Long Crawdads Poems
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What was missing in my life?
You!
I lived many years without you,
not knowing what I was missing.
One day a surprise came to us
at an unexpected late- in- life date,
it was a baby boy.
He smiled at us with blue eyes
and bald little head,
and we were complete.
I treasured the cuddly feel of you,
fitting into my arms so well,
your weight seemed just right,
to pack you around every day,
even as you grew and grew.
You added an element to my life
that had been missing.
I now learned to slow down,
stop at playgrounds, push your swing
and sit in the one next to yours,
leaning back, looking up into
the crowns of swaying trees.
Taking walks, delighting in gathering fallen
red maple leaves, watching bugs
and birds.
Frogs and crawdads appeared in our bathtub,
I emptied your pockets while doing the wash
of rocks, seashells, dried katidid shells,
sticks and marbles.
I learned that stepping on jacks
at night while going to the bathroom hurts.
On your first fishing trip you accidently hooked a duck
and cried because you thought you hurt it.
I already knew of your compassionate heart.
You and I laughed and cried watching " Free Willy,"
"The fox and the hound" and "Alladin."
You brought joy to my life.
I learned that it is exciting to watch you play soccer,
I cheered and hooted and watched from the bleechers,
while you ran your little heart out,
I watched for signs of your asthma acting up,
but luckily you seem to outrun it.
On the first Halloween you were a little
smiling pumpkin that I pushed in the stroller,
but soon you were running with your buddies,
dragging a pillow case filled with candy,
and I had to scurry to keep up with you.
On your first day of school I was nervous,
I had to leave you with strangers.
Several of us Moms were hanging around the hallway
peeping into the door's little window,
until they made us leave.
Then came field trips, help with homework,
I was "room mother" to be near you and help,
and visited you in the cafeteria at lunchtime
on "Parent's day."
Suddenly, you are taller that me!
The braces came off, and you have a summer job,
and you are very good with it, I am proud of you.
You now have a Highschool Diploma and
are getting your driver's licence,
but you will always be my little boy,
and I will love you forever.
Love, Mom
childhood (puzzle poem)
Dancing to the Jackson 5 at three in the morning
Burning marshmallows on a campfire
Bananas and chocolate with mom
Sitting under the awning in the rain, listening to baseball
running from cicadas
The smell of cigarettes on dad’s jacket
kissing Billy in the dark
That time dad called the White House and got through
Picking blackberries with aunt barb
Sneaking into a movie theater with the girl next door
Eating alone at lunch, too shy to make friends
My brother falling in a hole in the road
Fishing for crawdads, then being too afraid to touch them
Scaring my sister with daddy long legs
Waking up in the hospital after a seizure
Getting a check that bounced for Christmas
The lake in Wisconsin so clear you could see the bottom
Trying to attract an older boy by pretending to be British
Going to the drive-in when dad left after a fight
Taking sleds to the meat market during the storm of '77
Jumping on the milk box
Another brother in braces with an icicle as tall as he was
pieces of my childhood
each of them a story
I cannot put them together for you
You just had to be there
In her slippery salmon swim
And red streaked Crawdads chute
Into her eddying pools
To stare at her from beneath rocks.
Whitewater rapids challenge men
To stand against her torrential frame
And face her, screaming out in pain
Torturous centuries of ecstatic rain
To be her solitary stone
To stand against her all alone
A true man to soften her cold soul.
And who’ll be her Reigning Lord
Echo her insanity
To lover her shade and slippery slopes
Crevices’ waiting, sharp inclines.
Once a current in the sea
So filled with green and mystery
To her a man did rarely come
Then, pulled up by curious shapes
Like lambs, in white puffs she flew
And traced her shadow cross the land
Till the puffs released her soul
In little flakes, gentle and slow
For a time entombed in frozen snow.
There men saw her as a sprite
Reflected in her cage of white
Men chased her form of watery light
In dreams that came hard in the night
Her body lucid, long and lean
A cold corpse, frozen to the earth
Blue hair, bent arm, frozen knee
The sun took pity, broke the back
Of the ice block and set her free
So through high mountains, cliffs
And rocks she trickled
In a gathering streams, in rivulets
Of tears, mouths open
Her bosomed skin slipped as ice
Pain built up the rage within
And sorrow brought it to the light.
Green – the color of fast and deep
White – the foam that came in waves
Along the long and joyous vein
She spreads her long body
Knee bent, her heavy breasts pinned
Blasted, rippled by the wind
She’s touched only by old earth’s hand
Its gravity like a naked man
Basking in her pools
Her faces and belly ghosting him, a mirror.
Watch her through the thickening trees
Her body sliding toward the sea
A torturous rape, a rapid ride
For all who’ve hung upon her side
Hearts pound, as she shrieks and sighs
With each down stroke a demon dies
Within the man who’s bourn the pain
Endured her crushing fingers round
Who’s felt the pound of her breasts soft
Been beaten by her to the blood
And awaits for centuries her cold flood.
“Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
Dressed up in their September best,
Falling silent, swirling and twirling
Reminiscing on how they’ve been blessed
By the God who created them
With all their vibrancy and quiet dreams
Sinking to the earth amid a hodgepodge
Colors in brilliant flames, awakening
Autumn with inspiring themes, coming
Alive like the moon and the starlight,
Glowing like a blaze of whirling insights
Darkening the past, whispering a caress
Through the gentle night, kissed
By the breathless hopes of a long-ago who breathes
Kindness, brilliant peace like the sunset
Echoing beauty throughout the twilight fantasies
Restoring grace to the promises, the faith
Abiding in the spirit of those who know
This October will bring more joy and more peace
Than any memory, any imagining – wishes
Thriving on the prayers like psalms in the wind
Welcoming the rich sighs of those who believe
This is the autumn’s ambition, to bring to us
A gathering of grief salted with intimacy,
Wonders so complete they feel like freedom
An album of lyrics, poetry fading into the symphony…
Autumn glory – beautiful anthology of truth
A compilation laced with inspiration, the muse
That relies on free will, shimmering solitude
Gratitude and pleasure, blended, mixed together
With the curiosities of life – completely satisfied
In all the beauty fading into the quiet silhouettes
Free feelings, relieved by time and bringing
Delight into the heart of those who remember
This is the way of the morning, the sun and the moon
All who remember to listen to the silence of Autumn’s song,
The enduring stillness, serenity roaring through the twists
And turns of the melody that this voice of Autumn hums
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
Used Quote Number: 7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
Date Written: December 23, 2022
Oy vey iz mir, one day in the life of a common house broken schmeckle...,
who did pötschke
and squander many an opportunity
to become a mensch
instead he became persona non grata
condemned to a history of misery,
not unlike Doctor Hyde and Mister Jekyll,
where friends, Romans countrymen did heckle.
After all said and done,
I best have stayed
safe and sound in the womb,
or hopefully at the least honored after death
with a squadron of B-52s
flying overhead with vroom
while being enshrined in a tomb,
cuz the living years of yours truly (me),
one after another trial and tribulation did loom
which figurative weave
courtesy weft and warp wove gloom
ordained I experienced hell on earth,
thus an inescapable doom
left no option except to skadaddle
into the outer limits of the twilight zone
at the edge of night
courtesy magic broom.
Plenty of times,
I ate in a crowded house,
where the crawdads sing
sinking their teeth into cranberries, meatloaf
and red hot chili peppers
served with a side order of pop slop
don't be put off by the name,
which mishmash actually yum zook,
nevertheless cuisine fiends spurred a tussle
where flock of seagulls
who got into a spat took
sparring mates to the cleaners
with angry yardbirds twittering about xyz,
and tweeting when loosely translated
into English language essentially meant
much ado about floccinaucinihilipilification,*
(Sounds like
flaa·suh·now·suh·nai·uh·luh·pi·luh·fuh·kay·shn)
according to legendary interpretation
by expert ornithologist with keen insight
rivaling that of the eagles
known for their skill playing chess
ofttimes, use an upside-down rook
to designate a queen
under United States chess federation
rules and in casual play take a look
for yourself, rather than believe amateur
what might be considered poppycock hook
line and sinker qualifying as gobbledygook,
which utter nonsense I did cook
up, yet please feel welcome my gibberish to brook
*the estimation of something as worthless.
7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
Somberness into existence is not a tumble.
Earth's ever-changing season mumbles.
Longing, pining, and scouring to leap, a sense free.
To beat, rupture of the endometrium of worry.
Find out how to tour this aesthetical orb.
Whatever you might protect is potherb.
Each step will pay off; Earth seems endless.
Maintain in mind her charming prowess.
Without mild radiation, stars would be ablaze.
The sparkle of your eyes makes you in a daze.
Shine bright, we made you for this world.
The zeal of fate, separate yourself from the herd.
It soars, snows, splashes, and seeks shelter.
Grasping beyond, setting up a binding welter.
Fall leaves were reflected on the bright floor.
Is it confined to a life of pain, as to explore?
Will the fall petals retain the bitterness of the shrub?
Was it chopped from moisture roots and snubs?
Are you rebelling over harsh conditions outside?
Or maybe the mood wasn't truly steady inside.
I identify dry autumn leaves with a restless soul.
How are the parts pulled out of the whole?
During leisurely walks. Integrate, and create a flow.
Awareness of the paradox of infinite glow.
Written: December 24, 2022
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
RIVER FISHING
After school my friend and I would walk through town to the river
Soon to bait our trout lines with cotton cake, crawdads and liver.
Sometimes we used baby bullheads, perch or great big frogs
Tossing out into the current next to a snag of logs.
At times we would disrobe and wade out in the stream
Attaching lines to anything hoping to hook our dream.
One day I made some doe bait and stuffed it in my sock
Attached five hooks, hundred pound line and tied it to a rock.
When I bragged to my classmates they snickered and called me fool
Till the next day they followed me to the river after school.
I made my way to the water my path was a fallen tree
Something big was on my line it was easy for us to see.
I tried to pull it in but the current was too strong
Three boys ran to assist me as we began to sing a song.
Going fishing instead of wishing for the granddaddy of them all
If we land this monster will give the sport shows a call.
It seemed like forever before our beast was ashore
Eighty-five pounds of flathead cat as big as a closet door.
We shared his steaks at a fish fry, food for heart and soul
Took his head and nailed it high for all to see on a pole.
For a time we ceased our casting instead we chased the girls
After marriage with our kids we again fished the swirls.
Too many of my friends have past and the years have raced by
Though here I sit with rod in hand a fisherman till I die.
By Tom Zart
We loaded up for a Sunday drive
The Ozark Mountains were alive
Wild dogwoods of pink and white
Every shade of green in sight
Blooming jonquils and daffodils
Woodpeckers, blue jays, and whippoorwills
Even though the painting was unfinished
Nature's bounty was being replenished
On switchback mountain roads
Past gray bluffs where eagles abode
A long slow roller coaster ride
With buzzards feeding alongside
Headed to our favorite place
A canyon God's finger had traced
Where echos and memories yearn
Friendly fires cleanse and burn
The raccoons, the skunks and the deer
Cared less that we were here
A nervous lizard escorted us to the creek
Clear running ice water froze our feet
A white misty blanket of fog
Spread out for the picnicking frogs
The rocks played a gurgling tune
In the middle of Mother Nature's bedroom
Sitting under a cottonwood tree
It all comes back to me
Generations of family laughter
Roaring in the treetop rafters
I saw an old man with his two sons
In shadowed waters catching crawdads for fun
My children's voices heard in the wind
As they both were learning to swim
I started coming here at age five
We've camped here hundreds of times
Back then this water was deeper
Each year the stream grows weaker
But time's wind blows no weather vane
All around memories remain
I come here a lot to look
And color in my life's coloring book
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
I was a mere lad of ten living on a prairie farm in Hoosier land,
Roaming the fields in my old straw hat, barefoot, carefree and tanned.
My faithful dog, Spooks, was always with me chasing rabbits,
(And rabbits were very plentiful due to their prolific habits!)
We had no inside facilities such as running water or a bath.
Our privy, as it was called, was located at the end of a winding path!
A Saturday night ritual was taking a sitz bath in a metal washing tub,
Then we'd pile in Dad's '35 Dodge and head for town after my scrub.
There was no TV in those days and my ears were glued to the radio,
Following the adventures of my heroes, filtered through static-filled audio!
I spent my meager allowance buying model planes and crafting the things.
Dozens hung from the ceiling of my room floating on gossamer wings.
I used a supple willow branch for a rod and a safety pin for a hook,
Angling for crawdads and wily crappie in the cool and flowing brook.
The Great Depression was ending way back then when I was ten.
Alas, World War Two began and things were never the same again.
On languid summer afternoons on a limb of the old oak tree I'd stretch,
And watch the scudding clouds as boyhood dreams I'd sketch.
Those were some of the things I did way back then when I was ten.
I'm four score and five now, but how I cherish memories of way back then!
Entry for Kelly Deschler's "Way Back When I Was Ten" Contest
A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE MALL
A funny thing happened on the way to the mall
It came in the form of a really odd call
My smart phone rang and answered itself
And began a conversation with a TV chef
The chef was Italian, my cell phone speaks Creole
I pulled to the roadside to hear things unfold
The chef indicated his need for her to see
What ingredient was missing from his new recipe
She said to the chef what you need is crawdads
The chef asked if that was all that he adds
She explained to him in her Creole accent
Crawdads would be his greatest advent
And in his Italian brogue he said okey dokey
But I think it will make my dish rather hokey
My Creole smart phone made this reply
I am a smart phone and I do not lie
The chef said to her how you getta my number
And why you calla me and tella me this bummer
She said to the chef get a line and a pole
Then take a walk down to the crawdad hole
Catch yourself a dozen or two
And change your recipe into crawdad stew
Then you'll be the most famous chef of all
Because you got it all from a smart phone call
Now the moral of this silly nonsensical rhyme
Is to see how many of you will take time
To see if your smart phone is smarter than you
And give an Italian chef your recipe for crawdad stew
25 June 2018
For the contest sponsored by Robert Haigh