Long Like a fish out of water Poems
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Did the first creature to crawl
out of the proverbial, primal primordial,
onto the sand,
feel like a fish out of water,
out of its depth,
when high and dry on land?
With no wish to carp or cock a snook
I won't leave you in the lurch
but oh my cod take a look
what a plaice to perch
as just for the halibut
putting seahorses out to paddock
is enough to give one
a severely bad haddock
so no red herring I don't flounder around
take a peeled eel flake of baked hake
plus a pinch of pickled pilchard
and an ichthyic sandwich make
but if my words are vitriolic
you may grunt and kiss my bass
as it's all a load of pollock(s)
we had all grown used to seeing me in a hospital bed
but this time,
i don’t know if i’ll pull through.
my mother is a brilliant woman.
strong and tenacious.
i can feel her anxiety building
as my blood pressure lowers each hour
she is silently screaming
i learned that from her.
her tears are guarded by
the pressure of being
my mom.
but there’s just so much
and i cannot carry it all,
not alone.
i try to breathe
a wheeze escapes me
i choke on my own air supply,
the thing that gives me life
is now killing me.
my mother lets a sob escape,
but quickly falls back into
her stoic facade.
i see the bright blue of my father’s jacket
he walks past the window
of my room
for the first time.
when the doorknob squeaks
and the room is exposed,
my father smiles at me.
a fake smile,
a pained smile,
but a smile nonetheless.
i have never seen my father cry.
he is not emotionless,
he is not stoic.
it just seems as though
this man was not meant to cry
as if this life was built for his smiles only.
but he walks in,
and nearly falls to the ground.
the beeping of the heart monitor
almost drowns out
the sounds of his cries
as he sits in a puddle of his own tears.
almost.
my body is connected to machines
like a droid,
waiting for myself to power off.
i don’t feel afraid,
but i begin to regret.
maybe i wanted to live,
maybe i’m not ready to die.
maybe i’m just too terrified
of the sounds of my father’s sobs.
i inhale.
i exhale.
one breath at a time.
when i cry until i have no tears left,
i use my free arm to sit myself up.
i feel like a fish out of water,
my body is not mine.
but i sit up,
and for the first time in days,
i speak.
my voice is hoarse,
the air is tense.
i press the button
to summon the nurse.
a young woman in scrubs
rushes in.
“Please,”
I say,
“I want to live.”
i did it.
my father is no longer crying.
my mother softens her face.
if only my words
that made the whole floor light up,
were not a lie.
The sun having a frozen side~
a wish like a snowball in hell,
or netting the wind while oceans b o i l
in f i r e.
The rage of its heat needs curtailing.
I'm melting...
like chocolates and candles~
roasting like chicken in an oven.
How then
do I hide the cry of my fat?
With the frozen side of the sun,
snowflakes fall but never thaw,
painting my doorstep in white,
chilling my bones dry,
shaking my limbs stiff.
Birds hide their faces...
and songs become faint echoes in snow-draped distance,
while rasping hoots of early-rising snowy owls
mimic the whispers of restless winds—
announcing the coming of an impending
dark sky
that will not abate...
the ceaseless dropping of white flakes.
I'm b o i l i n g—
a tempest brewing...
not as a boiling frog syndrome
but like a fish out of water
in a slough of despond.
My skin scathes,
heat burns leave sores on my soles.
Long rays of shine pierced my sunshade;
sweat formed oceans on my skin.
And I w h i s p e r e d—
in the absence of ears~
"I need the frozen side of the sun."
Someone gently rolls me over
Onto this white slab, belly down
And I wait ... like forever
Or at least it seems like forever, anyway
Above me is a mirror,
So, I turn my head and strain to see it -
In seeing Runic inscriptions there on my backside,
I try to read them but can't ...
I can't interpret their meaning
Then, this drill of light
Comes and hovers over me.
I flip like a fish out of water
And I'm blinded out of my body
I can remember it now -
I fell into a deep
Strange awareness
That I was being abducted by aliens
Or was coming to in the middle of surgery
I was exposed, naked, and scared out of my wits -
That's when I began to write
And I haven't stopped since ...
Generating a ring
of bright waters, which
currently meanders, ponders,
and then streams - twitch
ching reflexively as flora
and fauna lap rich
text chard liquid
timelessly streaming, rippling,
and quivering pitch
sure risk gully confidently
babbling, bobbing, bubbling,
burbling loch a king
dominating his rill small niche
wade ding in the wings,
one doth espy, (sans oxbow lake)
analogous to an err
river rent sea sunned bay sic
wide whirled, whetted, webbed itch
perhaps berthed as a cripple creek,
and/or survivor of a kill
ling, which ordinary
happenstance attempts
to anthropomorphize
life giving resource hitch
ching various synonyms for water,
where sustenance to biosphere
can become flushed out
vis a vis via an ecological glitch
which dry dystopian scenario,
within the realm
of human activities circumstance
leaving most animals plants awash
bay sic lee lurching,
gasping, and choking
within an immense oceanic ditch
availing an alien landscape
awash with post apocalyptic
desiccated global cribbage
match, where the losing hand
would be a real ,
thus summarily, punctiliously, and merrily
describes the edifying whirlpool
life sike kill
where countless marine species will flounder
(literally like a fish out of water)
viz deadened ghyll.
On the June 11th, 1963,
Thich Quang Duc, a Buddhist Monk,
sat down in the Lotus position on a street in Saigon.
His fellow monks poured petrol on him as he had requested.
He sat there for a moment not taking a breath.
He nodded and set himself on fire and burned himself to death.
He was protesting against the mistreatment of Buddhists,
by the Catholic South Vietnamese government.
It is difficult to imagine what he was thinking in his last moments.
I trust he was saying a Buddhist prayer like this one:
“ Today has passed, Life is getting shorter ,
Like a fish out of water, nothing fun about that
Masses must be diligent, Let go the fire in the head
Just remember impermanence.
Do not let go of it, hear the bell, reduce afflictions
Greet wisdom, Leave hell, Escape ignorance
Save all beings from suffering ”.
Is this the age of Fire and Ice?
The time when men take up guns again,
Or will tomorrow see the glorious rain,
Forgo the need for Fire.
Little Ila of warm Indian waters
was born without fins but with feathers.
“Fishes don’t fly,” they constantly told her
wings in water are just a bother.
Tightly she wound them close to her
and tried her best to keep up with peers
Oh, she once even tried to pluck out her feathers
so she wouldn't look like a fish out of water.
But as she grew, her wings became larger
and surely you realise, swimming became tougher.
Was she the only freak of nature,
she spent her time in depressed wonder
Then she met the turtle who seemed wiser
and gave her a dream of a sky up higher
There’d be hills and vales and trees and flowers
and an eternally bright cloudless summer.
The journey was arduous but nothing could deter
little Ila to defiantly labour up to the border
Then the sun shined in her eyes, struggle just a blur,
with a leap of faith soon she flew… out of water.
Living off the grid..
I bid you ..
It's a challenge..
Living off the land..
For it's quite bland..
A taste of the great outdoors..
Mother Nature exposed..
Absolutely no power..
I cannot even take a shower..
Walk to the stream to fetch some water..
I feel like a fish out of water..
Always in my life I had it made..
Now I can't even get out of the shade..
The sun beats down..
I frown as I run for cover under a massive tree..
So I am free of sun burn..
Food is totally organic..
Which is fresh and pure..
That is for sure
Picking berries and fishing for salmon..
What a way to work up an appetite..
No technology had left it all behind..
Though I didn't think I would mind..
Life is simple living off the grid..
I rid myself of the everyday grind of urban living..
I bid it all a farewell..
Now I have learned how to survive..
So urban life can now take a nose dive..
Hello Madam Butterfly, with the looks of being caught between a rock and a hard place. While you were being formed and before ever you were born, I
watched near by. I even observed you there all alone, never knowing how long it would be; but I waited for you.
I really like your style, your courage, your dedication, and can't wait for your exit. Yes, my dear, I have been eyeing you for days on end, looking forward to meeting you. Oh by the way, I am Mr. Bee, just one of many who know and understand hard work. I may be a horse of a different color, a different species, or to you, like a fish out of water. However, I know love when I see it, and I can feel it with you, as you struggle in your cocoon.
I was tempted to hasten your exit, but I knew better to leave you be, alone
and naturally. I have a vision of what you'll look like when you break forth; and you will be just stunning. You'll be strong and free like me, and your feathers will be a sight to see as you fly with me. Oh sweet Madam Butterfly, all the bees and butterflies will be forced to stop and stare.
We will be the first of our kind; most odd I'd say, but two of a kind to fall in love. Moreover, we will pay them no mind, because I took the time to wait for you to be truly mind.
10312017 PS Contest, Love Letter, Viv Wigley
The following reasonable obsolete rhyme
verst heard in my faux class (sic) lilting brogue
courtesy coronavirus (COVID-19) rogue
wrought approximate sixth month academic hiatus
nevertheless September 1st, 2020
signals resumption of school year back in vogue.
Challenges abound as millions of students re:zoom
trudging off to..., yet another bus comes by... vroom,
whereby administrators establish
virtual and/or actual room
adapt to delegate assignments as reported by newsroom
facilitated by yours truly,
a bonafide married, yet unbridled groom.
Though mind boggling, death defying,
and harrowing scenario daring to crisscross
(dangerous information highway road)
will confront those most qualified to teach
impressionable minds to overload
nevertheless I envy those learning
courtesy high tech mode.
Golden (gated) opportunity
spectacularly presented to bridge,
kickstart, and buttress young minds
immodestly excited and
amenable to learn online
one old googly eyed
aging pencil necked geek
makes his poetically cameo appearance
crafting awareness about severe complication
hash-tagging those best equipped to teach,
which alternatives pinterest me
linkedin, trumpeted nsync with
tried and true methodology
(think white/blackboard
with markers and/or chalk respectively),
who by the way never got chosen to
clap erasers outside,
fold flag ditto after said
emblematic sanctified cloth unfurled,
nor serve as safety patrol.
Though born within baby boom generation,
I horrendously (nobly) struggled
to acquire cognitive consonance
floundered like a fish out of water
forever barely achieving passable grade
He readily attests de facto failure
if hypothetically enrolled in kindergarten today,
I would get demoted to preschool
(a slight bit of hyperbole),
thus both laments abysmal track record,
whereby attending conventional
schools of hard knocks
(situated within Lower Providence district)
emotionally fracturing psyche
until this very waking moment,
and moost likely mine
remaining tenure on Earth.