He ran to the mountain.
They were arguing again.
This time it rained
warm, covering him
the way she should have
but yelled instead
at father.
When the steam stopped
rising from the ground
and the sun’s bleed
lessened
he walked back
past the tire shop
the old dog barked at him
and then stopped.
He came in the back door.
She had made tamales
and he was eating
quietly by himself-
The battle over.
He sat and ate too
and saw his future-
The mountain, the rain
the mist, the steam
And the silence
that comes after.
Oh Monchielle of Love
thou fittest me like glove
inside His palm, His child,
aiming up like a dove
of love, truthful and wild.
Oh Monchielle of Love
unnotched from up above
ye knowest when to heal,
without the earthly shove
of sheltered, human creel.
Oh Monchielle of Love
your written word thereof
tells me I am worthy
Thou shalt be my ringdove
in my lonesome journey
Oh Monchielle of Love
receptacle of love
pannikin of my soul
thou fittest me like glove
cored inside, heaven's cove.
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.
The Shape of Mourning
by Michael R. Burch
The shape of mourning
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,
the bolt of cold steel
on a locker
shielding memory,
the monthly penance
of flowers,
the annual wake,
the face in the photograph
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,
the useless mower
lying forgotten
in weeds,
rings and crosses and
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.
Keywords/Tags: life, death, death of a friend, grave, memory, memories, memorial, mourning, funeral, shape, mourning, eulogy, bolt, steel, locker, penance, wake, keepsake, keepsakes, memento, mementos, rings, crosses, paraphernalia
Words That Inspire Me
By Miracle Man
3/7/2020
Obstacles were not intended to be stop signs,
but encumbrances to induce thought
Character, is displayed by continuance beyond
where others thought we’d finish
Think of words as arrows;
Once a poison arrow has left its quiver, there remains time,
but once released from the bowstring,
there remains only remorse.
Our legacy will be measured by what we brought to the table,
not in what we carried away.
Don’t let pride hinder help,
A solitary spoke won’t hold up a wheel!
And a lonely life is a kissing cousin
To a fisherman’s empty creel.
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)
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.
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!
,
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.
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!
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.
fisher man
fishing creel in hands
stuck with mud
crane near by
jumps here and there
eyes on fish
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.
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
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!
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