Best Filleted Poems
Now
Come the shadow clouds
where and whence evil rises bold and loud
once buried, hidden wide opened shrouds.
Warm, soft, calm breezes slip away
in between the morning hours when we prayed
deep in the cast of shadowy grays
preparations for warring factors are made.
It has become a hate-filled time
where loudest voices revile in the climb
lost to compassion, to empathy
that once thrived in the land of the free.
Now,
a heartless spirit scrambles forth
hidden hatred in a price brought
innocence pushed aside and lost.
Who we once were
grows more angry, deceitful, and disturbed
divisive rhetoric in every word
out on display for the world to be heard.
How soon before the sword and gun are drawn
How soon will come that fateful morn
that creeps and hides within every pawn
sacrificed and filleted in dull yawns
Now
come the shadow clouds
no one dares speak of it out loud.
Swimming in circles,
not hearing,
worrying,
analysing every word
of a neutral text,
wondering if, wondering why,
something I said?
About to give up,
don't be a fool,
all that caring,
sticking your neck out,
chopped off for sure,
body filleted,
without a thought,
they ask for commitment,
and take it as their due,
you're not a fish,
spit out the hook,
escape is near,
the ocean is large,
then a quick note,
"See you soon?"
Now, we start
all over again.
Don't tell me it's
Jesus,
it's women that are
the fishers of men!
No body wants to hear it,
See it, feel it or be near it.
Even the picture of an aborted fetus;
Where would that reality lead us?
But what if we saw it every day?
Those horrors our babies must pay…
so convenience, lust and greed can survive.
Could we watch these babies filleted alive?
Or …would we think ourselves as humanely magnificent,
If instead, we poisoned them with an abortifacient?
Nobody wants to hear it
See it feel it or be near it,
Even the picture of an aborted little person
causes our anxiety to worsen.
Oh horrors! The shame of it all!
Who put that picture on the wall?
Who had the audacity to open that door?!..
to factually show me what I’m voting for!
Their blood on my ballot is my voice!
Don’t they know it’s a woman’s choice?!
Others of us say, “Take that picture down. Be nice.
Being nice and kind to all will suffice."
But this fall in the privacy of the voting booth,
These same nice folks will get real long in the tooth.
We will pretend our “choice” ballot doesn’t matter,
causing a baby’s blood to splatter….
Then go home and act real nice,
After all … won’t that suffice?
written by
Robert A. Dufresne
Sept 2, 2012
Buzzing rail buggies
spinning paddled tires beating
out a gritty wake feather
on sand dune
deliberation over alcohol burning
engines being better than gas
everyone with lit cigarette in hand
aroma of tobacco with salt launching
forth from frothy waves
forms low misty curtains
a soft silty beach records a tiny footprint
seagulls honking, hovering like sound buoy's
a large black image emerges from the ocean
it could be a friendly sea monster
"it's grandpa" in a wet suit he wore
more often than a coat and tie
bringing his grandchildren treasure from Atlantis
in abalone shell purses over flowing with sand dollars
I could be all day at the boardwalk arcade
with this haul he brought in
there would be Salmon smoked and filleted
for Thanksgiving dinner
all the cousins huddled together in the family room
with 3 bay windows on the cliff
verging on the muffled sea
countered by a fireplace and couches
This painting of a tempest tossed ship with mast, less sail,
over the mantel
brush stroked by some nameless prophetic flea market artist
over the hum of conversation, laughter
and cacophony of china and crystal
a hushed deep voice filled
my chest like a distant fog horn blew
"These are days of calm, my boy....... enjoy them!"
I was taking an early morning walk. A beautiful day had dawned,
cool and crisp, with only a whisper of breeze. I am told it’s revitalizing;
it will do my health much good. But, you see things to sadden you.
Sometimes being early kills you;
sitting on a tree
early bird scans the mowed lawn
for an early worm
I am told too to play it right. Stay safe within your boundary.
Stepping out of bounds can be dangerous. Tread the well-trodden path.
Not to take unnecessary risks;
did everything right
like fish stayed in my waters
got caught and filleted
Life is amazing. It’s an endless maze of dead ends.
It is not simple living a life -- It’s full of misgivings and mishaps.
We couldn’t figure out the purpose of life even after a life-time of living;
like guinea pig wheel
with all the running around
and getting nowhere
I looked at the amazing stone faces of long-forgotten gods of ancient civilizations,
From the Incas, the Aztecs, the Mayans, the Romans, the Greeks, the Persians to
the Egyptians -- they all believed in a continued life in the great beyond;
I picked a stray
stone and chiseled myself a
god; then, I worshiped
~Haibun contest by Scott Thirtyseven
These humorous lines were inspired by
Viv Wigley's "Food Fight" contest.
Could not resist the temptation:)
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Lettuce pray before eating.
He likes rabbit, but can’t stand hair in stew.
A carrot is worth its weight in gold.
To lam a lamb? Terrible!!
Is it wise to pare a pear before eating?
Chopin onions – not musical but certainly tearful!
The bull’s life is at steak.
Cross my heart said the honest brussel sprout.
The pig was too thin...that saved his bacon.
Wearing a bird costume sent me raven mad.
Buy caviar from stir gin’s row.
The servant was maid to eat umble pie.
She could hardly talk after eating hoarse meat.
He’s wrapped up in his food.
Humbug! This is apple sauce!
Excitement in the kitchen – fat in the fire.
A flounder struggles to walk. It’s flat footed.
I enjoyed my drink – pleased as Punch.
One look at the dessert...I scream!
Take the guilt off the gingerbread.
I invited the golfer to high tee.
Take your plaice at the table; we’re eating fish today.
Open the lid and reveal some of the meat.
What a pity! The gobbling turkey had a lump in its throat.
The peacemeal destroyed our friendship.
Make no bones about filleted fish.
Next time just ask for dessert; don’t mince words.
Keep your eye on the roast, or else it will go to pot.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Placed 3rd
© 28th December 2017
On caparisoned, filleted camels do they
Over the great, soft, tawny sands
Ride;
Unfurled flags and tribal standards flown amidst them,
In the very midst of them-
Of they, who astride great tan camels,
Seem rather scandent and saltant.
These are the irregular, well-armed cavalry of the
"Men In Ambush," for such is the literal translation of their
Nation's cognomen;
And on the sands of the undulant, granular, eminent
Near-Judean wilderness do they ride.
Photographing these from atop the vespertine-hued
Summit of a delivery truck from the nearby
Eminent, circumvallatory, hilly
And fortressed city;
From the very roof of an antiquated bread truck
(Though 'twas then very new by the standards of those bygone days)
Whose radiator is soon to vaporously explode
Amid the oppressive, anhydrous desert heat,
Photographs an American, hatted in the whitest
Of Panama hats, who is a correspondent reporting of wars.
The Arab cavalry ride for locales
Damascene, in order to pursue one's kingly wish
To renew the gardens Cordovan and long-vanished.
The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.
Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.
Teens kiss in a clutch most directly
their faces make braces of queues
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.
Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.
A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.
His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.
So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.
Every friggin day
mother hen runs amuck,
while all chicken's
beady eyes appear awestruck
drawing particular
agitation, irritation, perturbation...
of Punxsutawney (Doctor) Phil
(well grounded) woodchuck,
the latter glaring at henpecked
yours truly rifled
tail feathered rooster,
whether communicating
nonverbal sympathy
towards me, a garden variety
Gallus gallus domesticus dumbstruck,
who doth make feeble attempt
albeit without explaining
rhyme or reason
poetic, plaintive, pathetic... cluck,
regarding doomed pyrrhic victory
against incessant cackling
more fowl and upset
than goosed duck,
she that casus belli hideous source
feels cooped up bred to lay eggs
absent any pleasure to fµç*
out her tail feathers fin
hushed yoked for sole purpose
mutter under beak, what the "huck"
subsequently, she takes frustration
buzzfeeding me 'bout chained to
chicken feed to earn
breeder (yours truly) favorable luck
yielding "FAKE" farmer
Matthew Scott Harris megabuck
regarding top quality accolades
raves subsequently generate
he invariably feels moonstruck
matter of fact expanded business
necessitating workers to drive
state of the art rigorous motortruck
the missus decries mistreatment
scratching thru mire and muck
to fill little beasts in belly,
eventually retired, repurposed
relieved invariably chef
buoy or gull hardy sole destiny,
whereby one or another
hired hand will gingerly pluck
every spruced, primped,
groomed... feather
in short shrift priming
precious helpless creature,
(who bemoans lack
of state bird status)
into slaughterhouse five
butchered, filleted (maybe), quartered...
routed to household kitchen
gamely served at potluck
toothpicks applied to teeth
loosening gristle unstuck
after appetites satiated
belt unbuckled years ago
purchased before Sears Roebuck
shuttered stores, plus
bought linens and things
comfortable pillow perfect to tuck
under drowsy sudden sleepy head
unaware coop d'etat mutiny hatched,
whereby sly fox weasels him/
herself to guard henhouse
finding petrified slack beaked
AC/DC powered chicken coop,
where prating poultry thunderstruck.
When I was thirteen years young, I filleted my upper right thigh.
47 times.
In one night.
In one hour.
I wrote suicide notes,
Every night.
I folded them up and put them in a drawer where the hid.
Similar to the thoughts in the back cabinet of my mind.
Dusty and untouched by the ears of any but my own, I rip them apart.
Showing my emotions was always difficult.
But so was showing them.
So I hid my scars, along with the rest of my body. I had become a being of pure collagen.
I festered over myself to become whoever those who were around me had wanted me to be.
I folded under such slight pressure, a gust of wind could have put me away for months at a time.
I was a Petri dish for one of God’s unexplained.
Marching into every day like a virus in a new repertory system, “Hello, here I am!” And “No I don’t think meds will help...”
So I had quit taking them.
The anti depressants.
The sleeping medication.
The meds you take the morning after sleeping medication, to deactivate those sleeping pills, so that you’re at least awake to be numb.
I stopped taking them, because I felt sympathy for factory machines.
They’re told how to run.
When to be off, when to be on, and the second they are off when they should be on, something is presumed to be wrong.
I felt shame inject itself into my cardiovascular. I felt it coursing through my veins.
I saw it
in my hands
the night I introduced my flesh to an eyeliner sharpeners blade.
What they don’t tell you when you start medication, is that your brain senses this new and regular source of this chemical, and stops producing it.
So I, was a literal wreck.
I cut everyone toxic out of my life very quickly.
I took my antidepressant.
I gave myself time to heal.
I figured out what kind of person I wanted to be.
Kind
Forgiving
Brave
And I brought her to life.
~Quince shaped houses landscape Julienned Street
where citric groans once molded a blue cheese night ~
In one home lives reclusive Graham and his wife, Coco,
two dilled, old pickles nervously living on the lamb.
Busted selling urine for addiction pee tests,
they agreed to flee from a legal barbeque.
Combining their bran, they landed on Julienned.
They peppered with fright when a repair man
fell down, done, dead and fried on their hall floor.
Even freaked, they managed to fully bake a plan.
They dragged his body with mixed moans and groans
to the cellar, filleted him and then designated
him the residents permanent cellar staple.
No Birthday Acknowledgement...
From thee... eldest daughter,
who need not brood,
nor does padre whoosh
to stir loess hood family feud
(hence an attempt merely
to convey melancholic mood).
Profound contrast extant between
your high achieving
life a wonderful hit parade
on the go compared tummy mellow
existence, yes rather staid,
now devoid of any parental
responsibility since years back, ye bade
farewell to yours truly
(perhaps forever), atop a jade
did apex inverse to my nadir paid
with ignoble deeds soul limb lee,
dissimilar to thee,
a young vibrant woman, unafraid
to take life by the (figurative) horns,
owning free choice (linkedin, nsync,
prevalent...) with autonomy swayed
independent lass not succor tubby paid
tummy, nor does this "sir" ask (delayed
by one day) for thee to "FAKE" express
sing nonexistent affection,
this decision...opting to evade
papa, who must accept such choice,
asper his first born, fortunately UNLIKE me
she earned top notch grade
nonetheless, this dada before he gets laid
to rest (actually most likely cremated),
whose ashes tubby scattered across favorite sites,
yourself and Shana Punim played,
which wistful nostalgia plucks heartstrings
rubbing raw thy psyche, who cannot trade
past concupiscent transgressions (emotionally
turbulent waters I did wade),
and no intent to telephone and invade,
sans audiologically your ear space,
this paternal, essential, and critical need
my psyche weighed, lamented, and encumbered
grief, nonetheless proud,
thee "star student" made
herself whip smart
by dogged academic pursuit
in tandem with ardent biological
bone a fide exemplary filleted
(within chromosomal dom) mignon,
similar, when Semitic forebears
risked frolicking under shade
of night - countless elapsed generations aid
ding random genetic dice throw begetting
Eden Liat, whose irrepressible
atavistic feral guaranteeing immortality obeyed
viz, call of the wild indomitable
animalistic hankering impossible to evade,
these genealogical ancestors actions unknowingly,
unstintingly, and unwittingly
helped forge, craft, and affect every blade
of grass, and yoked, (a chicken and egg thing)
hereditary survival of fittest
present day unchoreographed masquerade.
My favorite vegetable is a potato
I will eat it fried, filleted, with salt and pepper.
Bring me butter
That won’t be enough
Some people add cheese.
I am not interested in that, unless it is cheddar
shaved, on the top of sour cream and chives.
Yes, I love a baked potato loaded and potatoes scalloped
I adore French fries, also made from the beautiful potato.
I dip them into barbeque sauce or honey mustard.
Keep the ranch to yourself, I have never liked it.
A sweet potato is not the same. You can have it.
Unless it is loaded with cinnamon and brown sugar.
But wait, let’s get back to my favorite which is the potato.
I like potato soup, I love potato salad. I like potatoes in my chili.
I love corn and butter with salt and pepper over a potato.
I like beef and noodles over mashed potatoes.
I like potatoes smashed, bashed and dashed.
Give me a potato in any form.
I love them all.
Potatoes forever if you ask me!
Blue Dress
The dolphins of Monrovia,
came to dinner one day.
The dress,
all blue...
you understand.
It was held beneath the sea,
not under a tree,
silly bee,
but there was a band.
It played all night,
all the ladies so bright,
in marked uniforms,
not all the colors
you might suppose,
but blue and green and gold.
The blue sea,
the fine color of "her" dress...
the queen of the underground ball.
The sky, a sapphire, crushed to powder,
lost and mirrored in her eyes.
Green, kelp that covered her shoulders,
and kept her warm at night.
Gold, the coins of money,
sailors paid...
to keep their souls,
while others stayed.
The court watched as the dancers whirled,
the Sea King he was drown...
but no one knew until they
filleted his body,
and gathered the net.
The Queen cried,
blue tears...
to match her dress.
Blue Dress Contest
He had seen chicken necks
twisted and broken in Chinese markets,
the plucked dismemberment
of flapping wings.
With help,
he could have strung his carcass up
like a hog on a hook.
He would have quickly cleaved himself
from balls to breast,
but this was a one-man job.
The cadaver
had to be bundled, separated and filleted.
Strange but he knows what to do.
His hands are now sharp as scalpels.
Fingers are boning blades, lancets,
curettes and shears.
He inserts a stiletto under the jaw,
angling through neck bones, the larynx,
drawing the point downward
severing jugular vein and carotid artery.
He does not collect the blood,
but lets it wet the earth.
He watches the bulbous purple coils
spill from his abdomen.
Chitterlings and sweetbreads,
plump jewels gleam briefly
then settle on the ground
in warm mounds.
A quick slice along the breastbone,
then ease the ribcage apart,
scoop out lungs and heart,
- fat catfish from a keep-net.
Looking upon his piled substance,
he feels as if the great work of his life
had now ended well.
He watches as the meat and offal
begin to dissolve.
Soon from the pools of blood
vine shoots will emerge.
One day there will be new wine.