Best Eel Poems | Poetry
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New Eel Poems
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An eel and steel
by Knyr, Volodymyr
A Greased Eel In A Vat of Astroglide
by Quigley, Tom
divination in an ape and eel pie but no gravy
by Chanan, Taoi
The Eel River Tragedy
by Holmes, Peter Lewis
by Breidenthal, Laura
by frew, bill
View all new Eel Poems
The Best Eel Poems
Tinsel sparkling on trees that toys lie beneath,
Holly with berries and the hanging of the wreath.
Everything is red and ever-green.
Hearth and home are comforting;
Evening is nigh.
As the snow begins to flurry,
Radiant we see the stars in the sky
Oh, Holy Night the angels sang beneath one special star. Can you
Feel the way the shepherds felt back then so long ago?
Commercialism of the Yuletide season,
However, was never supposed to be the
Is there something different that we
Should be doing?
Take a moment to reflect. What really matters?
Make a promise to the babe whose birth you celebrate
At this precious time. Do for others the whole year long and
Share your heart!
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2016
Me, my brother Tom and Uncle Pat were on a fishing holiday
three men in a rowing boat way out in Dublin Bay
we anchored up and cast six rods over a sunken wreck
hoping for the catch of our lives to haul onto the deck
hours passed with the floats just bobbing up and down
Tom fell asleep and Pat sat watching with a frown
a ferry passed by and the swell nearly made us capsize
as I held onto the sides Pat stood there with staring eyes
his float had gone and the rod had bent double
I woke Tom up and told him we were in trouble
Pat grabbed the rod and with all the strength he had
he struck the line which went straight down, oh man this was bad
the boat began to list quite far and water was gushing in
we started bailing out, but Pat held firm he stood there with a grin
he had a bite that was pulling hard the line shot under the keel
only one fish had the strength for this, it was a giant conger eel
Tom rummaged through the tackle and handed Pat a knife
we shouted ‘cut the line’ or this fish could take a life
but he heaved and reeled then shouted ‘get the gaff’
we saw his head and great big teeth and said ‘you’re having a laugh’
Tom grabbed an oar and whacked it’s head, the oar it broke in two
Pat’s foot was in the firing line and the eel snapped at his shoe
the eel it thrashed; we kicked and lashed the eel half out the boat
but the eel was having none of it and was going for Pat’s throat
the screams were heard by other boats who came to our rescue
the next we knew the eel was dead killed by god knows who?
a harpoon in it’s head stuck out and we were showered in blood
Pat saw blood gushing from his foot, then fell with a sickening thud
we climbed aboard the other boat, the eel it was their prize
we lost our boat and rods, half a shoe plus two toes, It’s the truth, I tell no lies….
For Caleb's Contest...Now it has been judged I can say it is all true....
Copyright © David Williams | Year Posted 2014
MY UKHT AL-KUBRA
I have one sister in my home
Sweet, loving, with open arms and heart
With dark brown eyes
And an inviting laugh
And a passion
I have a sister at Soup
Sweet, loving, with open arms and heart
Both my sisters are so different
Yet one thing is the same:
I love them both
With all of my heart.
My sister at home has her Arabic name.
My sister at Soup stil hasn't.
To me she is an inspiration.
So, my dear inspirational sister,
Below your name in my language:
ILHAME - INSPIRATION
The picture is Ilhame in Arabic calligraphy
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2016
On the pan she cracks on the edges
Flows in her white gold love rashes;
Wet to oil, bottoms turn up in fumes
Sigh, sizzles to burns in her top cues.
Hot as roasted, spiced in cheekiness,
Crusts within the silky ceramic lust:
Fingers feel cling to the push shove
Tongue melts into lick, flip; lip sucks.
Molds fold with in the hardness cuts.
Aroma breaks the churning of beats,
Touches to heap and urge the squeals
Lifts and drops akin to the greasy eel.
Life is passion in word promises
Beauty in metaphors is my trust.
Copyright © jai Garg | Year Posted 2008
When Octopus came round for tea,
it was a tricky time for me.
Not knowing what he’d like to eat.
I wondered... savoury or sweet?
I borrowed spoons from Mrs Deggs
next door, for each of his eight legs.
I ‘d heard, if cross, black ink he’d squirt.
I worried... main course or dessert?
I know you’re thinking ‘do the two’
but he doesn’t eat like me and you,
his tummy’s really very small,
he can’t eat very much at all.
I fast flicked through my cooking books
and gave the clock face frequent looks,
but soon the door bell went ‘terrrinnggg’
Oh gosh! Hot pie or cold pudding?
‘Terrrinnggg, terrrinnggg’. Eight times it rang
and then he used each leg to bang
eight times upon my door. I rushed
to open it, and past he pushed.
“Please hurry up and let me in”
he squealed, and I thought, through the din,
‘He must be hungry for his food,
that’s why his manners are so rude’
But still I didn’t have clue
(a secret between me and you)
what I should feed the octopus.
I wished he ate like one of us.
I closed my eyes and made a wish,
Into my thoughts popped ‘Jelly fish!’
It sounded like the perfect meal,
much tastier than jellied eel.
Ooh, seafood with a fruity taste
and wobbly too. I cooked with haste,
and while I wondered what he’d think
I gave him sea water to drink.
He drank it through a straw, with ice.
He smiled and said “That’s rather nice,
but now I really need my dinner
before my legs get any thinner”
The Jelly Fish I boiled and froze
and put some parsley up its nose.
It was neither jelly nor a fish
but I served it on a silver dish
and asked before it passed his lips
“Do you want it with ice-cream or chips?”
He chose to have a bit of each,
both garnished with a slice of peach.
It all went down with one loud SLUURRRPPP
close followed by a great big BUUUURRRRPP
Copyright © Sharon Tideswell | Year Posted 2010
Singing in soundproof water…
I am an eel starving from the aftermath deception of home
Living there for so long, I finally notice the danger-
The peril of staying in a dwelling full of jagged teeth chomping…
To a forest of underwater vines,
I flee and take the slippery reigns
I crave for the Land of Tipping Time to sip marriage on this drafty midnight;
Though all I see is…
A ceiling of water craving the stars’ gentle gleam…
Night is exploding gently…
A pair of demon eyes are flowing through a black trench in short spurts of motion
The very trench I have escaped from
I know…I know…it’s waiting for me to retreat…
Schools of glistening silver fish zoom by,
Never giving time to lose light
I would ride on their unified backs if I could ascend the depths of pain...
Take hold of the slippery reigns…
Before those eyes fade away….
When they do, you shall know the Devil is no longer on fire
Long put out, long put off,
Sinking into the screaming
Trailing off into the wayside chomp of defeat
The wailing whales echo their whistles below
Calling out to the mute thrashing and screaming
There is no reply, but a sinking feeling
And the sudden brush of…
The tip of a colossal mouth ascending from the deep
Reaching heights only to devour and bring you down
To the skeletons of too many waterdwellers…
That couldn’t find a way onto the silvery backs of their guardians
Do not tell me that is where I am heading…
I am just an eager eel looking for a new home…
You there...yes, you...
Make up my mind…
For night is exploding gently…
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2015
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Copyright © steven cooke | Year Posted 2011
It was way after eight, at the Cat in the Hat.
The whole plaice was swimming, quoth the mackrel to sprat.
Though the milk was upset, she still stifled her cry,
So sorry i spilt you, mumbled poor humble pie.
My joints are the bees knees, squealed the honey roast ham,
And the apple agreed, she was better than spam.
Then red herring denied, he had something to hide,
Like a small Bombay duck, is a fish that is dried.
While tasty choux pastry, bared her soul to an eel,
The mock turtle announced, i believe i am veal.
And the ice cube was crushed, as she played fast and loose,
For an orange refused, to be part of fruit juice.
As warm rhubarb crumble, melts in custards embrace,
The sour gooseberry tart, wails she's taking my place
Then a voice in my head, spoke it's all fantasy.
Your table awaits you, said the waitress to me.
I glanced at the menu, it was all a la carte.
I said,bring me everything, but let's start with that tart.
Copyright © george seal | Year Posted 2017
Jehovah of Armies
made a count one day
of all His weapons
keeping man at bay
of non leathal weapons
He gave the skunk his stink
and a little less harmless
the octopus' ink
sometimes more is needed
to get a point across
a little pain and fear
to impress a loss
soon there will be no doubt
about how they feel
if just once they touch
the electric eel
always beware of
little thing with wings
some may bite
and some may sting
one final warning
and one final note
a very harsh warning
is a bunt of a goat
but for those who are
and bent on adventure
who challenges the snows
and suns of nature
to those that would climb
Gods invisible wall
shatter Gods ceiling
ignore Gods calls
for those who would face
the ultimate threat
the deadliest creatchers
man has ever met
Gods final judgement
more or less
escape from these creatures
the ultimate conquest
you've made it this far
dont stop now
how much more can you defy
you may escape the tigers claws
be just missed by hungry jaws
quick enough to avoid the cobras strike
smart enough not to challenge
the elephants might
witty enough to escape
the anaconda grip
be very careful not to slip
lucky enough to avoid all fangs
with venomous and vicious names
tempting not the bull
declairing never to stand behind
a mule once more
so far weve made it
still living and breathing
Jehovah of Armies
protecting and scheming
Copyright © john loving iii | Year Posted 2011
Earth dwelling mongeese are neither toys nor coins and pedalling backwards then forward is not considered the primary way of jet propulsion off a very high hill. So one two ping means fried rice coming? How long for? Will it rest a while? On a sofa or a couch? It is not particular. When passing trade tickles the fancy if the local gentry then sentries can be posted at doors. And savouring a little bit of currant pie is a fantastic idea in an afternoon soiree. Quite pleasurable really. Resolution reaching radiuses rather radically. How observant is a door frame. How sectioned are the audio reactive wave arches? A temple in a bean burger and a pistol in a frilly night gown. Oooh look a diamante leaf tiarap bending and freeing captured twigs. How rather nice and polite it is. Framework fashioned fixated first fleeces found foundations. And the tail arch from a tailrace is very very very quick and versatile too. Mingle with the moons in a bowl of white leaf soup. And dip feet into puddles to correct erosions of toes. Then upon rising chanting to windows can often display a timely workout in a garden gym. Pushing plants. Wearing weeds. Standing soils. All whilst wearing a Bhatia hat of fine distinction. But to ascertain whether the verb flies south is to organise a noun in a pleasure dome. Not fun. Not good or useful. In fact it is quite unnecessary. In an era measuring two minutes it is wise to be a bee than a mildew. And a tidal force can operate the machinery. So never rely on the symbolic codes on a screen. Point now. Go on point. It is the point that places the cuckoo clock. On the hour song. On the hour chime. Spare not a dime nor a pound for a disturbed crocodile face on a yacht. Travelling. In a pair of white shorts and shirts. Pristine. Cleaned daily. Ha ha said the passing whale. It would be great to knock into the boat and spill the red drink over the oversized frames of those greedy obnoxious humans. They sail around whilst people on the ground over there forage for fodder on the floor like ants. Such fun. Then whale glides away. Monotony does not sit well with whales you see. And a flurry in a hurry is a passing shoal. Ants attempting a backflip to entertain should be stripped and whipped and put in front of the high queen. Then doomed to a life underground removing faeces from carnage brought by the open dwellers. Link not a laughter. And heel clicking is best performed upside-down in the artic circle in a thunderstorm. Plaintiffs plainly play political polo politely and the zoo opens the doors to the wilds for the flood arrives when temperatures dip. The incessant chatting from the thermometer changes and argues with the satellite dish. Woof said the dog in a garden bake sprawled. By a small square empty pool. With a crack. Boil no brow said a fountain in the town. It is here I stand proud. Although I was erected upon ancient graves. I do not care for that. I am delicate and handsomely carved. Curators cheat chickens chatting charging chimes chopped. And the wide angled dish of tomatoes can be located at the west of the supermarket. Ding dong. Eastern smell and a drafty curtain bringing spices unto the streets. Wow. Generalistic genocide gearing gaining goblets. And a wide tooth or pincer works best in the snow than a tongue. Please do be aware that when an eel dons snow boots it is time for the skiing competitions. Worldwide. Of course worldwide. No country is ever omitted in a nature contest. And nowhere to be seen is the mangled mish mashed heaps of fortified blaming brigades. Duel duality daring deviations during denominations. And joining in wisdom spanning decades appropriately. Tailoring hop of a seven foot cloud. Grinning angelic and demonic orchestrations of a circular formation dancing. Whirling. Wow. Fantastic isn't it. Free souls of men. Radius of watery eyes weaving. Hahahaha bookings boy bootjack boots. Hahahahahahah wisdom whirlpool xxxxxxx coniferous clambering clam xxxxx deforestation destitution z
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2016
Slipperier than a Greased Eel In a Vat of Astroglide
That Hillary’s sociopathic streak is a mile wide
In case you haven’t noticed, the fix is in
But her followers love her even if she’s guilty as sin
We all think she should be a woman of greater convictions
Both moral and criminal, given her total lack of friction
She’s got a layer of Teflon thicker than Gotti
And to the Secret Service, a mouth full of potty
She looks crookeder than even a barrel of snakes will
Phonier than A William Jefferson Clinton three dollar bill
© By Author
For Contest: Create An Idiom
Sponsor: Jesse Day
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
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!
Copyright © Howard Bull | Year Posted 2009
As words escaped constricted passage
of time from eons of layered myths,
legends of demi-gods thus linked,
in glowing rendition, with whisk on hand
the Orator with staff, sang the Eel to slumber.
As words from parched lips of orchids, flowed
dispersing sweet juices germinating dense spheres
of time in which history was packed in roots,
armed with psalms in measured cadences,
the Orator soothed kings and chiefs.
As words of our ancestors oiled and pampered
by prophesies of aging oracles, songs of lovers
and monotonous chants of old men...slithered
into hiding while physical wars waged, succinctly
the Orator proclaimed the heroic pursuits of warriors.
As words, precision in recitation of kinship ties
craftily sewn by political machinations of unions
vital for survival of race waltzing in purity of blue
when blood flowed thru veins of aging rocks as
the Orator cemented pacts chanting tribal honorifics.
As words, imageries of sky bursting, moon phasing sunsets pertaining to legends of my village heroes,
sweet nectars that put rhythm in his art of tongues
inspired by fruits from my garden, mine own words
the Orator in action, was he infringing my copyright?
As words, our heritage orally passed down in poetry,
set imageries prohibiting meddling with sources,
set quotations where time absolved breaches of patent,
plagiarism, for traditions dictated that the word be
secured in a cocoon of oratory ferried down the ages
by the dynamics of cultural rites and rituals.
the Orator, blessed not only as the spiritual Vessel
...but now deemed as the Spoken Word incarnate.
Copyright © Tiaua M Ioane | Year Posted 2014
A is for algae, red, green, blue cells, soaking up sun, sliming teeth
B is for bacterial mat, clumping underneath, earliest born, never asleep
C is for coral reef, the place we all find cover or the sand parrotfish chew and release
D is for diatom, all seeded calcium, all float free, all denizens barely seen
E is for eelgrass, nursery meadows of the anchovy, and other browsers of green
F is for fan worm, filter feeder like a flower, 8000 species on which fish feed
G is for giant kelp, floating on bladders of air they’re forests of cold waters clean
H is for helmet, the royalty of snails who protect our feet, queen, emperor, king
I is for isopod, the chameleon crustacean, they color match what they eat
J is for jellyball, or cannonball jellyfish, not upside down or moon, avoid their heat
K is for keyhole limpet, favorite food of ochre stars, will erect its own wall
L is for laver, the sea lettuce of nori, it swirls red skirt as ocean falls
M is for mermaid’s purse, the sack of the skate whose yolk keeps them alive
N is for nerite, the prisoner striped snail of the rocky zone as numerous as a hive
O is for oyster drills, the snails that slurp oysters and use them to lay eggs
P is for pleurobranch, a sea slug answer for oranges, with one active leg
Q is for quahog, the bivalve seaman who can survive eating the mud
R is for rove beetle, the one waiting to snatch the unwary beach hopper for good
S is for saxitoxin, those red tides produced by mating that can paralyze humans
T is for tubular sponge, they squish, bore and encrust as space lends
U is for urchin, those spiny skinned balls, no eyes or noses but dig food in sand
V is for Venus, Music Volutes dined or Vampire Squids skimming along land
W is for whelk, not the musically inclined, but the slow moving snail in a shell
X is for X and a half, the six rayed star, hungry for anything on the half shell
Y is for yucca, blooming on the beach, they bloom nice and tolerate the sand
Z is for Zostera marinara, the address of eel grass when they're feeling grand
All of this green life is what crunches, stinks, dries and slips underfoot
The rest that find the housing and dining compatible means someone’s on the look.
Copyright © Sheri Fresonke Harper | Year Posted 2013
My life has been one enormous charade,
A make believe game,
A play I have played,
A story I tell myself, day and night,
Hidden from myself, out of sight,
A game of hide and seek,
While searching for something else to eat.
A cosmic game,
A comic game,
A bad joke,
A puff of smoke,
A lonely path,
I used to take it so seriously,
Think it, feel it so real, so perfectly,
So certain I that was right,
That I lived in the light,
So convinced that I knew the rules,
So obvious I had all the tools,
That I saw the truth,
That I saw the light,
Would win the battle, win the fight.
Heard the sound of the distant drum,
Calling me to battle with the devious one.
The walls of my ego were high and mighty,
My dreams and delusions danced in front of me,
Their smooth dark surface impossible to climb,
Images I swallowed and thought were mine.
I made them alive, moving and real,
Twist and turn like a slimy eel,
Just to tell myself that I was still someone,
Playing in the game and having lots of fun,
Just to tell me and to tell you,
That I wasn't a loser,
So I wouldn’t hear the words game over.
Check and mate,
Here's the gate,
You have to take,
Out of the Game,
The game of shame.
The game of avoiding being blue,
Of dogging the bullets they shot at you,
The atomic bomb they drop on your head,
The monsters that they put under your bed.
The game of hiding away,
Live to play another day,
Even if it's only make believe,
The prizes in plastic,
And not worth a dime,
At least I have the impression that they are mine,
At least I don't fell the pain,
The pain of shame,
In this perverted game.
So that I don't feel I'm a prisoner,
Tied to this post,
Don't even realise that I'm only a ghost,
That the truth is well hidden,
On the board of the game.
That the prizes are in plastic,
But they are shiny and new,
The paint hardly chipped,
The emptiness hardly shows through,
The laughing is loud,
The smiles are all warm and friendly,
And we are all together,
Joyful and happy.
The illusion is REAL,
And only the mad man knows,
That it's a rotten deal.
more of my poems at http://labyrinthoflies.com
Copyright © ness tillson | Year Posted 2013
Witches have wacky tastebuds, as this poem will tell!
Cup of eel eyes
Cup of toad tongue
Cup of snakeskin, too.
Boil twenty minutes-
Recipe for Witch's Stew!
Bonus activity: Have children write their own recipe for "Witch's Stew" (rhyming recipe not necessary!). Tell them a good "Witch's Stew" should include 3-5 ghoulish ingredients. You may also have children draw (or draw and label) their ingredients and/or draw a picture of a bowl or a pot of the stew, with all of the ghoulish ingredients they chose swimming around the top.
Copyright © Cherie Durbin | Year Posted 2011
“Here the fierce with the thin pointed tail,
Who passes mountains and breaks arms and walls!
Here who with stench can the world assail!”
So my duke started to talk with his calls;
And hinted then it to get the bank close,
Nearby to end of marbles and of falls.
And then that filthy image which fraud sows
Came close, and just arrived with head and chest
But on the shore its tail it did not pose.
Its face was of the honest man at best,
So much benignant had its outer skin,
And of a snake was all its body next;
Two hairy gills it had to armpits twin;
Its spine and chest as well as ribs both too
With knots and wheels had like painted had been.
Vivid colors much overlapping do
Neither Tartars nor Turks drapes never made
No such canvas ever Arachne drew.
Likewise sometimes barges nearby shore stayed
In part in water and in part on ground,
And likewise there within the Germans strayed
The beaver prepares its war and to hound,
So the bad and evil fierce remained there
On stony rim of sandy soil around.
Its tail was flickering in void to scare,
Up twisting its fork poisonous indeed
Which armed tip like a scorpion unfair.
My duke told: “To modify now we need
Our pathway until we finally reach
That evil fierce which there lies, careful heed”.
For this we down got toward the right beach,
Ten steps we did then on the limit rim,
The flames and too the hot sand to breach.
And when at end we arrived close to him
A little farther I see just on sand
People sitting near the site with no vim.
Here the master “Now you have at hand
The truth about this circle in full just”,
He told , “go and their fate then understand.
Your reasoning way down there short be must,
Meanwhile you come back, I will speak with this,
So he will offer us his limbs robust”
So again up to the top of abyss
In that seventh circle now alone
I went, where sad people sitting exists.
Through their eyes the internal pain was shown;
Here, there defended themselves with hands
Now to steam, and now to hot soil of stone:
Not different are dogs in summer stands
Now with mug or with paw, when are bitten
Or by fleas or by flies or horseflies bands.
After I put on some my eyes smitten,
On whom the painful fire to fall saw,
No one I knew; but I saw as written
A pocket hanging from the neks to draw
With blazons and colors and well clear sign,
Of which they looked to be proud with no awe.
And as looking at them I joined their line,
In yellow bag I saw a sky-blue tint
Which of lion had face and clear design.
Then going to follow of sight the hint,
I saw another which was as blood red
With a goose that whiter exist didn’t.
And one who of a light blue sow well fed
Had his white bag clearly painted just so,
Told me: “How did you come in this ditch shed?
Now you can leave; and since you alive go,
Learn that my near Vitaliano still
Will seat then here at my left below.
These from Florence, I from Paduan mill;
So many times my ears are stunned nearby
From shouting: “Should come the sovereign will,
Who will carry his bag with three necks by!
Then he twisted his mouth and extracted
His tongue, as ox which nose to lick may try.
And since my stay could not be protracted
To shun master's regret asking be fast
I came back to souls badly impacted.
I found my duke who already had passed
Sitting onto the croup of the fierce beast,
And told me: “Now be strong and bold not last.
Now we have to descend such stairs so pieced;
Come up ahead, at middle I must be
So that for you the tail’s danger is least”
Similar to one whose disgust is close to see
The quartan fever, with nails just pale,
And looks back trembling at high degree,
So I became when heard the words assail;
But I was ashamed by his threats to me.
That a good lord makes right his servant fail.
I found my place on that back hard to see;
So I tried to tell, but no voice I had
As I thought and desired: “Let embrace thee”
But he, who times before to help was glad
Maybe for other, when I was there sat
With both his arms gripped and sustained me sad;
And told: “Geryon, you should move now at;
Be the circles wide, and the slope down short;
You must be careful with such weight as that”
Like a small ship leaves off its place in port
Backwards and backwards, so started then it;
And when he felt to be free to transport,
Where the chest was, he put his tail to fit,
And after stretching, it moved like an eel,
And with gills, inflated air to admit.
More fright I don’t believe would deal
When Phaeton unrestrained became then,
So that sky, as still seen, was burnt to seal;
Nor had Icarus with his sorry loins when
Losing feathers perceived for the wax hot,
His father screaming to him “Bad way amen!”,
The fright I had, when I saw where I got
Everywhere in air, and turned off I saw
Any scenery out of the fierce spot.
It goes away swimming slow, with no flaw;
Rotates, descends, but I am not aware
Except for the wind which comes from yaw.
I felt just on right hand the eddy mare
Doing an indeed scaring roar below,
So that with eyes my head to jut I dare.
Then I became more bashful to that flow,
Since I saw fires and heard tears of pain;
And trembling all I snuggled in me so.
Then saw, since view on I could not attain,
Descent and turning those great pains around
Which came close from various parts again.
Like falcon whose wings long flied up from ground,
Without sight lure or any bird at all
Pushes the fa lconer to tell “Stop hound!”,
Descends tired while it moved easy and tall,
With hundred rounds, and then volplanes quite far
From its trainer, with disdain and fierce gall;
So Geryon put us on rocks which are
At foot at foot of the profound barrow
And, after discharged the persons of our,
It sudden vanished like from bow the arrow.
Copyright © Mario DE PAZ | Year Posted 2014
When asked what in my basket I would take
of any kind of fruit; well, here’s the truth.
I much prefer my fruit in pie or cake,
or chocolate covered for my sweety tooth.
No apples, peaches, pears or plums for me.
I find bananas boring. Am I sick?
Of all the fruits that grow upon a tree,
there hardly is a one I'd want to pick.
A mango slithers like an eel; I gag!
And though papaya can be rather sweet,
exotic fruits of which the natives brag
are just “ok.” I’ll stay with my red meat.
Just melon, grapes or cherries in my basket
and can you make them seedless if I ask it?
By Andrea Dietrich For PD's November Poetry Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
Searching for my fate
Lost and traveling
Trying to redeem my reckless ways
I'm kicking up the dust
On this dusty ol' back road
To redeem my outlawed soul
At a lonely crossroad
Fleeing from my broken past
It's a lasso around my neck
But I know it's something
Any cowgirl can surpass
I'm going to hightail it
Just as fast as I can go
They can eat my dust
I'm doing what needs to be done
You can't catch me, desperado.
Town to town
As I come and leave
To me, nobody will speak
But I hear their whispers
Through the streets
That slippery eel..
Running from the law
Cold hearted, never shed a tear."
My heart may be rusty
But it sure had my mind torn
What kind of crook
Do these people take me for?
They'd never believe
A word from the mouth
As some as misunderstood as me
I'm not who I was
But I still ain't quite me
I guess I'll pack up
Until my demons let me be..
I'm not a burglar
There's more to
What you see
I won't hang up my hat
Til' you believe
There's more to me
Than you could ever learn
I've put out my fire
I know it's my turn
Don't look at me and see
No, I don't want to be
Oh, I don't want you to call me
Copyright © Karissa Kelley | Year Posted 2013
Swallowed by waves
Intensely waged in war
A mariner swims seized
In anarchic zones
Colliding crests of clear
Shifting and drifting it
Further from shallow
Lingering lured beneath
Deep aqueous lands
He swims sedate a
Straight stroking lap
Embarked on his quests
To cults of creatures as featured
Foreshadowed and seen
In rippling revelation
The chilling cool
Of the seas quench
The tip of his tongue
Tantalizing his thirst
While the lighthouse bells
Roar renouncing the curse
Concocted clamantly by
Imps tightly towered ashore
In aimless search of
He who fiercely fled
Like a falcon freed
From the flooding floors
Mellow sweet melodies
Sound a sugar's energy burst
Beaming bright as the sun
Sparks the dawn's white flame
Shading the scenes a
Deific seraphim's drape
As the towering sky's
Blue clothed in white cape
How brilliantly a defunct figure
Darted deep in the distance
Shapes an empryean eel
Adrift its ocean's reticence
Copyright © Leonard Gage | Year Posted 2013
Eel or salmon sushi rolls
Nori or rice wrapped
Served as roll or hand roll shapes
Eaten with chopsticks
Served with wasabi
Copyright © Nayda Ivette Negron | Year Posted 2016
In the Land O' Scots nigh auld Iverness,
Cavorts a lass named Nessie in Loch Ness!
Is this sly dragon fer real,
Er jes' an overgrown eel?
We'll never know fer sure is my guess!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2013
Life is like a long journey along the sea’s shore,
Where you sometimes face a heavy downpour and more;
Here there are opportunities aplenty each with its own door,
Only by opening which you will know what’s in store.
Life is a warm and secure feel like the elusive slippery eel,
The nonstop movement of a spinning wheel,
The lingering aftertaste of a fulfilling meal;
Here complete surrender can also help the human heal.
Life is like a game of chess which at times leaves no room for a guess:
One false step and you may land into an awful mess ;
Where you have to keep your head above the flood of daily stress;
The excitement akin to going to the party wearing your favourite dress.
Life is a song, life is a dance, it is a magnificent trance;
A gambler’s den where you have to take your chance;
Life is the joy of a long lost and cherished friend’s glance;
A memorable and enjoyable trip to France!
For certain life is no pest, life is an unending quest,
Wherein we are put to the test along with the best and the rest;
Let’s try scoring in it with great zest,
And make sure to with the bounty fill life’s treasure chest.
Copyright © Suraj Jumani | Year Posted 2015
Germany post World War II,
Ruled by Marshal Law,
imposed by the victorious.
Occupational forces walk
the rubble streets.
A farm boy, Ohio bred,
cook in the US Army.
veteran to his country’s cause.
Viewed the hunger daily,
with sympathetic eye.
Spirited surplus loaves
to a fraulein in the night.
veteran to her country’s cause.
In times passing,
a union of hearts
Circumstances and events,
crumbled as walls of ash.
a journey to America.
A factory worker and immigrant wife,
began life together.
Poor, yet rich,
by their own device.
Lain was the foundation of family,
children were born.
Middle class Americans,
living the American dream.
A time of gentle values,
hope burned bright.
There were visits to the homeland,
through the passing years.
Ursula’s family united,
in her childhood home.
The aged father,
veteran of two World wars,
lake garden lush.
Young son running in lederhosen
with neighborhood children.
Now speaking German,
learned from the echoes
of Bremen streets.
Fishing for eel,
carrying milk from the dairyman.
An American family,
Life was fulfilling,
dreams were realized.
decisions of love,
time and place,
set the stage of my life,
as I sip my Starbucks.
Instead of drinking coffee
in the cafes of Berlin.
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
Copyright © Robert Stoner Jr | Year Posted 2016
Eel River Tragedy
I’ve gold dollars for my darlin and a Stetson for my son,
and in my old broke saddlebags, I keep my Schofield gun,
when home I’ll make some coffee and tell a tale I’ve seen,
about the Eel river tragedy, the like since never seen
In sunset’s dust, ten thousand steers, drank from muddy banks,
while one hundred thirsty cowboys rode into their ranks,
the water soon was muddy, a bubbling rattlesnake red,
and fifty cowhands underfoot, man and boy lay dead
A cyclone made of hooves and horns, took them to their grave,
two thousand of the hasty breed, died from drinking mud, laid
poisoned in the mornin sun, did cheat the slaughterer’s thud
Now that’s a lot of good men, who didn’t need to die,
they’re lookin down in anger from the roundup in the sky,
so if your steers need water, then split the herd in turns,
and send your hands upriver, to drink by settled ferns
Copyright © Peter Lewis Holmes | Year Posted 2015