Bugs, beetles, ants, spiders and nightcrawlers too
They sometimes get squashed on the end of my shoe
I found a baby gardener snake, said a city kid named Hue.
We wisely kept our counsel, knowing what to do.
The gardener snake was not a snake, but a worm so true.
A dried up nightcrawler that had dried up crispier than pooh.
We kept this quiet to ourselves, being full blood country blue.
To help Hue save a bit of face we all shrieked and said “ooh!’
Pigs are snorting as they roll in the mud.
Rabbits are hopping, not afraid of Elmer Fudd.
Chickens are cheeping, the birds are trilling.
Muddy nightcrawlers are silently drilling.
Barnyard is a place of happy liveliness today.
Horse is loving her bucket of grains, oats and hay.
Farmer’s wife has sprinkled feed for the cat.
However, the cat is busy chasing a rat.
Fox did not come to the chicken coop last night.
Large rooster is strutting anyway; he is a sight.
Tiny fluffy yellow chicks are pecking away.
It is a marvelous time in the feed lot today.
i am leftovers traded for yesterday's scraps
i am in the back of the refrigerator next to the baking soda
i am the mood food dude always treated rude
the body of my recipe has long since developed a tolerance to it all
once upon a time i was famous in your heart
your mind wanted to meet me
your body wanted my autograph
you made me feel confident in ways foreign to both my naked eyes
then i became familiar when the views of my ways became fully clothed
you then put plastic on my existence and put the mere thought of me in storage
when the fresh scent of my love was rediscovered, i was only attractive the transient nightcrawlers
i only had myself to talk to and you would only let me out on the twelfth of never
i am garbage headed for a land filled with the unsung and the unnoticed
i am on top of a pile of many versions of the latest casualty
i am a mash of trash treated like an itchy rash in a mad dash
the ivory of my decomposition has long since developed a tolerance for it all
The sun's rays come calling
Foreclosing on winter's frost
The sounds of life awaken
With the return of a season lost
Water lapping upon the shore
Shrouded by a misty fog
Nightcrawlers peeking out
From beneath a dew drenched log
Cloaked by dense green tules
In a boat solely manned
I am the stealthy fisherman
My rod and reel in hand
I can feel you gently biting
Nibbling my tasty treat
You strike with such accuracy
Then wisely you retreat
Hunger over powers caution
Snap! secured upon my hook
Let the scrimmage begin
Penance for the bait you took
Twisting, flopping. fighting
As I draw you to the shore
Your tenacity exudes maturity
You’ve played this game before
A desperate attempt at freedom
From your watery den you bound
Good lord I’ve caught Old Bassy
Your reputation is renowned
Fret not my aquatic friend
Your legacy is safe with me
A quick snip of my line
I most graciously set you free
Surely I will tell this story
But much to my dismay
They’ll call it a fishermans tale
About the one that got away
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.