why is he so shy?
he is such a lovely guy
ideas are barren and dry
see how high he can fly?
we looked up into the sky
ghost boy had just said good-bye
tiny like a butterfly
our shy cousin, small fry
I felt a teeny tear in my eye
my body gave a gentle sigh
ghost boy is lithe and spry
goodbye he yelled good-bye, good-bye!
gave me a thumbs up on my lemon pie
his appreciation made me cry
all emotions toward him I multiply
I love him so, I cannot lie!
‘Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful.’ – Molly Ivins
A fly on the wall; a listening bug, if you will, ha!
Over conversational buzz I hover
oh, the grift and greed I discover.
Did you know the common-man-ripoff
is a state sponsored affair? (Gasp!)
Elite pockets; cold in the snow job
if not lined with heat of poor money. If
mouthparts spoke, I’d sip rot to tip truth; a spy
for the small fry, not for rooting media piggies
… for who would suspect a lil ole drone like me?
The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,
while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.
Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.
When Grandpa died and his clock still ticked,
he fell from a ladder by a tree -
nor could that clock on the wall predict
when I died at age twenty-three.
A traveling artist, who, out of luck,
implored gramps (...how'd he know his name?)
My grandpa was kind. A deal was struck.
Soon his picture was in a frame.
The parlor portrait's eyes would follow
me, conveying every feeling.
Kindness and cheer, I could swallow,
but remonstration sent me reeling.
A frisbee stuck in a tree, so high,
Grandpa said he'd retrieve it for me.
Just hold the ladder, please, small fry?
and that's all that he asked of me.
Nobody knows that story but me.
I sway gently as the wind does blow,
from a branch on that sycamore tree,
but the eyes on the portrait know.
Seated beside a river, waiting for the sun to lay down.
Blonde hair rolling to all appearances
Gazing at the leviathan gulping the fish
A soul inside me experienced uneasiness
The moon pronounced the fate of life.
The missed cuckoo clock refreshed the memories, life is one-sided...
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
When you died
I did not cry
Not a single tear
Fell from my eye
I ask myself every day
I ask him why?
I miss you
And I'm not going to lie
I hope you're in heaven
I hope that you can fly
I didn't say goodbye
I don't think it happened
I will always deny
I hope you get your favorites
I hope you get pie
I hope you're in the sky
I hope you get your retry
Whatever it takes
You'll overcome and defy
All those who made you shy
All those who caused you to sigh
All those who made you a small fry
They're below you while you are up high
Whatever you do, don't comply
Don't try to satisfy
Don't try to gratify
Don't try to simplify
Be yourself
Someone will help you untie
All that has made you feel wry
Well, that's all I got
I'll visit when the snow melts in July
There are no adults here..
Only confused kids.
Children under the delusion that they know what they're doing.
Youngsters playing make-believe in a world they perceive so solidly.
Every one a narrator, a role-player. Everyone..
Leads in our own stories.
Every thing we can imagine, we can be. Everything we are we imagine..
What creations we can dream!
One great, big game of mummies and daddies, shop keepers, teachers,
cops and robbers, mad scientists, inventors, doctors and nurses, and animal healers,
heroes and villains, and rulers, and rock stars,
warriors,
adventurers,
gourmet mud pie makers;
'anybody I think would be more interesting, more loveable, better than the "real" me'...
A bit of looking, some basic understanding of psychology, and a whole lot of gut-wrenching honesty is required to see that humanity is full of toddlers through tweens:
most of us are prepubescent, so few ever reach mere adolescence.
Billions of babes, tots, small fry, minors, juveniles, and youths.
A whole world bumbling with infants!
Littleuns, in our innocence, taking ourselves so seriously..
In a way, it's kind of tragic.
In a way it's kind of sweet..
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
The Pond was drained,
revealing umpteen minnows;
they wriggle in the residual water
turning in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a water-rippling wind.
Large ocean-going gulls descend out of a troubled sky,
they walk among the writhing small fry
pluck out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.
Dark clouds loom foretelling a storm,
strange but the gulls do not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
the linger here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these unseasoned sprats,
while squalls ferment the Great Lakes
and bigger fish fly freely
through the cresting waves.
Small fry
Fingerlings are playing among seagrass in shallow water
they stop when the big shadow of an adult passes overhead
sometimes they play is so exciting they forget
and end swallowed whole by a fish that knows no mercy.
Alas, the tiny fry has a short memory and soon leave
the seagrass attracted by shiny pebbles shines like nuggets
of gold on a summer day.
The play stops as it just like old school friends drift apart
to other seas and too smart to anyone bearing false bait.
There are no promises for elderly fish when finally caught
a fishmonger awaits them or the supermarket’s frozen
counter displayed in all their faded glory
Below the vault of this cerulean sky
In this solitary grave, let me lie
In joy I lived and in joy I die
And wish to see no one cry
This you carve on my grave for all to see
“Here is some one, though a small fry
Had a heart as big as a mountain high
Who with songs of love, every heart did tie”
Placed First
A Strand(1069) Poetry Contest
A young cowgirl will sing by and by
"Whoopee tie your yipee whoopee tie!"
For she knows how to cling
To a bull's ding-a-ling
But has nary a clue with small fry
I know a river where the fish fly in the sky.
Sheltered by boundless ember morning sky,
a lull stillness, it refuses to say goodbye;
I breathe deep in submission quiver and sigh.
Drifting upriver in my small fry fishing boat
wishing for a plate of fried fish, so, I wore my lucky coat.
It's out there waiting for a moving worm afloat.
A dragonfly hover by, big bass launch into the air.
Dangling my pole over the boat there, I stare.
Speckle trout; come with me, my cupboard is bare.
I spent all day as the fish just laughed,
bait writhe at the end of the hook as they passed.
Splash! A nibble, then a take. Holy Moly, largemouth bass.
11/4/2021
Example for Contest
Now see a fine display in market hall
Where fishmonger's stalls sell the freshest catch.
A world of wet white tiles and melting ice.
Seafood displayed, arranged in rank and file.
One Scottish salmon commands centre stage
Stretched out upon its own tray of crushed ice
And next to a few Icelandic haddock
Along with cod trawled from the Dogger Bank.
To one side are some plaice all flopped and flat.
Seems they are staring up with fixed focus.
A side display of small fry, placed parallel
And herrings heaped up in sad slump of grey.
Some calamari, tasteless rubbery squid
Are off stage with other seldom sold bits.
In the corner there's offal bin with heads,
Guts, skeletons and several layers of skin.
Take for your cat. Put pence in charity box.
A fine display we see in market hall.
Sub Categories
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