost,
roast prime rib of beef, 

confident, if I find that, 
the seafood items 
will appear on at least one 
of them, also. 

It’s the Post House,
on East 63rd Street,
that has everything.
And, on this day, 
the 1st anniversary
of your death, 

I’m eating the foods 
you craved, yet, I do not 
savor a morsel. But 
not to worry, Renee, 

for next year, same
date, I’ll try again, and 
maybe, just maybe, 
I’ll find it easier to enjoy 
what you surely would have, 

if only I’d realized there was 
no time left. No time left, 
as I held your hand and 
watched American Idol.

while you morphed into what-
ever it is one becomes 
at death. 


I muse if Robert Frost
had taken the other road, 
would he have moved to
England, where 
his poetry was a hit
from the get-go; 

would he have remained, 
the constant farmer, or 
teacher, or journalist
he been, rather than 

the bard who'd crafted 
the simplest words 
into mysterious, 
memorable poems; 

and the father who
couldn’t prevent 
his children’s deaths; 

not the husband 
who couldn’t keep
his wife from sinking 
deep into depression.

Renee, every day, since
your death, I think about 
what I could’ve done 
and should not have done 
as your sister, your twin. 

How I’d sat on my laurels 
and let you navigate 
on your own, with me 
never wholeheartedly
trying to steer away
from conflict with you. 

Me, who found it too hard
staying involved in that life 
of yours. Truth be told, 
if I'd seen two diverging roads 
to choose from, way back when 

— neither the worse for wear, 
I would’ve sought you out — 
asked you which one you’d take 
if you were me, and surely 
I’d have taken the other.

Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014

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Back To Rio

Take me back, to good old Rio
Let me lie there in the Sun
Then take a ride to Capo Ferro
Dancing Samba, having fun
And the girls will all be prancing
In the waves along the shore
Eating crab and fish together
That were caught the day before
As my passion starts increasing 
Like the heat upon the grill
With all the stress now I'm releasing
I don't miss the northern chill
Take me back to good old Rio
Let me stay there to the end
No yesterdays or tomorrows
The place where night and day, just blends
Take me back.....

Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2015

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The horizon cuts straight, long, hard
silently declining less than a degree

like toys across a cartoon’s one frame stillness
a small yacht rocks like a child’s boat
a helicopter putters, a small jet silently
bellies over the sea thundering suddenly
against a graded blue sky
children flying a kite
a plummeting twisting tied bird in its death throes
falling from the warm seemingly red-speckled blue 
broken only by a smudge of grey cloud

curling white-tipped waves swirl against rocks
a lonely Zen-meditative crab in their shade

the sand, ridged, striated, pockmarked
small holes left as bubbling miniature blowholes
fine lines webbed around 
sand rippled like the sea, waved and cleansed 
a poetic transgression? – Neptune’s impost?
the soap-sud foam his in-coming joyful jouissance 
the thin receding water a pin-spot bridal veil
and a bridal train, its white scalloped lace edge
pleating, folding, hiding under the next wave
in rippling curving line-patterns 

Copyright © Susan Baquie | Year Posted 2016

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'Dear Prudence'

Hell breaks loose through the trusting door
Whining its splintering, wooden hinges
Claws wrapping onto the arches beyond
Gnarled feet pressed on the threshold
Lower limbs jingling with sparky anklets
Ready to catapult and kick with spitting mouth
To shove its shine like a worthy prick
It was time for her daily purges

Peace is slapped about in her fickle hands and made ragged
Turmoil in her pedicured toes erodes the smoothed surfaces
Of the fashions’ must, into dusty rust of sick disgust

Her coral lips curve in delight
At the sight of confused and crazy creatures
Staring numbly at her hell-bent sight
She is always laughing, snarling or lying low
Waiting for the climatic blow 

Bottom dwelling, blush smearer 
Eyeliner runner, nail-biting binger
Her lies tease and her eyes see a perfect she will never be
As her large, curved nails glimmer 

She scuttles her way like a crab in a salty delirium
She hides her hiss like a snake ready to miss for a chase
Challenging practicality,
“Dear Prudence, 
Won’t you come out to play?”
But we are silent to the accursed 
The wise are wary and rehearsed

We all slip right through as she intrudes an empty room
Waiting for a reaction, screwing with the lights to assert a distraction 
She wreaks havoc in the dark,
“Dear Prudence!”
She screams,
As we softly walk down the path, nomads against the crabs
She doesn’t realize she is her worst fear—alone
Her mask melting and her anklets snapping
Collapsing, the tears she squeezed for her high
Were emptied, vindicated and dried 
Angrily she must realize
In her twisted, stubborn way

It’s a beautiful day… 

A crazy collab with my brother David Breidenthal [J.W Earnings]

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2016

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Fiddler's Love Song

The fiddler crab plays as he eats
A high pitched tune, around the dunes
A fast rhythm most can repeat
The fiddler crab plays as he eats
All can play a song so sweet
Fiddling to their love songs at noon  
The fiddler crab plays as he eats
A high pitched tune, around the dunes

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2014

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Castle In The Sand

Castle In The Sand

Waves besiege the shore
As crashing long lost lovers--
Lonely lions roar--
Salty cling of sultry air
Glistens as sunlight weakens...

Latte-coloured sand
Reveals waving fiddler crab
The male--his Huge hand--
Tempting females to his lair,
His deep castle in the sand.

~by deborah burch©

*Note: the fiddler crab
they mate every two weeks...the male stands outside his two-foot deep elaborate burrow in the sand (castle) and waves his very enlarged claw enticing all females who pass by...when one shows interest, she stops for a second or two...stares at him...and he goes in to his castle, comes out and repeats this a few times until she makes up her he has convinced a female, he seals the door to his castle, and there they stay...well, for a

Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012

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Famous Sayings

There’s many famous sayings I’ve heard
I’m sure you’ve heard them to,
So see if you remember
As I mention just a few.

There’s “Home is where the heart is”
Or “Little pictures have big ears”
And “It’s not how many years you spend
It’s how you spend your years”.

“God helps them that helps themselves”
“You can do it if you try”.
“Many hands make light work”
“There’s more to this than meets the eye”

“A mans home is his castle“
“You can‘t make a crab walk straight“
“A word to the wise is sufficient“
“It‘s always hurry-up and wait“.

“Birds of a feather flock together“
And another I recall
“It‘s better to have loved and lost
Than to never have loved at all“.

Well that‘ll do it for a while
I know there‘s many more
It‘s true it‘s me that brought them up
But I sure don‘t know what for!.

Copyright © RALPH TAYLOR | Year Posted 2010

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The shortcomings of genius

Athletes of intellect ponder difficult questions
Cortex’s quiver to cerebral suggestions
A genius theorises with a deepening frown
Well, how come my toast always lands face down?

Quantum conundrums confoundingly dreary  
Cynical scientists dismiss a new theory
A mastermind clutches his head in distress 
Well, if a crab has no shell, is it naked or homeless?

Wisdom, the child of mental ability
Science, the offspring of cranial agility
Empirical evidence so hard to collate 
Well, why does sour cream have an expiry date?

Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2011

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Lateral thought

Crab on a mission
So much inside that shell; leaves
writing in the sand

Copyright © Nigel Fawcett | Year Posted 2008

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An Old "Happy" Couple

Cherish me as I grow old, and am surely liable to forget things. 
 I know how interesting life is and the contentment it brings.
I know you'll make excuses to try and be miserable and even try not to go.
 Now just have a good trip, even though I know your stress will just grow.

White, sandy beaches and salt tasted air, with an ocean so cold.
 Aggravation sets in as we try to put our lawn chairs down to unfold.
Breathe, my love, its as simple as remembering the latch on the side.
 Surely, all you had to do is ask, I'm tired of your old, stubborn pride.

Finally, we get our chairs situated and I'm ready to bask in the sun.
 You ask for sun block and as I search, you assume I brought none.
Its just at the bottom of the beach bag, you stubborn old ***!
 And don't think I don't see you sneaking a sip out of that flask!

I turn bronze as I used SPF 40, you chose SPF 15, and look at you.
 Red as a lobster, mean as crab, and I'm enjoying the view.
I tried to tell you, but so stubborn, do you ever plan to listen?
 Probably not now, nor never, so your skin will always be red and glisten.

How are you supposed to relax now that you can't move not even a limb?
 Our stress free vacation, is as always, starting to look grim.
Oh well, aloe you up, and off to dinner we shall go and have some fun.
 Take some Soma, Lortab, and Xanax and you'll be good and numb.

An hour later and you're stress free, and mostly out of that pain.
 Good thing, because its in the forecast for Florida rain!
We'll hobble around the block and get soaking wet from head to toe.
 Knowing tomorrow you'll be back in pain and stressed so we'll have to go.

But its like this every year, we plan to stay, but I know how you are.
 One or two days of driving makes you stiff from sitting in the car.
It'll take the rest of our vacation for you to blister and finally peel.
 You're the entertainment in my life, and that's why I'm with you still!

Copyright © Aleera De La Keur | Year Posted 2009

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My Friend Robbie

I have a dear feathered friend who greets me each day at dawn!
He likes to dwell in and around the crab apple tree on my lawn!
From his perch he serenades me on wintry Colorado morns so drear,
Cheerily belting out trilling melodies that are so pleasing to my ear!

Oft I've wondered why Robbie Red Breast opts to winter here at all,
'Specially since all his friends flee these icy climes for Florida each fall!
While they bask in the warming sun enjoying cocktails of orange juice,
He prefers wintering here with me along with all its nippy abuse!

'Tis a wonder that the little creature can manage to survive,
Since there are no wiggly worms for him upon which to thrive!
Robbie doesn't worry - The Omnipotent Creator sees to his daily needs,
By providing an occasional hapless bug and a few wind-blown seeds!

I think that rascal relishes wakening me from my slumber each morn,
As he flexes his wings and sounds reveille to begin his daily bourne!
I'd rather be woken by him, tho', than the neighbor's yapping mutts!
'Tis certainly far more pleasant - of that there ain't no ifs, ands or buts!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011

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Am I hideous

Am I hideous 

So many years have drained,
slowly taking what was once mine
scattering it over endless thoughts and memories
and I wonder why, where has it all gone?
Silver finds locks once dark,
muscles speak in much louder tones

Sleep is something of youthful moments
and nightmares wrap me where once bloomed orchids

Coming down that mountain…stumbling,
gazing on the valley below, green and lush, 
envying those who still smile,
holding hands and drinking of life
one happy sip at a time
from that half full glass held next to their hearts

Not a drop spilled on their dance floor, 
mixing with saw dust and erratic footprint designs

A tear finds my cheek, lonely as it is
asking what did it mean, why has loved passed me by?
Nary a wave or a nod, eyes fixed elsewhere
Am I hideous……………………why did I just grin?
One more butterfly touches and I didn’t notice,
until now…perhaps

There’s that word again, perhaps…seems overused
though it hasn’t been spoken in ages

Entering that final path, winding…tiring so
but a spring in the old step, a bounce found in place of a crawl
“Sweet the fragrant air doth find me of you”  
Why did I just say that, and in a voice I hadn’t heard in so long?
Seems to be singing…and it is me…me
and funny…I hear harmony
So it has come, the voices of my past belting out a few notes
into the mind of crab cake crumbles and starched socks

Yet it is not in my head, it is on the wind…a cool breeze of song
wafts along aged skin and tickles…and I laugh at the feeling
When she appears from a field of lavender, different yet perfect, 
beautiful eyes, lips…I must be going insane…they said it would happen…madness
Then she smiles at me and I smile back, could this be….love…me? 
Taking my hand we run…yes run…uphill…and I feel free

Reaching in my pocket I pull out the four leaf clover 
I found when I was twelve and whisper…”Took you long enough”

Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2017

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Stoplight Fireflies

Stoplight Fireflies

Stoplight fireflies blink yellow
over vacant intersections

Owls whisper on the mist
mime-like field mice listen

Soft surf muffles side step
clatter of crab legs

Feral eyes swallow
waning moonlight

A possum waddles beneath
blinking yellow fireflies.

©John G. Lawless

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2017

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The Crab

You wish me to say those words,
To love you

Surely you mean to win me
As I exhale my expostulations 
Some hidden truth
That you think you understand
You mean to squeeze out of me
Some sacred confession
As I engorge your pride
With poisonous lies

You want me to love you
You demand it of me
And I pale!
I pale at the thought of such a declaration 
I pale at the past 
As it stings me every which way
I cry out and bleed over it
I remember his sweet voice
I remember his hands
As they held my love
Soon all of it was his own
All of it was there in his palm
He watched it crumble away on him
Dead orchids destined for earth's soil
They fell away, inevitably
And my dust left no blemish

You want me to say it still
But I pale as I remember 
The promises he made 
To me
They meant the world 
And yet,
It was I who begged in the end 
It was I who reached out
A planet orbiting a star
With no reply 
With no reaction
And he blamed depression
He blamed himself
And all of life's bustle 
I let the currents take me
My voice drowning in the universe

I have grown accustomed to these ghosts
Passing through irrevocably 
Trusting only in themselves 
Indulging in their pleasures
I go through them everyday 
They only exist 
Because I scream them 

And you, the crab
Retreat into your shell, 
Ostensibly wounded by my refusal
You save your pincers for another day
I will reach inside your core before I say it
I will cross ecstacy's shore 
I will lace my fingers in your softest part
And I'll watch your eyes
As I find the glimmer where it lies 

Feb 25, 2018 

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2018

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I Was Born In A Spanish Nation

I was Born in a Spanish nation

I was born in a Spanish nation, Argentina, to be precise, so I enjoy Spanish foods quite a lot' 
like milanesa and Empanadas,  
lots of meat on the Parilla especially sausages
with Chimi Curry sauce.  
But I'm a Hebrew and I love my lox and cream cheese, schnitzel and Veronicas with cabbage soup.
alsi with some other goodies on the side like coconut cookies and a loaf of Halla bread make good for a fine day.
But I was raised in the U.S.A . With hot dogs, hamburgers and fries, and a coke on the side,
But what I really want is to be is an American Native Indian,
but I do not know much about their foods except that delicious tortillas made out of corn.
Kind of makes you fat, but I could be wrong.
lately  my faith has shifted from Judaism to Buddhist and now I meditate, 
but my philosophy is the thoughts of Alan Watts and Ekhart Tolle and lately 
I have been craving their home foods one is English and the other is German, how curious.
Sometimes a desire for French food comes over me
maybe some Escargo with fish with their Tarragon herbs on white plates, with a white wine on the side,
this is how they dine in Paris, oh so dashing and so nice.
No sooner did I eat that,
I became enthralled with Indian food with Turmeric and Curry.
What am I going to do?
Mr. Krishmatury? 
Sidguru the spiritual would know.
Well, I'm going to eat a bit of hearing and get back to my roots?
Maybe I will stop at an Israeli restaurant and have some Babaganush and lamb skewered,  hummus, falafel
With pita bread, I just love, it makes my mouth water.
But wait the Italian restaurant is on the way,
I will stop there too, and get some lasagna and eggplant Parmesan and a taste strategia soup 
I will just freeze it for another day.
Did I forget to mention  Mexican food with the tortillas and tacos and enchiladas and chiles religion, I'm loving it?
I think I'm hungry and I will eat it all;
No, I have made up my mind its Thai coconut soup, Yes!
That's it,
And tomorrow, it will be Jamaican jerk chicken, but I might change my mind.
And have some English fish and chips mate and dine with a pint of lager for good measure i hope it catered.
My wife is honking the horn, it turns out we are going for Greek food, Dolmas, yellow rice. 
Taramosalata, the caviar with Spanikoipia the cheese pie you know it so delicious. 
Damn it, I told her I wanted Chinese today, egg flower soup with kung Pao chicken and that special way they make the eggplant, 
 you can't beat it  anywhere.
Why do we have to fight about these things, any way you look at it she is a vegetarian? 
Did I leave anyone out, oh yes the Polish, but their food is similar to the Russians cabbage soup that I forgot to mention?
I will have to ask someone about that.
What is that you said?
That there is a new sushi bar in town, with fresh 
Yellow tail, white fish and Salmon 
Crab California roll too, well, why didn't you say so?
im game for that too, with a bit of sake wine if you do not mind.

By Marc Acrich

Copyright © Marc Acrich | Year Posted 2018

Details | Crab Poem | Create an image from this poem.

One Teeny Tiny Problem

Dutch cruller, rich and sweet,
Belgium chocolates, nothing like them.
Scottish kale, made into tasty broth.
New England crab, pride of the Atlantic,
Cuba’s sweet and sour daiquiri.
America’s tastiest eggnog, made instantly sour by the sight of one small dead titter mouse.
One teeny tiny mistake, but I may never drink eggnog again.

Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018

Details | Crab Poem | Create an image from this poem.


Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon,
sings opera in the woods at noon;
I love so much to hear him croon.
At night he carols to the moon.

If you are lucky you might hear
the songs he sings most loud and clear;
he plans to make it his career
with performances both far and near.

He will audition sometime soon,
accompanied by his pal baboon
who plays a really mean bassoon;
I know they'll make the critics swoon.

I guess I'll have to go along
and keep long lists of all his songs
and iron his wardrobe of sarongs,
protect him from the cheering throngs.

He seems excited, that's for sure;
he never has been too demure.
He keeps asking for a new coiffure,
a glitter mani- and pedicure.

Last night that crazy old raccoon
sucked on a helium balloon
and ate way too much crab Rangoon,
said he planned to change his tune.

He switched his genre to rock and roll,
thinks he can sing with a lot of soul;
winning American Idol his one goal
with its million dollar prize bankroll.

Things are getting out of hand;
the raccoon's plans are just too grand;
I wish he'd join the forest band
and forget this superstar status plan.

Success can never come too soon
to a want-to-be Las Vegas tycoon
who dreams of a big penthouse saloon,
Ka-thump-a-loon, my pet raccoon.

Faye Lanham Gibson
Copyright, August 18, 2015

Copyright © Faye Gibson | Year Posted 2015