IN AND OF THE SOMEBODIES WE ARE
Because I am, and you are—us…we—children of God,
And brothers and sisters of His son—heirs of ancestors
Of the same mother continent as Simon of Cyrene—we are,
And will always be—in this world everyday—somebody!
Yes, we are some hell of somebodies whose Black Lives Matter.
Heirs of ancestors who survived the sardine-pack Middle Passage,
And shelf-staged auction into slavery, Jim Crow, and legal injustice:
Navigating today’s journey to complete equity, we’re indeed somebody!
There once was a sleek silvery sardine
Who dreamed of marrying a svelte eel queen
With his heart ever lurching,
Swimming through seaweed searching
In an olive oiled tin, he was last seen.
A Little Fish
I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for my evening meal.
Headless and nicely packed they were, except for one that
had a head-on was alive. I filled water in a jar.
Put the sardine in and fed it bread crumbs.
The headless sardines in the tin, so still and dead, I could
not eat them, put the tin back in the fridge.
My little sardine grew too big for the jar, and cats were circling
The house, looking for a way in, so I took it to the empty lake
that once had Bluegills fished to extinction,
set my sardine free to feed on rotten vegetation-
I don`t know how fish reproduce, but a year later, a school
of sardines were swimming around, except for one that
swam the opposite way- Bonanza! Grilled sardines and
The people rejoiced, thinking it was going to last forever,
And then there were none except one, my sardine in oil.
I went down to the lake when the sardine saw me
was glad, jumped up in the air, and was caught by a bird.
Empty lake, a dead eye in the wilderness, tells no story.
Sardines in olive oil
A shop in Lisbon exclusively sold sardines
this interested me since my Norwegian mother
had worked at a factory selling tinned sardines
I asked if they had sardines from other country
they didn't but told me in tinned bacalao they
cod fish came from Norway
I noticed sardines in olive oil with the year the tin
was made, began from 1905 to 2024
but the years from 1930 to 1943 were missing
I asked why, but no one knew, I think no one had
noticed the gap
The staff at the shop, when I told them about
my mother was charmed and gave me a couple
of sardine tins from 1944
Successful Youngin
Yuppy
Guppy
Moon Fish
Luna
Tuna
Rhymer Fish
Snapper
Rapper
Ready for Combat
Marine
Sardine
Deceased Mob Boss
Bad trout
Had clout
New Mob Boss
Mobster
Lobster
The Strange One
This cod
is odd
The Affectionate One
Marlin’
Darlin’
Fish Valentine
I like
My pike
Dinner Con
The clam -
a sham
A Brisling (King Oscar sardines)
I opened a tin of sardines in olive oil for supper
Headless and nicely packed, except for one
that had a head and was alive.
I put the live one in a glass jar; the others looked
so dead I could not eat them, put the tin back
into the fridge
My little King Oscar sardine grew and was too
big for a jar, I had fed it bread crumbs,
real home
baked with butter.
Suddenly, there were many cats in the yard the adventurous cats tried to find an open window
I took my sardine to an empty lake.
the lake had once been full of bluegill, but overfished
to extinction, I sat my sardine free to feed on rotten
vegetations
I don't know how fish procreate, but soon there were
too many of them, a school of silvery beings
swimming around except for one going the opposite way
Bonanza!
Grilled sardines and red wine, people rejoiced, thought
this was going to last forever until there were non
except for my sardine, now so big it scared cats
when it saw me, it was so happy, jumped out of the water
caught by a passing eagle
Empty lake, a dead eye in the wilderness, tells no story
People are silent in the shadow of a man,
Terrified like an old gran,
Hiding like a sardine in a can,
While eating with a bun.
I notice that venting is now a crime,
Even their gut is empty from time to time,
Still dreading to ventilate the begrime,
Who will expound in every distant tongue?
They complain yet no one enunciates,
Their marshall is a waste,
Spreading hate just to sate,
Disappointed in their fate.
It seems strange now that I did not see
as I joined the dots one, two, and three.
Even through numbers four, five and six,
there was nothing I saw, nada, nix.
The pencil in hand soon did combine
a line between seven, eight, and nine;
then ten, eleven, twelve and thirteen
(past my age) and still, nothing was seen.
I skipped quickly from there to nineteen
yelled; I think it's a giant sardine.
Dad said no, son, you need to do more.
Slowly the line went past twenty-four,
so far, way past, now to forty-four.
The pencil went blunt, my fingers sore.
A big round circle to fifty-eight
I thought I saw it and said wait, wait!
No need to wait 'till hundred and ten
I saw what was there, a big fat hen!
I kept going past hundred and nine,
finished, coloured; it was mighty fine.
Dot to Dot Poetry Contest; placed 2nd
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
Date written: 17th November 2022
FLICK PROPHETIC FINGER
Knocking hard on a massive ancient gate,
Step out of a gaunt, granite building,
Leave behind its austere contents,
With wood-panelled box-seats,
Pinching sardine-tight orthodoxy's rumps,
Say farewell to enforced isolation,
Corralled within a pulpit-facing pew,
Flick prophetic finger
At sanctimonious conformity,
As I cross the widening threshold
Into a welcome world of
Confusing discovery.
Give place in me to an individual,
Questioning all from A to Z,
Finding the new pathway, opened out
To an approaching horizon. It holds
My curious gaze beyond
Present knowledge.
I know with some deeper weight of understanding,
Unhinged from the enclosed
Constriction in which I have been
A prisoner of my own choice.
Now the chains sheared off, scales
Fallen from once-blindfolded eyes,
I, flying as the uncaged bird,
Lift suddenly into free flight
On instinctive weaving
Of supple strength.
Uncle John is always jolly
A fisherman ever friendly
Bringing home sea-riches gladly
Sharing them with us lovingly.
On Monday, he catches great fish
Salmon and tuna for tasty dish
Tuesday gives clams or shells’ relish
While Wednesday offers sardine whish.
Each Thursday of good fishing gain
Makes Friday sales big to contain
Saturday, he rests with no strain
Sunday, he prays, “God, bless us again.”
Oh, jolly fisherman’s delight
To give and share with joyous might
He says, “Don’t be selfish; stay bright...”
We learn* from Uncle John, that’s right.
*Matthew 11:29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.
September 9, 2022
New yellow striped tabby was wooed by the crowd.
They were mysterious to him, scary and loud.
They invited him to come have kibble bites and tea.
He asked his mama “Why do they all want me?”
You are a new guy to the neighbors the mother said.
Take it as a compliment but don’t let it go to your head.
But I want to stay here and snuggle with you Mommy.
She loved that too; it was comfy as anything could be.
New yellow striped tabby sent back a couple of accepts.
He had tea and kibble bites, and donut holes full of sardine flecks.
This is fine and dandy he told his Mama Dear.
But in truth, the best thing of all is to stay and snuggle here.
Chef Bourdain
1956-2018
Surf and turf, a sardine in tin; will travel.
Your downward spiral
Magnanimity that whetted our appetite
Fans everywhere you excite.
Consumed the exotic and
consumed by erotic specialty dishes.
Five mother sauces to haute cuisine
Mouthwatering too obscene
You've come to your exit; I hope it’s delicious!
I celebrate you, it’s all been nutritious.
While in the market place I’ll know from a mile
Where the assorted fish is sold, sliced or whole
Tuna, sardine or trout, all frozen tucked in ice pile
Fish smell drives away the essence from my soul.
The recipes of global repute people so much adore
Salmon rillette, tartine, lutefisk, sushi or even caviar
Make at sight my olfactory senses revolt and sore
I won’t eat these, not make gas within, turn cavalier.
If our tastes develop an avid aversion for fish ever
This aquatic species would swim cheerfully, I wish
My food would be full of pleasant vegetarian flavor
The smell of fishy gas would never float over my dish.
September 30, 2021
Contest : May The Gas Be With You Farts Part 2
Sponsor : Chantelle Anne Cooke
Alexander Graham Bell
It was fine, quiet winter´s day I listened to distant noise,
dogs bark -you can´t avoid this in the Algarve-
smoke from chimneys straight up before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about looking like wedding dresses of the unmarried,
The sun is a golden coin captain hook would kill to obtain.
I smell grilled sardine, and a cat on a fence is watching me.
I sternly tell myself to go for a walk before it gets too cold
But blithely ignore the inner voice.
As I drift on a slothful cumulus, my phone rings
I answer the voice says, sorry, the wrong number.
The scientists
It is a tranquil winter day. I listen to a distant nose
a dog barks, typical in Algarve, smoke from chimneys go
straight before disbursing and disappearing.
A few clouds drift about like wedding dresses of the unmarried.
The sun is a golden coin captain Hook would kill for.
I smell grilled sardine, the opening and closing of doors
a cat sits on a wall watching me.
I go into a café, three scientists talk about Mars, until one says
let us talk about marine biology.
The other two laugh. Do you mean grilled sardines?
They are theoretical physicist and thing they are bees’ knees.
I drink coffee, eat a Napoleon cake.
Drive home, it has been a good day when the phone rings
I don´t bother to answer it.
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