Best Craw Poems
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
divining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding reins,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quiet drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship of midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
Late to the party we arrived at seven
At least we showed up before eleven
Sweet Ginette, joined us both at the door
A bottle in my hand ready to pour
Off to the kitchen to see the Birthday Queen
All the happy faces a beautiful scene
Hugs for Chantale, another for Helene
I met a new person, energetic like a teen
Her name if I remember, it is Jocelynne
She is married, to a cool guy his name Martin
Bruno was cooking but stopped to say hi
Christine looked happy to be with her guy
Jokes and conversation, a whole lot of fun
Happy to spend time with everyone
Dave seemed content enjoying the mood
My stomach grumbled, I was ready for food
To the table it was time to sit down
We were all treated, to the best meal in town
First Chantale prayed a blessing on us
Our Savior is great, he deserves a fuss
The meal fantastic but the Tuna was raw
I tried to eat it but it stuck in my craw
My Mary she enjoyed it, although not me
I prefer all things cooked, that come from the sea
The pasta amazing, seafood galore
The wine was superb, I let Christine pour
She sat to my left, Dave sat to my right
Everyone there, made it a perfect night
Once concluded, Christine C sang a song
A Louis Armstrong tune we all joined along
Her voice was clearest ours more like a croak
We were lost in the moment, that's not a joke.
We all started dancing, disco moves on the floor
Armand turned up the sound, as we screamed for more
First time I saw Dave dance, he cuts quite the rug
Armand has his own moves, he likes the Jittery Bug
Before too long it was time for dessert
Hot from all the candles I unbuttoned my shirt
Chantal blew out the candles after making two wishes
Armand served Mary's cake, on rectangular dishes
Chantale's special day, a day to remember
Celebrated each year, October not November
So we raised our glasses, thankful for the cheer
Together we celebrated a friend who is dear!
Just Do Not Be
Waves of sadness overflow my heart
I tumble, no care at all for a new start
Buried under autumn leaves
I hug the soil, knowing deeper so much the sweeter to be
I hear a voice over looking me
Don’t be like that!
Get up and carry on
Enough of the silly sadness lets move on…
I am anxious I say
Why they all ask, what’s up your craw?
Not a thing, why nothing at all
Then don’t be like that, DO NOT
I think of ropes, of tall building and fires
I think of ending it all, got no desire
You think I enjoy this feeling that death holds
The answer is always, don’t be like that
How can such educated ones be such fools?
Do they think we choose the sadness, our ugly muse?
Do they think we chose the darkness and always lose?
Shaking with anxiety, I can hardly but move
Don’t be like that echoing in me ears
See a doctor about all these fears?
All I see is the empty glass
Wishing it full, with two more pills to blast
No one really cares about you
I am sure for me this is true
When I was dead, after months I was blue
A year later someone opened the door
I kid you not, they looked and stared
Why did he have to do a thing like that?
From the depths of hell, I laughed and I spat
Before the killing of a thousand deaths
I broke a leg and walked slow at best
They all showed concern, said what can I do?
If they can see the wound
Apparently they may care for you
I replied with a bitter taste in me insides
Don’t be like that
Epilog
I only wanted someone to care
I pulled the trigger
Cause I followed the dare
Now tiss I, covered on the wall
Hasn’t a care in the world
Why none at all
Ascending within; to feel my happiness climB
Setting out solo; internal ecstasy can providE
Carving contentment by relearning to crawL
Enjoying this wonderful spiritual crescendO
Noticing on the way; all little things contaiN
Dualities in me but don't require explaininG
Intrinsic kaleidoscopes; always up the antI
Needless is it to enforce emotional refraiN
Grasp the view feeling truest in belonginG
A cousin called the other day saying "Another cousin has passed away".
Well my husband said "How old was she.""
"Ninety-eight".
A stalwart woman who had served family and community well. Producing one child that
became a missionary serving in a foreign land..
While talking the cousin asked "Did you know ______"?
My husband answered, "Well, I don't think that I knew them".
The cousin proceeded to tale this story.
"The man had been down with cancer for a while and passed recently..The funeral had been
conducted and the hearse had gone on to the cemetary..The family car with the family was
not to far behind..But when it pulled up, the wife of the deceased did not get out and the
funeral home staff was gathering around..The funeral home director decided to go see what
was going on ...."
The cousin said, " That this funeral home director told him". "That he had been in this
business for thirty-five years and faced something that he had never had happen to him or
any other funeral home director that he knew."
The funeral home director said, "When I got to the family car, I found the wife of the
deceased had passed from a massive corornary."
She had said, "I don't know how I will live without him." She didn't have to learn. God called
her home..
The roosters crow, the crows craw and are answered by the gobble of the turkey across the
way..
The brazen wind flows through the naked trees,
where multitudes of scrawny fingers attached
to stout limbs conduct the aria.
the trill of the dawn
awakes the sedulity…
a wee tad foisty
With each sunrise a regimental instinct, as the craw of
the crow delivers the day, when as the lone Bugler
at his post, reveille resounds upon a torrent stream.
the chill of winter
initiates spiral breath…
fruit rots on the ground
The tempest from the Southern Ocean evokes nakedness
within this place, destroyer of all that was verdant, yet an
act of kindness, to ready life for spring to live once again.
through the morning mist
air is turning icy blue…
the tide rushes in
© Harry J Horsman 2022
The leaves were turning red and gold;
And frost was in the air.
When they rounded up the Acadians,
From Miquelon and Saint Pierre.
It was a time for groaning;
A cry from Cajun lips.
When they rounded up those Frenchmen;
And loaded them on ships.
So they came to "Louisiane;"
A strange and far-off land.
But thrived mid pines and cypress.
A hardy, cheerful band.
They learned to build the pirogue,
And find odd sorts of meat.
For in the swamps of "Louisiane";
The Cajun had to eat.
They learned to cook the Gumbo;
Which is a special dish;
But key to their survival;
Was a little Red Craw-fish.
The "Mud-bug" some folks call it.
But it's cooked with lots of love.
It's found in shallow water;
Which the South has plenty of.
It is a time for dancing;
It is a time for fun.
When the Cajuns get together;
And the the Red Craw-fish are done.
You boil them in some water;
And throw in lots of spice.
Some corn and some potatoes;
And some ice tea would be nice.
The Cajuns love their Craw-fish
Though it's been 200 hundred years.
Since they left their home in Canada,
And cried those bitter tears.
But the Cajun is resourceful;
Making use of what he can.
He thrived to spite the English;
To prove he was the better man.
The suicidal King and the one eyed Jack
Were perusing the bar for a late evening snack
"How's her?" asked the Jack.
"Too thin," said the King.
"I like the women...
with bottoms that swing."
"How's she?" asked the King.
"Too plump," said the Jack.
"I like the women...
with a nice tight rack."
The Queen of Hearts pulled her panties up with a snap
And shoved The Beast's craw off her god forsaken lap
Shut her eyes, held her breath and rolled out of bed
And tiptoed out the door
Without a word said,
The Beast was OK
An Ace he was not
Confused, she strolled to the bar
for a late evening shot
"You pig," cried the Queen
"Who me?" pleaded the King.
"I can't believe you have the decency
To still wear your ring."
The king looked her up and down,
sole to soul and foot to crown
He knew something was wrong,
almost RIGHT AWAY
For one, there was a smile on her face
That seemed to last ALL DAY
"You ****," cried the King
"Who me?" questioned the Red Ace
"Not you!" said both King and Queen
"How could you stand there and lie to my face
with your button half undone
and your stockings out of place?"
"How could you?" cried the King.
"You don't deserve to wear that crown
With your bra strap twisted up
And your dress falling down."
"I'm leaving," protested the Queen
And she would've I know
Except sometimes
Love waits until the last minute to show
"Wait," cried the King, but he stopped
He had decided to call her bluff
And he turned his back
Even though it was tough
Because also sometimes
Loving someone just isn't Enough.
By: Joseph DeMarco
“Cock-a-Doodle-Do”
By Dane Smith-Johnsen
There once was a very fine rooster.
He would strut with his wings spread out wide.
The hens in his pen called him “Brewster”.
They liked to flap around at his side.
“Cock-a-Doodle-Do!!! The day's light grew.”
Quickly off to lay eggs ran the gals.
He flew to his perch; boasted anew.
Protecting hens meant no time for pals.
One day he sat proudly on his roost,
Curious, “Grandson” came; he was three.
Brewster stretched out his neck, his craw loose.
“Cock-a-Doodle-Do!!! Listen to me!”
“Grandson” loved to watch and feed the chickens.
Brewster crowed; the boy ran to the pen.
Neck stretched. Beak aiming. “Brew-roo” peckins’-
Little man. Boo-booed hand. Kiss would mend.
Brewster's life would never be the same.
Feelings hurt. “Grandson” sobbed for a while.
Grandma soothed at boy's side, rooster blamed.
“Cock-a-Doodle-Do!!!” Sung in exile.
All the hens in the pen played and lay.
While inside, “Grandson” stayed well as new.
Quietly heard in the distance, “Hey!”
“Cock-a-Doodle-Do!!! Boo-hoot, I’m stew!!!”
Oh how I miss being six;
No problems that couldn't be fixed.
Important decisions of cavort;
Was which hill to make my fort.
How to make the stray kitten follow my lead;
So that " It followed me home" was an honest plead.
Trying to guess with an experienced hunch;
What was the mystery meat in the school's lunch.
Hand catching craw dads and small fish;
Waiting for the first star to make a wish.
Mud pies and tea parties by invitation only;
The little girl's private teddy bear ceremony.
Splashing in puddles and climbing trees;
Skinning my elbows and knees.
Picking wild berries and black heart cherries;
Staging my own revolutionaries.
Making shapes out of clouds;
Laughing and singing out loud.
Wishing for rain but not chancing the odds;
Sacrificing my sister's barbie dolls to the rain gods.
Under a patch work quilt, snuggled safely;
With my feather tick pillow I fall asleep gayly.
My mother wraps her arm around me like a shawl;
And whispers "Goodnight and sweet dreams Doll".
Mocking bird sitting on a twig
Filling his craw with those ripe figs
Babies are grown flown from home
All that responsiblity long gone, gone
Now 1738 there was born a man...
'name of Ethan Allen; his craw full'a sand,
Faced up to the guvenor of N Y, State..)
The green mountain boys would be part of his fate,
He took fort Ticonderoga as the hour grew late
This man of destiny; standing up to the plate,
As demands of imperial power hit nerves rubbed raw
Self-determination the watchword by tower and shore,
This flame a'burning makes its seat in their hearts
People "taxed over wars" wishing now to part,
The rest is history "how they made their stand..
Forced into conflict that led to freedom unplanned..!
A maverick Man
Tweaked by abbreviation and footnote
Copyright Joe Maverick 2012
In support of Cyndi MacMillans "Mavericks contest"
Geordie is ma brother; some say he is a hero!
Me, ah ken better an’ his rating’s close tae zero!
He likes tae hog the flair wi’ jokes oh say dreary’
Efter twenty meenits we grow a wee tadge weary.
He has a better side but it’s hidden oot o’ sight,
An’ onything he says, Ye’ve guessed, he is ayewis right!
Ah’m no sayin’ he is stoopid, that wid be unkind;
Aw he really needs is a kick up his behind.
Hooever, he’s ma brither sae ah’m gi’en’ him some flack;
Ah’m share that when he reads this he’ll gi’e me plenty back:
Ah suppose ah really like him, weel jist a tiny bit,
Even wi’ his awfy childish doonbeat wit!
Ah should stope ma ramblin’s an tell ye somethin’ guid!
It isna really true that his heed is made o’ wid;
Naw, he’s truly brilliant….when he is far awa’,
An’ talkin’ oan the telephone he’s like a babblin’ Craw.
AYE FOLKS THAT’S MA BRITHER!!!!!! An’ ah love him!
Me father was a collier, worked Harton off the coast
Though he rattled from the coal dust he was whiter than a ghost
But the one thing that reviled him in his God-forsaken post
Was the torment of the pit ponies who he'd love and trust the most.
Shetlands worked the low seams, Gallers the big pit
And they toiled in dust and danger in the darkness and the grit
Blinkered up between the limbers, heaving coal, tubs full of it
Were the brave young beasts of burden, all a-frothing at the bit.
And Blackie was a strong 'un, he'd been down since '34
But he earned the lads good bonus so they worked him more and more
Till the weight buckled his legs and he stumbled to the floor
And he just laid there a-panting, all a-choking in his craw.
Ah me Da would bring them sugar and share with them his bait,
Now his mind was torn with fury and his heart was filled with hate
So raging black with anger he made the butchers wait
And he vowed he'd take the pony back up with him in the crate
Then Da's no longer digging, they locked him up you see,
For misappropriating mineowners property,
But you cannot cage a conscience, he'd set the brave one free,
From the bittered, blackened hellhole that had been his slavery..
Now Blackie's in the meadow with horses by his side
When the miners bring their children down he takes them for a ride
And he passes by the pithead and the place he nearly died
And he brays a silent prayer for the others still inside
For the broken, bloodied ponies and the tears yet to be cried
There's torment in them ponies down the mine, Hear me well, lad
There's torment in them ponies down the mine, Hear me well, lad
There's torment in them ponies down the mine.
HEAR ME SING THIS IN CONCERT ON YOUTUBE: 'Louis Spence.Ballard of Blackie'
THANK YOU.
quick figurative brush stroke drawn out character sketch
(serendipitous verisimilitude)
i stand in awe
(with mouth agape) at elegiac, fantastic,
and graphic idyllic Kinkade magic
leaving breathlessness from craw
at such artistic talent oozing
spellbindingly, whatever
aforementioned noteworthy craftsman
doth paint or draw,
and chanced to comment
about sad affairs leaving flaw
in regard to questionable business ethics -
where press hee haw
contradicting, maligning, undermining, and jaw
boning sans said late talented mortal
engaging in sketchy traits of south paw
city when contrasted with a dog given gift -
ooh...such rah...rah...rah
when he first appeared on the scene,
where most viewers saw
utmost dynamic, fantastic, and harmonic convergence
displaying such prosaic, rhapsodic,
titanic art show events
hum...and perhaps not surprising
his illicit in dull gents presents stark contrast,
staring hypnotized as imagination invents
experiencing peaceful, restful
and tumblerful joie de vivre espying
honorable mentioned nonpareil oeuvre
that placidly rents
craving to disappear into bucolic landscape whence,
splashed upon canvass,
attempting to bat
presumed "FAKE" rumors aside as nonsense - fat
chance prevailed constituting:
deceitful, immoral, unfaithful sly kat
nocturnal antics, despite scathing attacks
(cut him down to size), niggardly praises spat
out for me, I maintain cult of personality (his)
setting Mac Book Pro wallpaper
with exemplary landscape, either authentic or copy cat.