Long Catfish Poems
Long Catfish Poems. Below are the most popular long Catfish by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Catfish poems by poem length and keyword.
There was a possum
of worldly descent
Gathering diamonds
and things it had spent
Chasing a catfish
down dragonfly row
Wanting to see if
it was someone to know
Laughed at an aardvark
with tangerine pants
Filling it's pockets
with yesterday's ants
Climbed up a staircase
that led to the sky
Waving at meadowlarks,
saying goodbye
Chewed on a cabbage
it found by the gate
Wondering if it was
something it ate
Sat down alone,
which was normal you see
Crying those tears
as it hoped it could be
Somebody's friend
that he never could find
Merely a possum,
just pay him no mind
He'll get along,
it's just something to do
And if he passes
in front of you
Maybe just smile
and tell him hello
He might be somebody
you'd like to know
Or let him be
without well wishes sent
For he's just a possum
of worldly descent
For the Dandelions Tiger Lillian and Bear berries Oh My Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Maureen McGreavy
They met a few years ago
On a Texas Hold'em site
Cautious to exchange info
Wanted a few hours of fun
Play cards, laughter and flirting
Profiles had lives of their own
Elderly Jack and Lucille
At night young Zac and Camille
Sexy pics no way were real
They soon fell for each other
Poker players saw it all
She was baby, he lover
Zac and Camille by day now
Texted and talked hours on end
Reality blurred somehow
There were bumps along the way
Players witnessed the drama
Jealousy problem they say
Life plans were made together
Generous fake gifts were bought
A house, jewelry, whatever
The worst that could happen did
Camille noticed Zac straying
Uncovered things he had hid
How could he do this to them
Her heart was broken in two
For real now a fake victm
My question to you would be
Who was catfish... catfisher
It started so innocently
May 20, 2018
*True story...
Catfish Contest by Catie Lindsey
N/A
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.
Gentle breeze is as calm and placid as his wife is a disaster.
She will be here around four, he warns the woods and the beasts
Ants, beetles, and mushroom lovers begin hiding in ditches around two.
Kansans their entire lives they understand what is about to happen.
Why does she behave this way? Oak asks Gentle Breeze
Unsure but not wanting to be disloyal, Gentle Breeze nods gently.
Mama Fox herds kits into long meadow where they will burrow in grass.
Catfish and bass dive down to the deepest depths of the pond.
She is coming, and she if fierce. All gets quiet about two thirty.
This is the time that you have to watch out for, daffodil warns dandelion.
Flowers and weeds close, lying as close to the ground as possible.
Tornado enters wearing a train whistle that disturbs Gentle Breeze
The devastation she leaves behind is unbelievably– sheds overturned.
Barns without roofs, houses without porches; she is in full swing.
Gentle Breeze watches his wife, never understanding her wrath.
His cows chew their cud, as concerned as the sunflowers but no more.
Uncle Pete agrees to take his great grand-nephew fishing to Lake Mare.
I don’t have a pole, Larry says. No prob, says Pete. We can share.
I’ll make my own rod, the nine-year-old says, and grabs a twig of a stick.
Uncle Pete is decked out in expensive duds; his fishing tackle box is thick.
Look! I caught one! Larry yells! Flinging a giant bass out of the lake.
This startles Pete who thinks “this must have been a little mistake.
But Larry keeps flinging catfish, walleye and groupie out of the water.
His plain inexpensive fishing rod just gets hotter and hotter.
Uncle Pete is sitting on a rock, staring at frogs on rocks.
Thinking he should have worn his lucky crocks!
Larry offers to trade places, so Uncle Pete will have a chance.
But Pete didn’t have luck there either and did the “poor me” dance.
Beneath the city the river fishing is good.
I roam with tackle and pole below those wiggling tapeworms
Wound around the cement underbelly of bridges
Devouring the guts of the city’s glamour
Down here where shadows are long as green moss
And the voices of old black dudes echoes to casts
“Damn motherer, you crossed my line!”
Splash.
To catch catfish on a wad of bread is a worthy fight.
It takes shoulder chest and wrist and it’s not just the fish
But the current of the Grand River pulling us over
That sucks us in like a Thanksgiving ladle
Into a whirlpool of brown gravy spilled on a dinner table.
The trouble with catfish is that they swallow the hook
Beyond the use of pliers
And when they’re too small
We cut the line
With a lack of guilt like Old Testament God
Throwing the creature back
Hoping for a miracle.
Logs are tipped over along the gooey shores
And upon them painted turtles sleep
Sunning like leprosy sores.
Even from down here in the cool mist umbrella from summer
We can see the smokestack vapor
Twisting overhead like a genie rubbed from its lamp
Thin at its head thick at its feet still stuck in its copper mother
Arms outstretched like a Christ-cloud spooking the sun.
There are other mysterious pipes
Lips rust red as strawberries
Bloomed from the banks dripping silver
While mouthing a lullaby
To the muck
Like a whore at the end of her exhausting shift.
A railroad bridge rattles to life
Swollen by the axles of its returning soul
A freight train pounding out the Blues
A rhythm meant for bass and drums
That part we don’t sing
But the swing that keeps our foot stomping
And in that noise
Software girls flutter about like orange ribbons
Untied from the hair of the downtown towers
Drifting along the river trails at lunch
Jogging in pony tails and pink shorty shorts
Fingertips stuck into their cotton ears
Ever on the lookout for us
The creeps.
The trick is to not make eye contact
I mean us with them
The fishermen the engineers the long forgotten wrenches
Screwing cranks turning knobs yanking hooks from helpless fish
Drilling the pylons through chemical gold
That holds up this magnificent city.
The bayou sky flies a catfish moon over swamp gators
And cottonmouth vipers. Accordions, fiddles, and rub board vests
Make their ramble through the undergrowth hot on the trail
Of a sultry midsummer house party in Sweat Neck, Louisiana.
All the usual suspects are there. Sharkskin Slim doffs his topper
To Ruby and Rose - the Harlequin Twins. They curtsy in reply.
They came to town to show local folks how business gets done.
Fast Man is fresh from stabbing Satan in the back; same as before.
Snorkel-nose Nelson lays his blackjack on the table.
Pelican-neck LeBeau considers the odds and spits.
A honeysuckle breeze wafts across the terrace.
Eucalyptus, peppermint, and pine tar grace the veranda
Where Miss Bunny Bouche, in her famous lavender velour,
Garners attention from spy boys eying Cajun temptations
With considerably hardened intentions. Several teamsters
Just in from Shreveport dance lively while a claw hammer fiddler
Plays Tee Nah Nah. Essential words are suggested in the space
Between the jug and the mason jar. They speak of collard green
Creole rice served with crayfish in roux étouffée. The snap beans
Are sure enough salted. The shrimp gumbo is suitably spiced.
Sad Hannah sits off in the corner, her motives transparent
As parish politics. She’s been rumored to have dabbled
In arson crafts she’d learned at Magdalena’s Den of Sin,
But no one ever really pays her much mind.
She’s been deliberating the consequence of a life not lived,
And sees a glimmer of hope in the eye of a hurricane lamp.
Her chance of escaping obscurity erupts through the hall.
So now, it’s last call and damn it all, take a left at the crossroads,
And be sure to turn your mattress over when it’s time to climb downstairs.
And as for Hannah, sad Hannah, well, it’s either up Ladder Lane
Then down Hemp Alley, or else it’s just a lonely walk home.
The wind burnt the chill of infant cheek angling for sinkers
unable in the lavender light of dusk to rise, the wind purrs.
A catfish, with finger long whiskers, thrashes in the dusk;
just landed by the hunter, a salt peter pounded writhing husk.
Lost in hunger's lust the fish hunter's fire dies without pain,
hooked by the wind's burn, chilled, the sink holes now blackened, drain.
The wind stills, no longer lithe; it lies, no longer owning, anything;
no longer moaning, not intoning, not even groaning.
Calm now lies angry in the hollow seeking its rebirth,
slipping round and round, it sorrows, wind winding the earth.
The swan was not satisfied, she felt her neck was way too long.
And the way it bends, she argued, it is embarrassing.
I look in the water all the time; I would like to see the sky.
I am always looking at the sky the catfish told her,
because owls and hawks are forever diving down here
and eating my relatives. My uncle Fred got taken on Tuesday.
The frog on the bank rolled his eyes. Hoping he had not
moved them fast enough to warn the fly who had been coming.
Snap! Slurp! Lunch was delicious.
A small child was walking on the path, so they all moved along.
They did not fancy humans. They had seen what the ones with
the long pieces do to a poor defenseless deer
A deer must have read my thoughts, for she bound over the
bush into a bramble of thicket just beyond the pond.
Doggy! The child yelled.
So that’s what they call deer.
A is for gasoline and matches
B is for Las Cruces, Lincoln County and Natchez
C is for zebras wearing stripes
D is for frozen broken pipes
E is girls with long eyelashes
F is lightning when it flashes
G is for toy boats that float in rain
H is an old man, without his cane
I is for apricots and spiced yams
J is for white wine, garlic and clams
K is for consciousness and free will
L is predestination, flavored with dill
M is for the back or was it the front
N is a hound that refuses to hunt
O is for lazybones and slackers
P is for catfish and stale crackers
Q is for lion - king of the jungle
R is for antibiotics and antifungal
S is the feeling you get when you're sick
T is for candles burned to the wick
U is for dreams caught in snatches
V if for blue jeans and sewed on patches
W is a fellow who is soft in the head
X says it's time he goes to bed
Y is to ask why he can't spell
Z is to answer he rhymes pretty well