Long Salmon Poems
Long Salmon Poems. Below are the most popular long Salmon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Salmon poems by poem length and keyword.
"Red Hearts"
In black and white,
openings
and dead ends abound;
Words read.
Hearts read.
What matter the colours
of skin and minds now?
The best of us
sat in hell.
Take consolation in that -
He made His way out,
for us, for Himself.
A Poet-Prophet - no doubt,
lessons in complexity,
embedded deep,
forgotten by most of such belief.
Isolated and removed, we try hard,
we try our best to follow
like hungry sheep.
You’re in good company now.
Aren’t you?
You’re in good company now?
The best of us
has sat in hell,
He,
made His way out.
We look inward daily
at our self-imposed rituals,
each word hung on a line -
dissolving into a wall, we're just residuals.
Our reflections mirrored in the all-seeing power,
the paler shadows cast outward
from our removed selves, where –
Love casts its spells.
Love will always cast its spells.
Blind eyes turn away,
laughing it all out loud
like simple jokes needing to be expelled.
Blind eyes turn away.
What is past is forgotten here,
in the mostly untarnished always.
Hearts hearing truth
will tell it as it is –
always.
Without hesitation, without doubt,
they cast their spells out loud.
Their words speak truth, bleeding,
swimming like salmon upstream,
just as they are –
alone, unclouded, would-be poets
with muddled hearts up in the clouds,
watching for their Shining North Star
amongst all the falling stars.
We look inward, some of us,
for the meaning of who we truly are.
It seems so close, yet removed, so far;
We make our way out,
in the end, somehow.
Words read.
Hearts read.
Love
has the strongest power,
somehow.
Love
is what is needed most.
When delivered without proof –
unconditional,
Love will always save us.
This could hurt…
pierced hearts are read here,
bleeding strong power.
Candide Diderot. ‘26
The wine & I
Poem
Lionel Derbyshire
Hoo-ha !! cheers
The wine and I tonight
A racket we will clamor
Talk is cheap .. hic
WINE:
“I am Chardonay
Was once a fruit on a vine
Now I am a dry white”
ME:
“I thought you were
Risling or maybe Pinotage
Sorry are we in the month of May
Hic .. or is this my third glass”.
WINE:
“Your third bottle now
I'm running on empty
I‘m better with turkey
So I am wanted”
ME:
“Who you calling turkey !
I'll have you smoked
Bloody nerve you (s)wine !”
WINE:
“oh you talk ..
Then try me with salmon”
ME
“someone going where ?”
WINE:
“not what I said”
ME:
“what now ..?”
WINE
“i am i said
the barman’s finest
Best with fish”
ME:
“wish for ?”
WINE
“Oh dear …
Waited on a rack
So long…
And now
I get you “
ME:
“ hic ..
Mind your own...
Business comma hic”
WINE:
“ I am the barman’s finest”
ME:
“how dare you call me
the crow’s nest”
hic
February is a love song
composed on the mood of spring
in the tempo of a Christmas waltz,
modulating to estival embraces—
recapitulating vernal feelings
when autumn falls.
February is a pulsing heartbeat,
a twinkling eye,
a bold susurration,
here and gone in twenty-eight days—
an interrupted cadence.
The whole world would be stoned
should Cupid's quivers march along.
February is a bouquet of roses,
a box of chocolates;
goblets of a bubbly cherry wine,
threads of scarlet satin suited for ballroom romances;
two salmon swimming upstream undaunted
to birth the next generation.
It can't have been the scallops
Or the rump of Islay lamb,
Washed down with white Rioja
Followed by sweet meringue.
It wasn't the skate au poivre
Or smoked salmon canapes
Nor garlic stuffed green olives
Or the double chocolate glaze.
The ruby red barolo
Is surely not to blame
(It was so very very good,
We had some more of the same).
The piquant piccalilli
That came with the ham terrine
Was absolutely to die for,
In French, "Cuisine Sublime".
The roasted veg in garlic,
The rich redcurrant sauce,
All perfectly delicious -
And then we passed the port.
Replete, we left the table
Of coffee to partake,
With a couple of Glenlivets
To sup for old times' sake.
A perfect evening, then off to bed
To dream of happy days.
'Twas not to be, a sudden waking
With a screeching shout of pain,
The hounds of hell were gnawing
At a foot now sore inflamed
And throbbing, throbbing, throbbing,
In purgatory now moaning,
In agony exclaiming,as,
Tormented, he writhes about,
"Must be a change in the weather
Has caused this devilish gout !"
Poetry garden, rapidly growing sanctuary
Rainbows blooms and foliage started,
Fairies nurturing nature with their magical peace
Enter spring, summer, fall, winter,
and season’s only temporary fix for a reason
Dreams shaped themes formed that never cease,
expression of feelings and ideas upon a lifetime
Castle raise brick by brick,
rising days, slumber nights,
lovers nestle frozen in time
Lullabies sung from bedtime stories,
smiles of happiness, and tears of sorrow
Dandelion fluff scatters by the slightest breeze;
Ocean’s breathe music of lapping waves,
streams and rivers flow as salmon run
Rhythm, Rhymes, harmony, verses unravel
Poetry garden, a family dwelling on the beauty of life
10/23/2016
Community Builders Free for All Tribute - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Andrea Dietrich
A tribute to all the poets that or constantly inspiring,
constantly capture a moment Thank you
Cadre, thou art quincurion.
Five pointed star says sight, scion.
One in the center, mighty strong.
Four on the sides to greet the throng.
Clamber right o'er that wall, burglar.
Prize in thy eyes, shoot past the par.
Combination lock, face of safe.
O machine gunner, time to strafe.
Quinnat, move thy force in quinnet?
Pincer formation wins the bet.
However, salmon, wedge has wings.
Beware the spinneret. It stings.
Coalacanth, in the glassy lake.
Life is a rogue with thirst to slake?
Turmoil and trial? Fresh ocean blue?
Red rabbit, river, run straight through.
Quoddity, haunt the quadlibet?
Placard, plinth alabaster. Yet:
Relevance, where do you stake claim?
Pertinent, prosper. Fling, O flame.
Entelechy, thy entalpy.
Reason, heat up and sing in me!
Tangle, my thought-spark! Lightning falls!
Blistering broadsides by the balls!
Salve of diviner, vision weird.
Cel animation leered and jeered.
Alien skies and faces strange.
Jagged pulsation, range the change.
Electric shock, fire furious eyes.
Bring back the bolt that fastest flies.
Whirlpool, hum and whir. Broken bow.
Whippoorwill, swallow, undertow.
Minnekhada .
My China Girl
-------------------
Yesterday
Brought to me an exquisite, exotic China Girl, from Beijing.
Yesterday an adventure in Minnekhada, - my spirit did sing
with joy at her kind,open heart - as her delightful soul did bring
into this beautiful B.C. day, a glimpse, as I watched her, in wonder
at Mother Nature, in all her fall splendor, Salmon spawning under
blue skies, a black Bear, and there I knew nothing could tear asunder
the moments shared, those Innocent looks, the holding of hands
as we explored - China Girl, for the first time - these tranquil lands
of Minnekhada, showing off all her natural beauty.
A moment in time with China Girl ( Nattily ) and all her, inner beauty.
Today
And I think of the Polish Princess, and all that was missed,
all she never gave, from her heart, not even, in passion, was I kissed.
And I now wonder ?, what China Girl, might have in store for me.
Will she be ?, - I am not so sure - as the Princess, ( easy to see ).
B. J. "A" 2
November 4th 2009
Dinner with old friends:
salmon with red cabbage, asparagus, Caesar's salad, penne with
broccoli, two white wines.
Jane Jacobs could analyze how it all got to our table
or even how their daughter came to us from Cambodia.
The economy or market bringing a thing of beauty, the farms, the trucks,
such comfort. The ancients knew this too
yet we are anxious about famine, genocide and nuclear war.
How can we organize (govern) ourselves to end self-imposed suffering?
That Quebec and Puerto Rico may secede peacefully at any time a
majority chooses is a source of pride. Why not Kurds, Chechyns,
Tibetans and Armenians?
Difficult to write a poem about it. At table, candlelight, we debate
or whine about the other side winning and making a mess
of our lives. The election could be stolen, tampering with voting
machines,
what policy question does that possibility raise? War in Iraq,
school testing, prison population. Religion, the abyss surrounding the
little promontory life.
It'll all work out in the end. Go to your daily practice, be a good citizen.
Another failed effort to write what I mean. Such confusion, yet
two white wines.
Masked and disguised, my first grade teacher, Miss Chark, kept her true identity under wraps one hundred and ninety-two days a year.
She liked sunlit naps, the smell of catnip, but most of all, to be left alone in front of a glowing snapping orange fire with a huge bowl of salmon.
What would the parents say if they learned the truth?
Less than three days before she appeared at the Board of Education office, she had mysteriously awoken from a Saturday night cat nap, and noticed that not only was her tail missing, but she had
turned into an enemy, a fur-less human!
Miss Chark could neither read nor write but no one knew that. She did not have a teaching license, but no one checked.
Luckily she knew English, even though she had never spoke it before, and she knew she needed money to buy herself food. We children loved her and taught her how to read.
Mr. Poindexter, Mrs. Chark's new pet cat has a serious moral dilemma. He has the heart of a young boy mouse, but the taste buds of a cat. He only liked cheese and peanut butter yesterday, but this morning his tail had grown long and fluffy, and he no longer liked his mousey things.
There is a thin line between real and pretend, and you, Miss Chark, and you , Mr. Poindexter, have fallen into the Twilight Zone
I am Sheberra, the Ruler of Christmas Town of Swiss Miss lore.
Overlooking the decorating that will begin at six minutes past four.
My subjects are getting off work early to begin satisfying me.
Some of the suck-ups may begin as early as a quarter past three.
It is two forty-six now, so I am high on my queen’s view ledge.
I can see some of the spies hiding under bridges; one is under a hedge
Christmas Town will be beautiful decorated to its height by tonight.
It will be a gorgeous, awesome, curiously terrific bright sight.
Some of my subjects will climb up here trying to coax me down.
They are not my regulars, rather new to merry ole’ Christmas Town.
The ones who know me, have already left gifts at my door.
Salmon sandwiches, tuna casserole, catfish cotton candy and more.
I will be haughty and dainty, and let them wonder and think.
My husband knows me better, I shall give him a wink.
We will be the Santa and Queen Sheberra of Christmas Town.
I can smell those delectable dishes calling, so now I climb down.