Long Scallops Poems
Long Scallops Poems. Below are the most popular long Scallops by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Scallops poems by poem length and keyword.
We live by the sea, just we two, you and me
It offers us all that we need
From our heads to our toes, you make all of our clothes
From sea grass and sometimes sea weed
If our ocean provides it, you will utilise it
I so like the way that you think
Our clothes made from stuff that you found on the beach
But your feet, well they surely do stink
Those earrings you made from a couple of cockles
That pendant you made from a shell
Your bikini top is a strap and two scallops
But your feet, they surely do smell
I keep us well fed from the sea and sea bed
While you keep us suited and booted
You’re my Wonder Woman it has to be said
But your feet, well they really are putrid
We sit on the shore and we like nothing more
Than watching the waders and dippers
But we can’t stay long, there’s a God-awful pong
For your slippers are made out of kippers
[For the uninitiated, kippers are butterflied, smoked herring.]
scavenger hunt
sandy summer beach
welcomes a scavenger hunt ~
hot sand samba dance
lacy edged scallops
rippled shells like wind kissed surf ~
trim tidal ball gowns
fallen stars – starfish
through clear waters see the sky ~
starlets seeking fame
building spiral rooms
nautilus remodel grows ~
under construction
precious sand dollars
bear reminders of the cross ~
hidden doves seek sky
from many seashores
loves sandy, sheltered, beaches ~
cockle shells sea hearts
grazing the seabeds
cerith night hunter in swirls ~
aquarius shell
many alias
periwinkle and magpie ~
whelks create red dye
lazy summer days
tidal froth splashes through surf ~
shells decorate beach
It isn’t the incandescence that bothers me
It’s that anyway you spin the arrow,
Whatever goal or mission or path you undertake,
They’re all correct.
The full force of your efforts is all that matters.
A congress of pelicans came to dinner last night
While I swung scallops at the High Mistress.
The miasma! My asthma!
You’ve driven me right down Knucklehead Lane now.
My knee hurts. I should’ve taken Hertz and
Let the engine roar up into a God-awful thunder.
Jumping in and out of mosques.
Carrying news I can't interpret.
Practicing silliness under the cupboard,
Beside the space that has no name.
I am that space with a wicked haughtiness.
I am also however lofty I dare my balloon to rise,
Navigating my own slim spool.
Dr. Thumbopolis is ready for me now.
Time to stop writing.
Don’t dare bring this back to “incandescence.”
(You horrible hack.)
What bothers you if not the flooding light
Busting through baseboards, then?
Go on. Answer.
He wanted to go and catch scallops
gets into a boat called a shallops*
He didn’t look at the time
And had committed a crime
It’s into the court he now gallops
Five thousand pounds he’s now got to pay
A ‘timely’ error on the said day
This ‘scallop advisor’
Just should have been wiser
This fishy story won’t go away!
Poem based rather ironically on a TRUE story in the Manx press today
http://www.manxradio.com/news/isle-of-man-news/scallop-advisor-fined-for-illegal-fishing
*a little poetic licence about his boat but a Shallops is a sailing boat used for coastal fishing
15th January 2018
Bazball pimps now shrimps on the barbie
So low did stoop scoop of Nincompoop soup
Trumpet the thump it Bazball strumpet crumpet
Bravado of trio with brio plus lardo & avocado
Braggadocio Pinocchio mumbo jumbo gumbo
Bizarre under par no cigar mis-steak tartare
Phony baloney mony mony minestrone
Fish & swish delish dish of death wish Gibberish
Wacky ego from hero to zero tacky shi*show taco
Don’t give a f*ck not once but twice spliced duck
Flame grilled chances spilled one trick pony
Gobbledygook spooked overcooked zabaglione
Slurry in a hurry won’t worry say sorry curry
Baggie green vented spleen terrine
Why would you even risk it brisket
Takes the proverbial herbal verbal biscuit
Ashes hope killer dope quesadilla
Oz supernova it’s already over Dover sole
Lamb to the ripsnorter slaughter
Drole rigmarole goad toad in the hole
Baz puns like Mao’s guns in bao buns
Gory no glory story does bore me Tandoori
Bazball goals down golf holes silly sausage rolls
Canned slices of fanned tanned Barmy army
Starc tsunami lark umami like spiced pastrami
Bavette baguette of bet will forget any regret
Baz & Ben flower pot men smarmy salami
Stumble derails still no humble pie tales
Scallops with dollops of lolloping Codswallop
Bazball boast spit roast with burnt toast trollop
Snipe this tripe is as ripe as our Gripe
Gabbatoir bete noir Pom bomb Dauphinoise
Done like a kipper without Warne’s flipper
Stellar Aussie fella mortadella from the cellar
Hoodwink stink of our skipper.. all cheesy hype
Shocker if this is our Test best.. zest of fu*k fest
In the locker of Davy call in the navy cos Bazball ain’t gravy
Dead fish on the dead fish counter;
surprised bulging aqueous eyes stare,
none of them belly-up
but spread on their sides in a pageant
of slippery colors.
Silver, red, rainbow streaked
and all the muddy tones
of river and sea are laid out
on the broken ice for all to judge.
Armored scales flash as if still warding off
other sharp-finned hunters.
These dead fish look uncomfortable,
packed so close as they are
to their sharp-toothed salty cousins.
Fat scallops glisten under the lights,
lobster and crabs hogtied and still glaring
angrily out at this dead fish world.
The skinny kid probably doesn’t know exactly
what a fishmonger does - so few ‘monger’ now.
Of course this is the Midwest, not Seattle or Maine,
we are far from any deep blue waters
and this is a large grocery store;
they don’t hire fishmongers here anymore,
just this kid, and he don’t even like seafood.
When I ask for a Monkfish
pointing out the ugliest dead fish on offer
he handles it as if it were radio-active.
His cringing fingers slip over its wide gargoyle mouth
and for a moment he looks like
he is about to throw-up.
The ugly dead fish is on my kitchen-top now.
I want to cut that hideous head off
but know better,
the best meat is in its fishy cheeks
and the rest is good also, 'a poor man’s lobster.'
besides it will always be a drop dead truth,
that beauty is in the eye of all dead fish shoppers.
Figs stuffed with proscuitto and mascarpone cheese,
a plate of bacon wrapped scallops and pineapple.
French onion soup is bound to please
or garlic steamed mussels with which to grapple.
Artichoke hearts smothered in sherried cream;
pears with sugar and cinnamon in butter sauteed;
pork tenderloin medallions make a demi-glaced dream
while crisped lyonnaised potatoes are made.
Now with a sip of Pouilly-Fuisse'
tastes flush the palate like a gourmet concert.
A toast to good friends on this wonderful day
as ice wine chills to serve with dessert.
A plate of old fashioned Bananas Foster-
perhaps in the morning, eggs benedict with lobster!
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 !"
Amber light spills across the shifting floor,
As trade winds comb the wide, uncrowded shore.
Ghostly sand crabs roam the sunny beach,
Scurrying back to caves just out of reach.
While hermit crabs—like fiddlers in the track—
Carry their borrowed houses on their back.
Seaweed lies scattered along the wet strand,
As busy beach-hoppers leap across the sand.
Left in the wake, a colorful display
Of scattered shells lies brightening the day:
Scotch bonnets shine, and ridged-back cockles gleam,
With bay scallops and coquina in between.
The empty conchs speak secrets of the deep,
While smooth olive shells and sand dollars sleep.
As rushing waves pass over wet sand beds,
The hidden sand fleas duck their tiny heads,
And try to bury deep beneath the foam
Before the pulling water returns home.
Along the surf, the sandpipers race,
Chasing the foam in a frantic pace,
Probing the wet sand for something to eat,
Dancing away on their tiny feet.
Clear water crests in a brilliant blue,
Crashing down with a rhythm true,
Irregular waves roll up the shore,
Then pull back out to the sea once more,
A muffled, deep, resounding ring,
Like diving deep where the ocean swells sing.
Just past the shallows, the water is clear,
Where the lip of the wave starts to appear.
Bright silver mullets dart through the green,
Leaping and twisting, a beautiful scene.
Small striped sweeps ride the tubular curl,
Gliding suspended in a liquid swirl,
Caught for a moment inside the glass,
Watching the beach and the walker pass.
High overhead, the white gulls lean and soar,
Riding the updrafts of the quiet shore.
A noble pelican slows in the sky,
Eyeing the shallows where the breakers lie,
It folds its wings to make the final dive,
While in the dark, the deep sea stays alive.
It can’t have been the scallops,or the rump of Islay lamb,
washed down with white Rioja, and followed by sweet meringue.
It wasn’t the skate au poivre or the salmon canapés,
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.
Relentless, there’s no respite. In purgatory now moaning,
in agony exclaiming, as tormented he writhes about,
“Must be a change in the weather
has caused this devilish gout”.