Best Herring Poems
I am known as a sky rat, or a beach thief,
most call me a seagull and a nuisance.
I love to fly across the ocean freely, soaring with
my wings spread while darting into the water.
I see a photographer, maybe I will be featured,
instead I go unnoticed as whales are surfacing.
My eyes are keen as I search for crustaceans.
Feeling bored I decide to move onto the beach.
I tease humans with my little show and dance,
always winning a few scraps for my troubles.
No one knows my struggles to exist with my flock,
we squabble, fight and bully for food until bloodshed.
Crabs are our delicacy, it’s like finding the jackpot.
I will win you over with my beauty and charisma,
until you leave me with your lunch as you swim.
It then becomes all mine, except for the wrappers.
Yes, my reputation precedes me again!
7/09/2020
Contest: Bird Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
I could not paint a better picture,
Than the one in front of me,
Of twists and turns of the canal,
Bordered by endless trees.
A warm day with a slight breeze,
Giving the grass moving shadows of leaves,
Multiple species of birds stop by,
Some on the ground, some in the sky.
Gulls, Terns and Cormorants dive,
For crustaceans and fish of various size,
While sparrows, robins and occasional chickadees,
Grab insects on the fly.
Parades of boats, barges and ships,
Fascinate and entertain our time,
Sitting by the canal is more than a pastime,
It's watching life at its prime.
Fishermen, bicyclists, joggers and tourists,
They enjoy this special place,
Taking it all in; they embrace,
Nature at its purest!
Fished all day not a red herring on the line but I got a basketful of kipper Hunted all day not a fox one with a red herring on the line a shark ate my sandwich today He got away with the halibut a shark ate him today for the halibut He did not get away
The cliff tops were bare, rocks lay scattered across the beach, the nearing harbor holding all in its silence. Along the bay the ripple of a kayak hovered on a waters edge. All was quiet, or so it seemed.
Overhead clouds rolled and arched a landscape in blue, held by a shimmering backlight in grey-orange hues. Up there, amongst the rocks, movement issued the break of day. Columns of fledged juveniles headed out to the shore on surrogate wings so new in all their mottled grey glory. Clumsy at first, innocent of death, they practiced their art.
Many years ago, decades ago, before our monopolized greed, these wings could learn their craft on broken hills and rock face to a sanded shore now desimated by poisoned or starved waters. How the human spirit lives on.
Year by year, in urban habitat, overwhelmed by our desire to regenerate, encrypted in a culling desire, no co-existence, just hate, a lack of education, a provision of landscape in need, forcing extinction to deaths lonely door again and again.
Today I watched the bonded pairs high up on the roof tops, a tireless nurture, their weakened bodies, their empathic care. I look down through the alleyways, broken wings fall or on discarded earth or through my town, hiding in corners. We are the invaders, not them.
Fall’s felicitous red herring —
the mystery of leaves morphing.
The autumnal applause fairing.
Verdant heat and daylight dwarfing.
The horologic ticker chimes,
as lines are drawn on pumpkins patched.
Gramps, it’s apple picking time.
The scarecrow’s wise with balding thatch.
Forensic crisp of maple leaves —
children foolishly blinded by
the crimson and yellow dervish
heap...how quickly green does die.
Snowy bonnet soon covers plot —
arthritically profound.
The creaky ice of knees and knots
embellish the grownups’ playground.
Sought are the days of yesteryear —
chirping of birds and childhood friends,
standing aloft swing with no fear,
ascending where sunlight transcends.
9/22/2019
100 words
Any poem you want to write exactly 100 words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Word count checked by howmanysyllables.com
sleek kayak paddle
slices through ancient ocean
kyak schools scatter
Meandering paths through the forest of voices
We all hunt the Fox, the fox of truth and of choices.
Let loose the hounds that lose the scent.
The foul fishy flash that keeps their nose bent.
Sell your head scratching questions to buy the cheap thrill
From the glossy silver lips of the letters on the hill.
The grand distraction of planned attraction
Gets a bland reaction 'till they force down the pill.
Count on the fact the books make us bored.
“Is it time for the signal from Greenwich?”
This just in...your minds been twined with a flaxen cord.
Keep your eyes on the chest, leave the treasure ignored.
The gluttonous fat man with round swirly eyes
Circles through the channels as he shoves in the fries.
Ignorance is only the fault of the one.
He never opened a page or his mind ‘fore he dies.
The man on the horse knows his time is soon spent.
The dogs and the fish have open resent.
Cunning and silence keeps the fox so majestic.
The pray of the fish is to keep doG domestic.
So much wonder, soaring wings to new dimensions of my heart.
What beasts we are.
High on those roof tops the lost ones memory linger on.
You give me hope and despair.
That mound of grass placed perfectly on the smallest roof.
You sitting there in both sun and rain.
Such ferocious winds for a summer.
Why the gull gazing? I think I know why...
You are pure in natures cruel balance.
So much joy, the white and grey
Guiding fledglings through the air in massed delight.
...sounds dive bombing.
At St. George's I can see another you,
Not that one on our beach fronts
But the real you
Untouched by our mingling false generosity.
Why complain about what we have created.
Why the leading of stupid politicians to water,
Meeting uneducated poll demands.
Get real.
Watch the beauty in the air, feel every motion, all that care.
We are lost in the mire of everything we created
And all that we will lose.
Selective in our continuance.
Standing on the corner, watching shadows break
I hear you.
A friend hears your feet in the back yard bliss.
There is no threat. The kittens play.
Somewhere between the here and before we have lost our way.
So much chaos. We are chaos.
When day turns to night the juveniles are playing, learning.
No poisoned bread, thrashing cars,
No plastic or terrifying oiling.
So much beauty yet so much hate defines you.
I will watch as heaven calls when you sail those skies above.
her lying alibi was found dead at sea ~ his sole’s in the right plaice
What is 222 and 333?
Do you smuggle drugs?
Are you underworld don?
Do you use multiple numbers?
Do you have friends in NWFP?
Do you have several accounts?
Who is Supari according to you?
Do you have strong ties with ANF?
What kind of business do you run?
Do you deal in arms & ammunition?
What is the definition of a gangster?
Are you well connected with Politicians?
Are you backed by intelligence officials?
Pickled herring in a pie?
Scrumptiously delicious. Do or die?
The idea makes me ask grandma why….
Do you use wheat or rye?
Marmalade makes it a great buy.
The combination is easy to try.
Mustard too and will we need to fry
Pickled herring in a pie?
No wish to carp or cock a snook
I won't leave you in the lurch
but oh my cod take a look
what a plaice to perch
as just for the halibut
putting seahorses out to paddock
is enough to give one
a severe bad haddock
so no red herring I don't flounder around
take a peeled eel flake of baked hake
plus pinch of pickled pilchard
and an ichthyic sandwich make
but if my words are vitriolic
you may grunt and kiss my bass
it's all a load of pollock(s)
As a young boy
when not very old
I did enjoy
being told
grisly bedtime stories
by my Mother
the favourite was
none other
than
altho' I was just a nipper
Whitechapel Fishmonger Murders
perpetrated by
Jack the Kipper