Best Creel Poems
As you sit down for your tea, take a moment to think of me
I am the one who leaves the quay, to bring home harvest from the sea
Lobster pot and fishing creel, Dover sole and jellied eel
Biting wind and roaring gale, I risk it all when I set sail
The quota’s nearly done for me, too many a catch thrown back to sea
The jobs-worth from the ministry, care’s nothing for my misery
Lobster pot and fishing creel, Dover sole and jellied eel
Biting wind and roaring gale, I risk it all when I set sail
The sea cares nothing for my fate, the ebbing tide will never wait
There’s not enough to fill a crate, as I battle Neptune to fill your plate
Lobster pot and fishing creel, Dover sole and jellied eel
Biting wind and roaring gale, I risk it all when I set sail
When deep-sea fish no longer spawn, when my rusty old trawler has been withdrawn
When fishermen are no longer born and the old Sowester’s no longer worn
Lobster pot and fishing creel, Dover sole and jellied eel
I trawl the waves from dusk ‘til dawn; there’ll be no fish cakes when I am gone!
It's January
and no snowflakes anywhere!
Sad boy, where did winter go?
Mad for the delay?
He must be sleeping somewhere!
Run, run and wake him up, bro!
Hurry boy, find him;
he is snoring very hard!
Slap him, don't be gentle;
sleep can't keep him trim!
Shake him up, he's not a bard;
he's a lamb and will tremble!
He'll make a raw deal
for two bottles of good gin,
and hold off tons of bright snow!
The lad brought a creel;
he will get him drunk and win!
Wake up, chump! Black ravens crow!
,
AUDIBLE HORRIBLE
hearing paddling away
think silence bouquet
PALETTE TRAGIC
taste creel caught
meals easier bought
EMOTIONAL REVERSAL
warship bombards feelings
cheaper dental drillings
OLFACTORY REFRACTORY
smell setting sail
restroom odors bail
VISUAL PITIFUL
eyesight in lifeboat
memorize your remote
LOGIC FROLIC
mind barge bound
serenity island found
... CayCay
October 19, 2018
(written for contest)
We aborted the Christ a long time ago
What with the successive thousands of gentle fetuses strangled.
Stop stop! Why lament? Let not the wind be rankled
By thy silly bleats and unbaked ego.
Thee killed the Christ
Thee impeded his coming.
Thee cruel beast flaked with lies
O thee daughters of Jezebel’s sinning!
Thee killed him, that young Christ in thy womb
That lamb sent down to our sins loom.
What did so meek a lamb do to thee, predators?
What vice did he depict, O executors?
There, thee shake those cursed heads of thine.
That lamb committed none, but thee went for its throat.
When thee felt it kick in glee in thee
Thee hastened in terror for that mountain yonder
Where thee crucified him still like done on Golgotha,
Fronted by those lascivious Romans in their creel.
Those Romans were of a less cruel breed
For I watched thee in triple trepidation murder the Christ.
I peeped as thy hands pulled it forth from its manger
While that stiletto went cutting and shredding and beheading its soft cord.
I watched thee squash its throat:
A young lamb that has neither learned to kick nor croak
Nor mastered the humanness of weeping.
I watched thee young Jezebel, thee came stabbing. And stabbing. And cursing.
I watched thee as the sun set in the East
While darkness fell speedily from the mist
as the sun hid its head in fatal shame,
While thee with the stealth of Lucifer
Cast that messenger from the heavens two feet below
And again cursed it to the bowels of hell.
for my Father
My father is as noiseless as the bird,
Transfixed upon his pirouetting bob,
To angle fish his self-appointed job,
He speaks with silence. It is his every word.
Mirror to him, voiceless and unstirred,
The heron stiffens, ready to make hob
Among the flitting silver swimming mob.
Beaking his prey, he leaves the water blurred.
He rises like a spirit from the lake
to seek his nest, crowning a cypress tree,
At the utmost reach of my pursuing eyes.
Dad passed today. Contented with his take,
his creel pegged out, my father sought his quay
Eternal, at a height I can't surmise.
Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
Sitting idle on a cooler afternoon
A window seat’d forest view
Spotted sunlight through the changing leaves
Entranced me, a waking vision’s swoon,
My life, time lapsed, on the dirty glaze,
Was a B-movie, rated yawn,
Just an endless melted reel,
Wasted moments, missing days,
Flying by, a startled dove,
Risen from a hawkers creel,
Shivered heart, stunted soul,
Oil slick on my sea of love,
Mayhaps a higher truth will tell,
If any good came of my time,
But as I rouse from my cramping trance,
My self inducing dose of hell,
I sit on the fulcrum, a well worn fence,
And think about roads ahead,
Only I can determine which far off shore,
The boatman had carried me whence,
But I’ll be damned if I can keep it straight,
With so much whiskey on the lips,
Roll the dice, I’ve seen enough,
I’ll ride singing through that black gate!
fisher man
fishing creel in hands
stuck with mud
crane near by
jumps here and there
eyes on fish
Love demands no explanation at the start.
When the game of love's in season,
There is no governor of reason,
All that's needed is a firm, courageous heart.
With youth, and charm, and beauty in control,
The sea of love is easier to troll,
But one day when all charm and beauty's gone,
And the succulent allure of youth has flown,
You'll rue the ones you caught and then tossed back,
And all the times you chose to hesitate
Before you cast your line, alas, too late.
But good things often come to those who wait.
The sea of love is teeming still,
And angling is no less a thrill.
The fish are older, now, and wiser, too,
And the same old fishing lures won't do.
That trophy catch, that wish fulfilled,
Will not be caught with rod and reel,
So leave at home your pail and creel.
Your permit's good, it won't expire,
All older, wiser fish require
Is a lot more patience…
And a better bait.
When the chirpful night ceases,
The birds freeze,
Stuffed on wires--
Heads silent
To the questioning sky.
They are blessed
With never wondering why
The world's sanity
Is so often in doubt
Or why the streams
Do not all hold the trout
Of our dreams.
We creel our hopes
For other days.
We fish our lives
In amber haze--
The sky is absent
Of stars tonight--
A scarecrow moon
Is propped aright.
In the never ending cycle of life we turn around,
fading into darkness where there is no sight or sound
and back again to brightness that stirs up all our senses
love and pain fall down like rain and so we build our fences
to keep out all the bad things, but then again the good
get shut outside from where we hide in our lonely neighborhood.
Worse it gets until the pressure blows a hole right through it
and instead of stepping in the sun we rise and just redo it
trying hard to fool ourselves the past we can erase
spending time with beer and lime and thoughts we cannot face.
On and on we go until the storm grows once again
we try to fight with all our might, believing we can win.
Struggling hard against the tide like fish caught in a creel
pretending there is nothing to emotions that we feel.
We end up giving credit to the powers up or down
we're making love while up above the angels watch us drown.
All along the answer is a small but potent spark
that shadowed people use to find the light within the dark.
Hope is fleeting, fading into shades of black and grey,
yet something deep inside of us is beckoning to stay.
Faith's a long lost talent hidden in a silver cloud
we here the thunder and we wonder, should we speak out loud?
Come to me and follow was what a wise man said
It seems to me that what I see is something else instead.
Colored lights may hypnotize
and sparkle someone else's eyes
now, woman
your words
glitter like you've been drinking glitterade from devilish
dixie cups' alchemy secreting formulas outshining
phosphoric secretions from fireflies and other
coelacanthic creel creatures scantily clad depth diving
kaleidoscopic critters glitter glowing fash gnashing
ostentatious understated fatal attraction
ultra auric traffic controls
glow neon landing strips untorched
metal smith’s grinding wheel sparkles
oxyacetylene torch, arc weld, plasma cut fusion in reel time
explosions rearrange realities
globally glazing glitzandery fraught with
pyrotechnic anthems razzle dazzle
fireworked ooh aahs cymbalize
electroliscious ectoeroticisms
eeliospatial emprov
ellegitimately enhancing
new
tat
too.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written by Nancy Jones and John Wulf, vice versa just as much
for netteski's contest on Glitter
I went fishing with my buddy the seal,
I brought my rod, my bait and my creel,
We went to my favorite fishing hole,
But I thought it was odd he didn't bring a fishing pole,
And every time I caught a fish and threw it back,
I heard a bark, a clap and a smack,
I looked back and nothing seemed out of place,
Except for that grin on Seal's face,
After a while I thought I filled my creel,
And I couldn't wait to get home for a fish meal,
Suddenly I discovered all my fish were gone,
And I think I know what went wrong,
The only one that day having a fish meal,
Was my buddy the seal.
My eyes of umber caught in a slumber
dreams pull me under, I’m in a trance.
My mind asunder hearing thunder,
the night has come with another chance.
Sleepwalking brings one more dance.
My arms spread out my mind does shout,
my eyes stout though closed with might.
I walk about the same hallway route
that I do every denouncing night.
Deep in my rapt soul I feel the fright.
Is this a dream? I want to wake and scream,
but this supreme fugue seems so real.
I go to the extreme with thrill agleam,
does this exertion hold strange appeal?
Just then I run into the laundry creel.
My mind astounded, I am dumbfounded,
for I’m surrounded by a surreal abyss.
Am I grounded or actually confounded,
in this nightmare I sense life’s amiss.
My mind does wonder and reality I miss.
I feel the fear and strange noises I hear,
for I am near walls that could close me in.
I steer clear of things that could interfere,
and hold hope the morn shall soon begin.
Then I shall awake with alleviation within.
The dawn ascends, my mind transcends,
sleepwalking suspends, and I am awake.
Seeking council my friend recommends,
I think it’s a risk that I wish to take
knowing deep down sleepwalking I forsake.
Sleepwalking Poetry Contest
John Hamilton
July 15, 2018
Glass eye, opaque and quizzical,
staring up from the creel.
A question escapes as a squeak,
when picked up by the belly
and held firmly in one hand,
as the other hand inserts the knife at the
anus and slides it through the flesh to
between the gills.
No sound, no change of expression now,
as fingers reach between the wound
and excise the stomach and intestines;
clean the blood by running the thumbnail along
the spine, leaving the guts on a rock at the shore
for some bird or varmint to savor.
All the while holding the fish and dipping
it again in the stream, for its final baptism
before the sizzle; as skin crisps, eye whitens,
and meat becomes opaque in the cast iron skillet,
at the camp site, where blessings are given
with the upward waft of trout, on an early morning
sacrifice, in the name of God.