Best Herrings Poems
The poems I never wrote are small fish -
sardines that roam the ocean of my mind.
Swift thoughts are they, and like a fleeting wish,
each flits away, and never can I find
those lines that had intrigued me as they passed
beneath my consciousness into my dreams.
How many poems would I have amassed
if I had caught them all? Alas, it seems
a few matured, for herrings I have seen
in poetry that isn’t even mine,
and from that one phenomenon, I glean
that thoughts among us poets intertwine,
so poems I never wrote might well be
in other poets’ minds of shining sea.
October 8, 2022 - NA
Submitted Oct. 17, 2022
for A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
Spring has come in the Sunshine Coast!
Carried by the wings of Humming birds
flying through the Pacific Flyway,
flowing like a dash of fresh air
Spring has come here to stay!
Look, there in the shallow beaches,
Great Blue Herons wait for the prey,
their aquatic love for eelgrass
keeps them waiting the whole day,
Herrings,Soles are busy in hide and seek play,
Spring has finally come here,
come here to stay!
The blue water of the Pacific
shining with bright sun rays,
heady fragrance of lilacs
thrilling the air whole day,
it must be Miss Kim,as
Miss Canada is still far away;
Spring has finally come here,
come here to stay!
**Miss Kim and Miss Canada are two varieties of lilac.
=============================
Suspense is a thing worth not knowing
Dying for the knowledge of the mystery
From novice to brainiac ever flowing,
Slipping into the dark annals of history.
Shudders at the noise of victims’ crying
Suspense is a thing worth not knowing,
Keeping chilblains on the skin denying
Revealing information ne’er extolling.
Red herrings by the hundreds growing
In long heralded stories not so mastered
Suspense is a thing worth not knowing,
Fabled tales of untamed roguish bastards.
Best sellers from all leather anthologies
With black ravens and murderous crowing,
Translated to filmdom with no apologies
Suspense is a thing worth not knowing.
Written June 1, 2022
"A Mackerel Sky"
shadows like sun
dance across
an ocean of tears
salt for the stinging
walking on clouds
with the Fisher King,
as if in school
in the swim of things
fishing nets for love
all in the eye
of the beholder
wisdom like pearls
sown,
an inevitable plant,
pregnant with possibility
full-bellied, grown,
then stitched up
embroided
sewn imperfect
the hem of it slipping
needs fast mending
cirrocumulus,
fleecing
altocumulus
blown away
an empty canvas
borne for painting
bluebirds sing
on the backs
of cloudy angels racing
Mares' tails
and mackerel scales
make lofty ships
to carry low sails;
red herrings
far from sure
bloody mind dripping
another colour
washes itself
in a pink mackerel sky -
the observing self
hedging bets and
reacquainting
do or die
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
“According to lore (tradition), a mackerel sky means that the weather is going to change.”
“Mackerel are built for speed and, along with a highly forked tail, can streamline themselves by retracting their dorsal fin into a groove in their body when they swim. Actually, they are the fastest swimming fish, in UK waters, able to swim around 50 metres in 10 seconds. Mackerel, have to keep swimming to live, as if they stop moving forward they will drown.”
Meaning, Mackerel Sky - "a name given to a sky covered with those same puffy cirrocumulus and altocumulus clouds arranged in a pattern of waves, with blue sky peeking through so that it resembles the scales on the back of a mackerel."
It’s all rather fishy. Red Herrings, Mackerel Skies.
Interconnected, cyber psychology, we are all victims of advancement,
technological innovations pushed down our throats like harassment.
Who are they, who goes bump in the night,
metaphorical emissions, magnetic might.
Brain waves emit electrical pulses,
nano technology riding the invisible waves of caution.
The electromagnetic spectrum, neither friend nor enemy,
the infrastructure has been built, will it one day be rent free?
Dark nets, heist, scams, and piracy,
cyber wars, computer worms, electronic conspiracy.
Who dares to centralize a decentralized system,
red herrings and distributed denialism.
Your kung fu may be strong like a glass of Cognac,
but every six months a new technology is guaranteed to be hacked.
But don’t hold back, these issues creates jobs,
technological advancements, anti-pop culture mobs.
It sounded so cool,
coming from the master
wordsmith there on the cover
of "Poets and Writers".
didn't he look like he knew?
White hair and beard,
impeccable, black turtleneck,
coarse cloth overcoat,
turned out, casual and
desciplined.
More like mapping the magi or
apping the magus.
Maybe lassoing the ocean.
Ma, put the pin in Gina.
Look for the ion in nation.
Start small yet the boundaries
are so...like an obsessive killer
getting rid of fingerprints,
it never ends.
I want to be like Mike!
Casual discipline, throwing
out the red herrings
with the bath water.
It is after all a wash and
pretty soiled to boot,
and reboot.
My god, I've only gone
from left to right
on this mapping thing.
Dare I go from right to left?
Damn! I give up. You have
a thirty year headstart.
I'll just have to draw
my own darn maps.
HACKED
In deepest, darkest Web net space,
with spirits that they Tor;
building rootkits to hide in place,
like wolves behind the door.
Downloads are baked with cyber psy's,
and mere matrix cooking;
serving up the Rasberry Pi's,
not a soul was looking.
Bugged our way with lightening speed,
with every User glitched;
then coded what they said they need,
while every human bitched.
Flawed machines reflect our error,
imperfect just like us;
poor design can levy terror,
and throw us under bus.
A tantalizing lock to lube,
and Chips fall where they may;
unlock the cyber Rubix Cube,
and hacks are not for play.
A new despair is in the air,
hacking in dissension;
the o's and ones rest in their lair,
hatching more dimension.
Then where is Waldo in disguise,
for Users unaware;
and losers all, they will despise,
to not protect or care.
One foot on earth and cyber space,
kinda lost our bearings;
know the truth, in either place, and
backspace all red herrings.
-Edlynn Nau
© September 21, 2017
(Four verses with eight lines each; Syllable pattern: alternating 8 and 6 syllables per line. Rhyme pattern: ABAB CDCD)
I was encompassed within the sullen lust
Of gentrified prepositions
Incomplete adjectives layer the magnitude of
My emptied valor
I became entrenched in the touch
The smile
The tears
Of wistful elegance
This onyx cry
Now turns into an everlasting echo
I sing to these gated heavens
Where visionary angels no longer
Give me a second glance
Expectations rot unto red herrings
As supple conundrums
Insist my smile
Will “be ok”
The most conformed lie,
The most performed cry,
I was ever beaten with
…
Salted whips bless this tenderness,
Her one-armed caress
Diluted into illicit “flawlessness”
And I would have digressed
But, I became stronger
When she yelled at my infantile stance
Hunchback of forbidden damns
Burying our luminescent memories
In fear’s corrupted sands
My vulnerable love
Now life sentenced
She turned my open arms
Into vindicated assault rifles
As she cocked the clip
Of my abused remnants
Oh, how your abandoned grace
Blessed my broken rosaries
With silent goodbyes
Yet, here on bent knee
I still cry
I still cry
…
For the return
Of your identity
All of your eloquent mistakes
As your altered ego
Strokes the girth
Of fear’s liability
And I dare you to push back against
My scarred & humbled smile
I do not fear you today
I do not fear you tonight
I will not fear you tomorrow
No matter the weight of my sorrow
For my poignant love
Will always shine brighter
Than your poisoned fear
Of my tattered innocence
©D.J.E.
Blue Iris,
Grimoire gondolas steal unbound human yawns,
Each Charon poised with sallow spear along the River:
Austere laughter of headless boughs
sipping grave-scented spiritual kisses.
Gruel to Drinking Fear you do coerce,
Till evil flees the dawn within its hearse.
I shall not warn my successors, no—instead
I shall laugh
A Godless laugh
From this unlit, inward tower
At the Thoms ever drawn to a fog-rent
Harbor of Lights,
Forever in flight
t’wards a searing promise:
“The shadow of your smile when you are gone.”
Softly flows
The Months; cadence down
The end of Years,
All Great Whites closely duty-bound
Gleaned russet stress and tears.
All I do
As gardens do
As zephyr hewn
Is wash my hands
I watch my hands
Just watch them grow—
Closing impossible crimes
By the cold March of Time.
Shall I catastrophe? I shall wasp anew
Geronimo! hellbent swoons: withered Eye see U:
A veldt vision on this peace of death
That singes arrows unto my breast,
Non-quietus—not of suede nor hawthorn
That singing! Unveiled Vistas Reborn.
The summer breeze made chill wastrel flames,
E'en herrings dappled across minstrel viridian
All bearing my name.
Subtlety
Is your root, surely as I inhale the palpitations
Of this noxious City so small
Yet so grand in its delusion.
Rachel or Leah? Suffice it (and damn it, too), at least Jacob’s subtle darkness
Invited crystal warmth to dine on elegant raindrops. At Life I laugh,
And Life laughs long, dreamy along kestrel seams. I dine
On sweet air.
Despised dream origin.
Quickly, quickly, awaken me—unwrap
Your blessed hearths, creature,
And begone—I despise
Your balance of whimsy; I despise
All of your beauty.
Inspired by the incongruous
Joe exotic Documentary
You think because I smile I’m
happy, well it’s one big facade,
Strut round my insane kingdom,
driving all and sundry mad,
Like the tigers in my cages,
hiding a life of pent up pain,
I’m a fraud a loser a below
par human, Carole’s the blame.
Red herrings my speciality,
but she will not take the bait,
I know she killed her husband,
then his body the tigers ate,
One mission in life, to be
undisputed big cat king,
Sit upon my throne like Nero,
lighting fires while I sing.
Haters bastards begrudgers,
every step I take,
Urging yearning me to crack,
Well I ain’t going to break,
Disgusting cowardly clones,
with the same toothless face,
Ignominious wretched pigs,
my defeat you’ll never taste.
The loathing inside’s unspeakable,
but I just can’t hold my tongue,
Feel it in my stentorian voice,
Can’t control this temper long,
Feeding off the hate, nourishes
the will to take her under,
Paranoid in self pity and woe,
I’ve just made a serious blunder.
Life is unraveling gradually,
delusions of grandeur smother,
Forced to show my hand,
scrutinized by hating others,
Keeping my best side out,
whilst been eating alive within,
Won’t back down, a cornered cat,
will attempt a pyrrhic win.
Alas my soul dies in prison,
cos the system got it wrong,
I am innocent, was all her fault,
in here that fat cow belongs,
No more sidearms for protection,
goddamnit miss my gun,
Wish I was a tiger in a cage,
concrete walls block out the sun.
Joe exotic never did kill Carole,
not for the want of trying,
Was served to the Feds by felons,
who stole his sideshow shrine,
Karma your own worse enemy,
if mixing with conmen and liars,
When looking for someone to burn,
throw each other upon the fire.
Podium Placing Promise (5) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand 04/01/2021
I listened to promises from a drunk,
"Bourbon talking," I should have thunk,
The day passed, the weeks concluded,
I tried to work out who was deluded,
Waiting for red herrings,
The months and years were ending,
Decades rolled by, one day,
I realised he should be at AA,
Not so comical,
The vocab. was lyrical,
Centuries passed, millennia concluded,
World exploded, Universe imploded,
Worked out who was deluded,
Now, for tradies, through phone books I go walking...
So, girls, never listen when it's "bourbon talking!!"
Ned Kelly
DNA
Kelly DNA found
throughout the land,
and down around the
Dungle Bore,
Fred Layton had a
strand,
He had the Kelly
earmark, wore,
his descendants
Harpers, grand,
wore the Dan Kelly
type of ear-lobe,
that DNA had
planned,
If you look at Red
Kellys' brood,
they have the
lobeless ear,
distinctive breed &
trademark proved,
Don Johnson says
it's here,
Fred Layton he was
no wuss,
clean-skins they
needed branding,
the law of the bush,
a brand to push,
the T-Bones were
understanding,
100 Dan Kellys tried
to show,
that they were not
Red Herrings,
Alone Steve Hart,
Dungle Bore did go,
double cover in his
bearing,
bloody cunning
so-n-so:}
Traps they knew of
Steves' death too,
his cross in old
Calcutta,
Dan came home alone,
from the Boer War
zone,
as the Leather-heads
do mutter
{birds of the bush}
Don Johnson
Leatherheads have a
bump of meat on on
top of the beak....a
grey friar bird who
will talk to lonely
people in the
outback
The Fulton fish market
Day breaks early on the misty water front
the streets wake outside South Street
to sounds of fog horns fading in the distance
Morning comes alive to the music of work
sounds of carts moving opening of gates
screech in the distance cranking wheels
box cars lining up to the morning rush
men’s voices yelling across the distance
as the morning sun circles the horizon
a rush of workers and people coming
to market near the tidal seas
buying selling moving
Portrait scenes in watercolor
light streams in reflecting off the rows
of fish
Raku tones of silvery pink and metallic hues
of baby blues
small fish big fish
Herrings silver slick blue fins
all lined up in old wooden carts
some wrapped in newspaper some in brown paper
Cod sardines mackerel trout
fish from near and far
from open seas to open streets
Workers drinking coffee
steam rising from cups in chilly morning air
a living working breathing market
on the ports of NY
where voices chant ancient songs of day
rumbling feet against the cold blackened streets
lifting hands calloused and swollen from long days work
The warm glow of reflected light of midday sun
against the grey sky
high lights bathe the withered faces
people stream in to shop and talk
women with wicker baskets gently
holding small children’s hands
pass by the narrow spaces
whispers of salty air flow through the gentle breeze
Who did it
Whodunit
I really do not know
But this evening
I will witness
a truly iconic show
The Mousetrap* it is named
its claim to fame I hear
Is “the world’s longest run”
Now in its 67th year
Dame Agatha Christie
well ~ she wrote the play
and would be utterly amazed
if she were still alive today
More than twenty seven thousand
performances have played
As audiences pondered
just who had killed who
From the very first performance
in October ‘52
This evening I will find out more
A show I never saw before**
but forever sworn to secrecy
must never give the plot away
I love characters***
just like Agatha Christie
who made her millions
from murders she wrote
On this September eve
I witness red herrings
Put there to mislead
Who did it ~ whodunit
Must not fall asleep
Or no secret there to keep…
Written 26th September 2019
2nd PLACE
Contest: Pick a line any line
Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
*The Mousetrap is a murder mystery play by Agatha Christie. The Mousetrap opened in London's West End in 1952, and has been running continuously since then. The longest running West End show, it has by far the longest initial run of any play in history, with its 25,000th performance taking place on 18 November 2012.
** this line is taken from my poem ~ The Age of Aquarius
***line taken from your poem ~ Broken People
Contest Strand Choice 11
Sponsor Brian Strand
HONORABLE MENTION
Slaves to Perception….
Perception is influenced by probability judgments formed on the basis of earlier actions performed in similar situations
And I think I know
As much as I know of a triangle and breathed in the number three, all of this unto me all of this unto me.
If the premise was true the conclusion was true,
But how would I know the conclusive evidence: that product which is truth when the addends divulged were false, and the addends are always false as truths evolve and reemerge as new philosophies…
And Even as a poet I have learned from a defamed philologist that words get in the way…
The sum of it all is out there somewhere in the ether… floating aloft in a grey heather or the black vastness of space
Aloft a mist or rather it is a mystery
just
JUST clanking, ringing along in eternity with all those other eternal truths just beyond my knowing…
I derived a conclusion, intuited from a premise… like a hound to a fox…yet red herrings abound when you’re around… and I chase logical fallacies and grab kite’s strings…that pull me along with the rhythm the beat of your pulse,
If the woman is sick she will vomit,
If she vomited, she was poisoned.
In similar situations, the premises are all smoke and mirrors and the looking glass no clearer through the dregs of Domain Romanee Conti products…I saw your one eye peer at me…sizing me up outwitting me poking jest at love: that tomfoolery.
And simple biological permutations of something that renders itself as love is what you seek and what I know to be the opinion of each is different for all the same reality. If we assign meaning in our own minds to each act--an action of reality-- Why then would it matter to engage? To indulge and assign meaning and perception to anything? That simply enslaves us all.