Best Crab Poems | Poetry
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The Best Crab Poems
the raspy whisper
gets my full attention
wistfully I smile
..for its persistence reminds me of you..
the crisp red leaf
across the gray pavement
to and fro
like a dancing crab
moving with the emotions of the winds
as it seemed like I had chased my dreams
blowing in directions left up to chance
..until I met you..
..is it now as it was then
for in this instant my sense of direction
a smoky scent
does spice the chilled blue air
reminding me of our cozy nights
curled with the fire
as we were
with our warmth
and our flame..
love signals from the hearth
calling me home
feels akin to the red leaf
the wafting smoke
and I’m ready to follow..
is it the cold atmosphere
playing tricks on my eyes
..is that really
how my broken being
in my pining desire to be with you
I run to you!
years of yearning prayers answered
fingertips straining to stretch further
reaching out to touch you
the whole of my being aching
to hold you and enfold you
ah, I feel your heat
so very close to me
I fall to my knees
my arms empty but for my loss I carry
your warm breath on the nape of my neck as I close my eyes
but only my hot want brewed with a cool wisp of a breeze
..Oh God! Please!
just let it be
let me go..
my being is less than a dying ember
I am but ashes in my grief
in my autumn season
as your fading glow
is just the sun slanted low
blurring wicked whimsy with my wild-sorrow
in the burning of these bitter tears
December 2, 2018
~ Poem Of The Day ~ `
December 4, 2018
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018
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 –
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 –
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
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,
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
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 --
*Entry for Carol’s Rhyming Haiku contest
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
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!
***nightmare fuel - stingray; flying-fox - bat
==Sponsor Name: Broken Wings==
=Contest Name: Trashed #2=
O. E. Guillermo
2:49pm, September 04, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
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
Sponsor Eve Roper
Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015
End-Cut Prime Rib of Beef,
Crab-cake, Lobster Tail,
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
I muse if Robert Frost
had taken the other road,
would he have moved to
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
and the father who
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
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
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
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
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
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,
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
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
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...
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 mind....lol...once he has convinced a female, he seals the door to his castle, and there they stay...well, for a while...lol...db
Copyright © Deborah Burch | Year Posted 2012
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
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
Crab on a mission
So much inside that shell; leaves
writing in the sand
Copyright © Nigel Fawcett | Year Posted 2008
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
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
Little sweet Lucy..four years..so small.
Her pink teddy bear.. and her Barbie doll.
Pushed strollers of fun. ..in traipse of malls.
Then a Topsy turvy evil.. stifles her a thrall.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Crawls a cruel connive...arrives a sudden sinister.
Wrangles her hard destiny. .lurks a doomed disaster.
Poor Child, ...Leukemia is now her master.
She collapses into the arms.. of a malevolent monster.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Wasn't Blood red. .that flowed in our veins?
Her's was a translucent black. ..
only strains..and those pains.
With her curly hair shaved. .the ugly doll sustains.
Syringe of thorns prick. .a rose.. to sick bed detains.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Crummy " Chemo" of the 'Crab '. .
creeps on the little dummy.
There's yucky throw of food...
from her aching tummy.
Fear stricken Dad.. and a tear streaked Mummy. .
Her outstretched arms.. say..
"I know you both love me"
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
The helpless girl.. gets weaker and thinner.
She longs for the table...sit together for dinner.
Forlorn she quirks.. in the MRI shiver.
Fighting with Cancer. .her spleen and liver.
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
Painkillers help ..seeing windows and walls.
Doctors are elves... and Fairy nurses call.
To live without dying. .she daily sprawls. ..
She cries, " Where are my dolls? "
A desolate girl..she dreams. .playing with dolls.
PLACED THIRD IN SCREWED POETRY CONTEST by Rob Carnack
7th October 2018
A Poem of Reaction Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julia Ward.
Copyright © Debjani Mitra | Year Posted 2018
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,
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
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
A possum waddles beneath
blinking yellow fireflies.
©John G. Lawless
Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2017
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
They meant the world
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
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