Long Bream Poems
Long Bream Poems. Below are the most popular long Bream by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Bream poems by poem length and keyword.
[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]
***
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank
A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
***
11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
Just a little tyke
When on the hearth~strike
Then blaze
Warmth flowed throughout like
Happiness 'pon trike
Young days
When you were godlike
I'd feel dreamlike
A phase
Let me paraphrase
It's not hollandaise
Just dreams
Down by waterways
Where God I could praise
Fish teem
As 'pon stream I gaze
Large bream dreams always
Sea bream
No_ hatchlings that gleam
And bring forth moonbeams
That strike
'Pon the eyes_pipe dreams
Whipped and fluffed upstream
A seiche
Dreams come true it seems
Strike brought fire agleam
In Pike
Written: 03/17/2023
Contest: Write Me A Virelai
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Pike..A county in Georgia in which we once lived.
Strike: Daddy would strike the match on the hearth to start a fire. Some fish when they bite do what is called a strike.
Seiche: a disturbance of the water caused usually by atmospheric pressure change.
Apparently, there are sea bream as well as freshwater bream. I am sure the sea bream are much bigger but those tiny bait fish I was catching looked like sea bream to me at my young age.
Checked with how many syllables
There was I in my early twenties
sitting bored on a Sunday afternoon
mu mum suggested, get a hobby
but being a loner was well out of tune
My mind was blank till mum said
learn guitar, my son, well maybe
so I bought an acoustic guitar
then got lessons to learn my key
As I started learning some real tunes
it seemed I should've begun while a teen
but some progress I was actually making
after a year thought what might have been
So gave it up, wonder why?
probably not dedicated far enough
but now really appreciate class
guitarists playing real splendid stuff
My experiences make one appreciate
the skilful play of these in master class
like Bream, Williams, Romero and the like
inspiration they do bring, pray not to pass
(I recall here my early 20s and making effort to learn guitar which was not to be but learn to appreciate those who could especially in the classical field.)
With grandpa on the Thames to fish,
Our boat sailed north like a Croc,
Meandering brackish waters,
Waiting for a feast of catfish.
Pike, perch, and zander were grandpa's wish;
Barbel, carp, chub, and bream his catch.
Halibut and cod were my desire,
Their flavours always buttering my palate.
The fun was full,
Until a Croc rose for our catch,
Its eyes fixed on my shiny leg,
As if one bite could sate its hunger.
I trembled at its timid stare,
Unaware it was hypnotizing me.
I tapped grandpa and whispered, "See a Croc…"
His fearful shout sent it fleeing.
Then I realized how poor grandpa’s eyes were;
My youthful sight saved us from the Croc—
Grandpa might have filled its appetite,
While I became its appetizer instead.
Grey clouds dispersing above the Lough,
Grey geese skeining to winter fields for from arctic chill,
Rainbow colours reflected in water still and deep,
Chill and cold in the depths along with bream and Roach,
Amongst the weed and silt lie Pike waiting patiently,
For some small unassuming stickleback or baggie
To fill its ever hungry belly.
Arching rainbow across the hills leading to a pot,
But the gold is in the town and its deep cold lough.
Do Kelpies run off the hills finding refuge and rest,
Down the burns they skelter unseen ,unknown,
Only by frothy white water bubble and hear their ,
Unearthly whinnie amongst the crannies of ancient hill.
On dark nights when water is high will you hear the Kelpies cry.
The river
still finds its brown way
through the city's glass
and concrete canyons
until finally reaching
the bay. Its tidal breath
has become my own.
I live near its mouth.
I was not born here
but have spent more
than half my life
a citizen of its urban sprawl.
The roots I've sunk
hang off a sense of home.
There is an ease
in living here where the old
and the new, the familiar
and strange exist
in counterpoint and house
the needs of the gregarious
and the chafed nerves
of the recluse. Cafes
serve good coffee.
In the shadows
of apartment towers,
old men can shuffle easily
down the gentle slope
of asphalt paths,
carrying words or a rod
and sit quietly
at the water's edge
with their thoughts,
fishing for bream or God.
You didn’t hand me boxes wrapped in bows,
Or silver trinkets bought upon a whim.
Instead, you took me where the river flows,
And taught me wealth is found in catching bream.
You gave the gift of a persistent mind—
To cast the line again, to watch, to wait.
To look beneath the surface and to find
That patience is its own rewarding state.
I became a treasure hunter of the human heart,
You taught me the value of a quiet space.
You taught me how to pull the world apart,
And to find the gold in every simple place.
The rush of water, and a bending reed,
The stillness of a humid afternoon—
You showed me that the only things we need
Are found beneath the sun and silver moon.
So I will let the others keep their fragile things,
Their fleeting goods that tarnish on the shelf.
I have the wealth that only nature brings,
And all the truths you taught me of myself.
I've got a dish of killifish
I wish to eat that silly fish
Baked, or fried in peanut oil
Roasted, dried, or let to boil.
Make me a star-gazy pie
Take me to the Catfish Fry
Lead me to the China Sea
Feed me hermit crabs and brie.
Help me out with rainbow trout
Salt and thyme and wedge of lime
Filet of sole, or snapper red,
Served up whole, or just the head.
Meals of eels caught on reels
You're the star with caviar
Butter clams served with yams
Can't say no to salmon roe.
Tuna eyes baked in pies
Oh so daring pickled herring
In the lurch for snails and perch
Ring the bells for cockle shells.
Canned sardines on toast with greens
Sturgeon, sprat, and stuff like that
Grouper, pike, that's what I like
Smelt and bream that make me dream.
Cajun shrimp for my new pimp
Lutefisk and lobster bisque
Flying squid and yellowfin
Silver carp and capelin.
Give to me a plate of oyster
Eat them raw, that way they're moister
Tilapia and tiger prawn
Eat them 'til my hunger's gone.
Hake or krill would be a thrill
Bass and shad will make me glad
Tasty crappie makes happy
Give a nod to Greenland cod
Oo! I'd like a northern pike
Barramundi served on Sunday
Grouper, alligator gar,
Halibut or no cigar.
Amberjack atop hardtack
Pan-fried kipper for the skipper
Mackerel, tasty as hell,
Lox and mullet down the gullet.
Kokanee or marlin blue
Arowana, bowfin too
Bring to me your soups and stews
Sing for me the dogfish blues.
Let’s sail away to Acapella,
A celebrity haunt owned by Penn and Teller.
I shall act as your prince, you’ll be Cinderella
When we’re sat on a beach in Acapella.
It’s not as sexy as Cannes or as dowdy as Rhyl
But their choirs and ensembles will give you a thrill,
Acapella compares well to old Casablanca,
As you will observe once we have dropped anchor.
Their libraries don’t hold any musical score,
Acoustic folk singers are considered a bore,
All keyboards and trombones were sold overseas
And whistles restricted to football referees.
So you won’t hear the bagpipes of Kenneth McKellar
Or repetitive bass notes plucked by Paul Weller.
Your voice will entrance all the ladies and fellas
Once we’ve moored in the harbour of Acapella’s.
There fishermen bring ashore haddock and bream
Having sung shanties as a well-rehearsed team,
The salty sea breeze gives their voices a rasp
And the youngest amongst them let out a gasp!
Melodic and manly, the crews ride the waves,
Proud of their seamanship, masters not slaves,
They heed the advice of their mothers and aunties
But rarely acknowledge the source of their shanties.
Once a solitary busker was found in a yacht
And by all accounts he deserved what he got,
He was forced down the plank at the tip of a sword
Then his vintage viola was flung overboard!
On the pier you’ll find orators and callers at bingo,
But no jukebox is pumping out John, Paul or Ringo.
Pop or rock music gives locals the creeps,
It’s no wonder that George’s guitar gently weeps.
So, if Customs Control takes your squeezebox or trumpet
Don’t seek compensation, you’ll just have to lump it;
Those instruments go to a processing plant
Because singers are welcome but musicians aren’t.
We shall seek out the nightlife in numerous bars
Where the locals all sing without playing guitars,
Dodge the Lambrettas in quaint cobbled alleys,
Then stride across hills and along peaceful valleys.
So, if you’re tired of concertos or singles by Queen
Book a cruise to a place where they’re considered obscene,
It’s a magical island owned by Penn and by Teller -
The remote principality of Acapella.
So let us sail forth across the briny
In a luxury yacht - well furnished and shiny
To where your vocal range will be valued quite highly,
And you won’t have to sit through Baba O’Riley.
From his bottle, Grandpa took a sip.
I gazed sleepily at his bottle ship.
Grandpa said that life could be so cruel.
Grandma said, your grandpa is a fool.
Grandpa ran his mouth from his chair and
Grandma said he always runs a fool's errand.
Grandpa said he sought the Holy Grail,
but he came up empty without fail.
Grandpa's poured out tales, an ocean deep.
The bottle ship, soon gone, and I, asleep.
Soon, I was a fisherman in a dream,
fishing for happiness in a saltwater bream,
The bream said, "I'll give you a little tip -
happiness, through your hands, will always slip".
I tried to catch freedom in a sailing fish,
but he flew away, along with that futile wish.
So, I tried to catch tuna, the fish of truth,
and came up with just a fallacy of youth.
Next, I looked for beauty in the marlin,
but she put me down, "Take a hike, darlin".
The fish of justice, my next angling goal,
took money while reading from a scroll.
Ah, so money must be the fish to grab -
but, sick and unloved, I picked up the tab.
Every fish and thing I strived for was a joke,
and one by one they all went up in smoke.
All the fish in my dream were just a school
to teach that searching is the errand of a fool.
When I awoke, Grandpa, too, was snoring,
Grandma said, "to himself, he's even boring".
I decided then, I would make my life at sea -
to catch anything, there'd be no guarantee.
I don't know anything worth anything anyway,
except the ocean's sand and salty spray.