Snagging Poems | Examples

Wild Kingdom

Wild Kingdom

every Sunday night
Marlin and Jim
traveling throughout the world

catching cats
lassoing llamas
herding hyenas

interspersed with insurance commercials
Mutual of Omaha protecting the wild and you

My favorite:
Snagging snakes
I rooted for the snake!!!

Wringing Out the Rain

A squirrel got into the homestead,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.

We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but still dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton are rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.

Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
while medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.

If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail,
we will wash bathtubs,
fully clothed with yesterday's suds.

Under the Old Elm

That evening,
we sat under the old elm, its bark
flaking like dead scales from a fish.
You pointed to the sky,
but the stars did not come out—
only the moon, swollen
like a bruise above the rooftops.

You whispered about the farmer,
how he placed his scythe beneath his pillow,
dreaming of storms.
I listened, but saw only
your shadow stretching across the grass,
twisting with the branches.
In that moment,
you became the moon.

Your hands—small enough to cup it—
trembled as you talked about constellations,
the fisherman’s hook snagging a fragment of the horizon’s sigh..
I wanted to laugh,
but the night kept swallowing the sound.
The wind rolled across the empty streets,
gathering the scent of rain
and some unseen flower blooming at midnight.

And when I reached out,
only your shadow touched me.
The sky opened
and I could swear I heard the stars
laughing at us,
or maybe it was just the elm,
cracking under the weight of too many moons.

My mushy muse

     I’m a dead muse walking, stuck in a queue
        moving along slowly, spreading out too
   A worm wriggles past, looking worse for wear
    was caught in a hailstorm, guts everywhere

    I'm a dead muse crawling, stuck fast in glue
caught up with the worm, he leaked so much goo
       We're neck and neck, near the exit gate 
    I patch up his wounds, then use him for bait

    I'm a dead muse fishing, snagging old reeds
 the worm's in awful shape, each segment bleeds
       I let him off the hook, just to take a rest
        he looks juicy, but in truth not the best

         I'm a dead muse starving, no appetite
          can't find a stanza never mind a bite
          And that poor li’l wiggler, I let him go
        into the hailstorm, oops no, stupid crow!

By
David Kavanagh

Childhood-Clouded Memories

The cool summer day
beckons me to my backyard
to flop my aging bones on the ground, 
gaze at the clouds still making formations
I remember from my youth ...
a cirrus dragon, definitely a dragon;
a cumulonimbus whale,  a stratus poodle.
Memories of those halcyon childhood days
flit in and out my mind
like the lightning bugs I caught in jars.
Hide and seeking,
roller coaster riding,
Red-Rover-come-over days.
Drippy popsicle afternoons spent
merry-go-rounding at the park
until I fell over in sheer joy.
Running from house to house
to play with cousins
who teased me relentlessly.
Snagging candy and hugs from aunts and uncles 
who smiled and loved me unconditionally.
Then, in an instant, the sky darkened.
The clouds and memories disappeared slowly.
Then they were gone, a magician’s vanishing act,
and me questioning if they ever really existed.
Only the love remains.

The Great Poet

It’s not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it

They do deign but I just do so to see them pass 
Tomorrow perhaps worse they want to kiss my ****

But that’s not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps ruddy snagging the door

Yonder

Yonder there, where twig figures bend
and blink out as a sea-swell slugs the beach,
there the netted thrash, then hauled, toggled and pinched
yet more, into a gill-snagging catch.

Far away a village rests, submerged
beneath a mossy night, yet some prowl out
seeking ways to scrub a bare-knuckled living,
some to find a new prayer in the restless surf.

There a woman in denim is digging for clams,
I trudge upon a leaky flow to edge near,
to see her blue buckets mouth, its salty slosh,
to tell her I laud her rooting stick, the prod and scoop
of her delving hands.

Here by the spume, a spotty dog runs and scuffs tidal pools, 
it scampers between weedy humps, a tangle of sea-scupper;
nose snuffling a tangy furrow in the sandy smaze.

Now the dawn sky breaks apart above and below,
let’s slip a far-off world as yet unmade.
Near or far seem only a fingerprint of wind and light,
a painted wave for distant viewing – 
always a yonder truth
on the margins of nil and naught.

Rain

A squirrel got into the apartment,
it picked a lock with a dry thorn.
The smell of dank fur clung.

We carried small talk above our heads.
Nothing put away but dangles.
Denim droops, snagging
the arms of rumpled shadows,
fusty jeans gander and loll.
Calico and cotton is rescued
the soggy separated
from the mildewed.

Soon front steps will be scoured,
tails and collars made to flap
While medium-sized back-yard critters
flounce and fluff.

If a blotting wind returns,
the squirrel will bail with a flick of its tail
We will wash bathtubs
for only water washes rain away.

Textures

Textures

Burlap and satin, old age and youth,
that’s probably backwards to tell the truth.
Cause something that’s satin, is easily cut.
While hide of pure burlap is tested and tough.

Burlap and satin, old age and youth,
a rigid garment and something that’s smooth.
Shining and snagging with rugged touch
not giving out warmth very much.

Burlap and satin, one up one down,
bulging potato sack, a sleek evening gown.
One’s not for the moment and one is hot.
We make the best of what we’ve got.

Satin and burlap, youth and old age
years of life give birth to a sage.
Burlap keeps strong the things that it holds,
precious loved ones and moments of gold.

The Great Poet

It is not all easy being favoured as a great gifted poet
All this deigning and stooping just to let people know it

But that is not the worse of it and irritating much more
Is my fresh ironed toga keeps on snagging the door 

(PS I wanted to tick humour but it was spelled humor!)

My Wee Tree

Very, very naughty I can sometimes be
Turning over a new leaf but I sure need to pee
Be back in a jiff
Well that's really if
I can zip my zipper without snagging my wee tree

My Wee Tree

Very, very naughty I can sometimes be
Turning over a new leaf but I sure need to pee
Be back in a jiff
Well that's really if
I can zip my zipper without snagging my wee tree

My Wee Tree

Very, very naughty I can sometimes be
Turning over a new leaf but I sure need to pee
Be back in a jiff
Well that's really if
I can zip my zipper without snagging my wee tree

My Wee Tree

Very, very naughty I can sometimes be
Turning over a new leaf but I sure need to pee
Be back in a jiff
Well that's really if
I can zip my zipper without snagging my wee tree

Found Object

Objet Trouve*

diverse assortment of art
on the stoop, enticing allure
bright clay pottery
welded lawn ornaments
photographs and paintings

             inside the gallery
             traveler's treasure trove
     
             time slows, snail-like
             eyes dining, sumptuous feed

walls, steps, tables
crowded with creations
eloquently speak
     the artist's message
snagging emotions
     louder than words

son's poetry penned
     honoring father's sketch
childhood memory
     treasured tree house

             Instant Sale!



*Found Object

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