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Best Crawdad Poems | Poetry

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

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The Best Crawdad Poems

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Crawfishing

Lived in Tyler when I was ten And not too far from my home Was a creek in an open field I often played there alone The creek was very low one day There was a funny mud mound It made me wonder, what built it? It was a Crawdad I found Crawdads are miniature lobsters They are known by many names Crayfish, Crawfish, Crawdads, Mud Bugs These creatures are all the same I asked my Dad when I got home “How do you catch a Crawdad”? “Just tie some bacon on a string And drop it in the creek bed” In the morning, I couldn’t wait Go Crawdad fishing, what fun! Mom gave me a strip of bacon Got string and left at a run Found a deep spot, I threw it in Then I sat down on the bank Holding the string, I felt a tug I pulled it out with a yank That's not the way to fish for them When jerked they always let go If you want to land a crawdad You must pull them out real slow I got pinched by one now and then I caught a pail full that day Not knowing you can eat Crawdads I let them all crawl away


Copyright © Charles Sides | Year Posted 2011


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Look at Me

I am 
A curious seahorse
Of copper and evergreen
Skittering past
Gaping jaws
Of a killer whale

An angry crawdad
Clicking my 
Castanet claws
At sandaled toes 
Gliding by

A scrambled message
On a cellular phone
With whirs and clicks
Baffling the receiver
But concealing an SOS

To look into my 
Stained glass eyes
Is to see the quiver
Of an empty heart.


Copyright © Rayna Clark | Year Posted 2006


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TOO CROWDED, CRAWDAD

And so, the homeless have a stake
somehow, the Lord of angels states
to do it unto me ~ my sake
offensiveness I can remake!

A tone, a gesture of impede
a beating by a Mayor's heed
"out of my town", he intercedes
old Crawdad crowded this guy's speed!

Why not impair the lonely soul
or bring to justice, Cops don't know,
they hide the facts, incite control
old Crawdad, able, got to go!

Attorneys, Sheriff, all relate
to ceremonies for their sake,
but when the unknown need a break
it's who gets His, not a fair shake!

Old Crawdad bleeding on the rug
the Mayor shouting "one more tug,
I better quit, my tavern's crowd
might hear my voice, you know I'm proud!"

The Council hushing up the strain
Their tourist season must have gain
without the "bucks" we can't contain
our lifestyle, qualities terrain!

Well, Cop does hinder, warns the town
this can't get out, we'll look like clowns
he was encouraged, Council's row
to make it less, just so and so!

It's sickening, they all shut up
the way they whisper, eyes dropped thin,
no food for Crawdad, housing, stuff
run out of town, that's all of him!

So large or small, vestige the same
keep flowers showing, hide the pain
that flaw of justice must remain
it's whose on first, belittled feign!

Stories not over, Mayor Cain
and Able Crawdad, called the game
he sued the Mayor, lose his shirt
goodies in numbers, stores, the roof!

Not that asunder means get tough
equal's not undermining's bluff,
No Crowded Crawdad, own the town
Homeless have voice ~ their own renown!



Little town Mayor beats up a homeless man in Laundromat and leaves him
bleeding on rug, he goes to Cop, takes report, nothing is done.  You see the
Mayor hires your Cop, and had you noticed the coalition here!  It's happening
everywhere!  Say something!  We are not all wandering, homeless!  



Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2013


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Crawdad Pie

A barefoot boy on an old dirt road
Kicking dust up as he went
His lips all puckered, whistling a tune
He was happy and content 

He carried a bucket by the bail
Had a cane pole on his back
And under his arm, all wrapped up tight
Was a burlap gunny sack

“Where are you going with all that stuff?”
I asked as he skipped on by
“I’m headed down to the Jack-Knife Creek
To catch Crawdads for a pie”



Copyright © Charles Sides | Year Posted 2012


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Finding Me

I’m from toy cars and mismatched Barbie shoes.
I’m from bike races down the one road where no unpadded limb was safe.
I’m from a Sunday carpool and Tom Thumb slushies in Florala.
I’m from the twang of Conway Twitty,
the screams of Aerosmith and a hundred dances in between.
I am a child, finding joy in excitement!
I’m from dribbling chins and watermelon juice,
“Goodnight, sissy”, Band-Aids and kissing boo-boos.
I am a role model, finding strength in my fear.
I’m from bonfires, tailgates, and kissing goodbye. Barbeque at Jay’s and Christmas at the Hill.
I’m from standing on a milk crate to shoot pool and burning eyes in Walmart swimming pools.
I’m from Easy’s growl and Smokey’s purr.
I am passionate, finding love in freedom
I’m from jumping on a trampoline in torrential rain and the smell of roses
I’m from barefoot adventures, crawdad fishing, and “stay out of my pecan trees!”
I’m from 3 am Life with Ethan and 2 pm short cuts to Kayla’s
I am the hope I find in myself.
I’m from rivers, I am from oceans.
I am from pain and joy and tears of both,
I’m from love and belief in the power of unity.
I’m from toy cars and mismatched Barbie shoes.


Copyright © evelyn collins | Year Posted 2017


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~ (~) ~ ""Hold On!"" ~ (~) ~ (Part #3 of 4) ~ (~) ~

The generous character-carried-by them good-old-girls-and boys down-home country-copper- roof-all filled-up-silos-wheat-turbines waiting ready outside the barn deer-skins pegged down low the greater-story askant-of curiosity carrying the pureness of a child as to why... . Smoked-up hickory-honey-bubbling bacon saged-up getta-gingerly-popping in the grease in the skillets over the steadily-flaming-logs and-built-up-kindling ... . Humbly growing up little farm-houses-rock streams-made by-the freedom-of-the-patient hand-Bibles-on the-table in every-dwelling-place blessings of praise-that really gooey gooey fudge-brewing slow... so-slow. Cooked-up-apple and peach a plethora of assortments of berry pies cooling their lively smells lifting up-and-drifting-about the grassy timber woods and hills in every available-window-sill home made-ice-cream sweet-taffy-candy-moonlit-walks-with a real good friend-crawdad hunting with my-Pa and Uncles cousins and Brother Sisters-Grand-Pa... . Stars parading along on by with the sky's Moon-hovering-above casting the morning-stars-gentle, and-somewhat- kinder reflection on-the-slumbering-land of crawler's... . Our flashlights lights perusing cast-all-about searching-for-them... junker autos rumbling and rolling off one distant-street-corner-easy childhood-days-rising up to greet-you laying-down weighing in the balance-as the tender moments... ease-on-by. Time my only vestige welcomed salvation, greater my safety-grace happily promenades- about-the fringe-of the-day... . They ride-their-way-along-enchanted carried along churning away-by the glimmering-crystal-streams motivated by-the-chipper woodland-winds... . My faith, in-its relevance, emancipates. Fragile, honest... willing... no time for resentment-innocence runs free now merrily skipping with me across the meadow. Gracious time the noble gesture freedom the-patient-journey-sown-of-humble yes the truest divinity as patient-just yes-the devotion for all-through grace-made-open-my hope remains willing-white cotton clouds captured in their lea way dancing two and fro remind me even-more so... . "Kill them with the virtues' of kindness" as my Father always said. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x6rYPHmSzcE&feature=related


Copyright © James Long | Year Posted 2010


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The winged warrior upon the willows course Part 1

We ran through shallow waters and we would chase the dead,
Where little shadows ran backwards, hiding under rocks
but in the tunnel, there were deeper things.
The Crawdad that was, that is in the creek!
Nearby was the great giant! With his limbs, so strong and green,
standing taller, than the oak, blowing in the breeze.
Towering over everything daunting, to say the least,
that would be the weeping willow, growing by the water’s edge.
Then there were the gallows, so ripe!
Where we were, told not to play.
Seeing our dad returning, there is panic in the sway,
we got to get out of here! My brother slips and was hanging.
I thought he might die! I could not lift him out of the death fork,
so I held him up until dad arrived. Rounding the corner,
he saw us, where we should not be. Removing his strap
I ran in fear, leaving my brother dangling.
Dad rescued my brother, from the gallows,
that would be the old apple tree. Where was? Oh yes!
The great towering giant, where we would swing
from handfuls, of its long beard over the chasm and
return safely, to the top of the hill, some could not hold on.
Running and then climbing high, upon its shoulders,
to see distant lands but one particular morning.


Copyright © John Beam | Year Posted 2017


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A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To the Mall

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE MALL

A funny thing happened on the way to the mall
It came in the form of a really odd call
My smart phone rang and answered itself
And began a conversation with a TV chef

The chef was Italian, my cell phone speaks Creole
I pulled to the roadside to hear things unfold
The chef indicated his need for her to see
What ingredient was missing from his new recipe

She said to the chef what you need is crawdads
The chef asked if that was all that he adds
She explained to him in her Creole accent
Crawdads would be his greatest advent

And in his Italian brogue he said okey dokey
But I think it will make my dish rather hokey
My Creole smart phone made this reply
I am a smart phone and I do not lie

The chef said to her how you getta my number
And why you calla me and tella me this bummer
She said to the chef get a line and a pole
Then take a walk down to the crawdad hole

Catch yourself a dozen or two
And change your recipe into crawdad stew
Then you'll be the most famous chef of all
Because you got it all from a smart phone call

Now the moral of this silly nonsensical rhyme
Is to see how many of you will take time
To see if your smart phone is smarter than you
And give an Italian chef your recipe for crawdad stew

25 June 2018
For the contest sponsored by Robert Haigh


Copyright © Curtis Moorman | Year Posted 2018