Long Crawdads Poems
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“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).
Sheltered within my mother’s caring limbs
Through spring, summer, and autumn
I felt secure all through the changing seasons
Happy I was with my siblings
Playing, giggling, and whispering
But when I watch birds flying in the air
And the blue of the sky peeking through clouds
Instinctively I long to fly aloft
Into the enormity of a realm with no boundaries
I don’t know why I feel sometimes
Trapped in a jungle, so stuck and stranded
Pinned down in an awful fixation
Then I hunger to be a bird, spread my wings,
And ride upon the wind to join in an odyssey
Once when I announced my desire to my mother,
She said, “you are now mature enough
To free yourself from my sheltering clasp, so, I let you go”
Thus, from my caged existence, here I go
Slipping away from the cords that bind
Swaying and dancing on silvered wings
Jan.4.2023
~ Placed Second~
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sara Kendrick
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.
The night was rainy, hot and humid. It was the kind of night that populates steamy, black and white, noir movies where someone is murdered. The stars seemed reduced to sloshing behind moldy gray clouds, as damp and listless as seaweed in the surf.
“Let’s go see a movie,” Sophy suggested, as she brought up the Fandango website on the 70” smart TV. This quickly drew a brouhaha of excited interest.
“Ooo!, Bullet Train,” Anna said. “Elvis!” Lisa gushed.
“Where the Crawdads sing!” Sunny gasped.
“Super pets!” Leong declared, pointing - producing groans all around - THAT was a no-go.
“Maverick!” I said. “I could do that,” Sunny agreed, “he’s crazy, but I’m a Cruise fan.” she added.
In the end we decided to do a movie marathon with “Maverick” that night and “Elvis”, “Bullet Train” and “Where the Crawdads sing,” on Sunday.
As we ordered our treats at the theater concession stand, a tall, skinny, spotted, teenage boy attempted to flirt with Lisa. He smiled at her as confidently as a lizard, but sagged, like a shirt whose coat hanger was removed, when she pointedly ignored him.
Simple were the things that brought me so much joy,
During the fleeting summers when a Hoosier country boy!
As free as a soaring eagle in the vast wild blue yonder,
As o'er the meadows and through the woods I would wander!
Old Sol would rouse me beckoning through the window bay,
As if to say, "Up lad! Great things I have in store for you today!"
After a bite of ham and gravy bread I would scurry outside,
Barefoot of course - those worrisome shoes were cast aside!
There were crawdads to catch as I waded in the 'crick'.
Along the path there were blackberries I'd tarry to pick.
There was the ancient oak to climb and on a limb I'd stretch,
As I watched vagabond clouds and boyhood dreams I'd sketch!
With a safety pin for a hook, a willow branch for a pole,
I'd meander along the winding path to my favorite fishing hole.
If the fish were languid and of fishing I'd had enough,
I'd shed my patched overalls for a quick dip in the buff!
'Twas truly a delight on a mellow Hoosier summer's night,
To capture fireflies in a mason jar on their winged' flight.
'Tis so pleasurable now and again to pause and reminisce,
About such simple times and those summers of youthful bliss!
Entry for Janis Thompson's "Summertime" Contest
I stand
Standing upon the emerald landscape
posture stiff and still
Eyes like black holes
devouring the space around me
Glass horse galloping, prisms
exploding through the plainlands
Time passes faster and faster
the clouds cocoon and bloom
into a wrinkled face,
nearing a necessary wail
I blink
A cliffside abbey, tourmaline waves
crash into the fissured face
Hung to the horizon, dangling
like a Christmas ornament above the sea
A gaggle of nuns gather to practice their vespers
clasping on their ash wood rosaries
The atmosphere arranges
in etudes as the cliffside ascends
I fall
Wading face up in a bog
a common frog hops along my halo
I saw a woman I once loved
wrapped in the storm clouds, gliding
There's a murmur in the shifting
leaves above me,
the purest peatland water slowly rises
as though I’m an egg to be pickled
Drowning in the songs of the ancient
the spectral, the still unknown
I sink
Suspended in the cloudy drink
a liquid haze
a glowing quilt finds itself
around my shoulder blades
Where I imagine wings
would be surgically stitched
Adrift in the murky space,
I am an audience to an Annunciation
of marbled crawdads birthing clones
of nature performing miracles
Now I finally find a restful peace
amongst the kaleidoscopic
The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
“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
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
Let’s keep on learning* amidst reading glow
Kindled by wondrous interest to grow
Radiating wisdom along knowledge flow
To vanquish ignorance and folly’s blow.
Led by guiding light of truth’s Source aright
Let’s read God’s Word** for instructions so bright
Seeking to absorb divine news’ delight
So we can share love and grace with peace-might.
Expanding horizons, smiting doubt’s fear
Let’s advance, soaring toward changes’ steer
Reaching to impossibilities’ cheer
For development of functional gear.
Triumphant in fulfilling assigned roles
Let’s enjoy blessed life with learning goals
Blending ideas of different poles
Pulling others from vain deceits’ sinkholes.
(From Contest Sponsor: *8. She could read anything now, he said, and once you can read anything you can learn everything. It was up to her. “Nobody’s come close to filling their brains,” he said. “We’re all like giraffes not using their necks to reach the higher leaves.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 18: “White Canoe” (p. 131).
**2 Timothy 2:15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.
January 3, 2023
1st place, "Feel Free" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Sara Kendrick; judged on 1/6/2023.
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