Trawl Poems

Fishermen of the Isles

no cowboys in stock on this side,
but acrid fishermen provide 
marine lifelines, hamlets sustain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.

pre-dawn cowboys of Waves arise 
early wranglers trawl for the prize 
through murky waters or in plain. 
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.

catches of chub, snapper, and sword 
concoct dinners we may afford.
praise the fishers, saddled with strain.
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain. 

rank as sins, veiled in ocean scum
nets shoulder-slung, descendants come
off the tides, firm ground to regain
Spineless seas they ride, shark's terrain.

Peace Fire'

I'm piling up the anecdotes..Remarks and more besides.' I'll
Show historical content also, maybe others can't abide?
I'll even trawl my memory finely, going decades back' up till the
Present tense, and waiting; maybe some have got my back?
Or maybe its God that heals my spirit? Just Keeps me going on?
Till we get a ( peace-fire ) burning people' leaving dead ideals if they've gone.. Well quite wrong!

Humorous Laud, Deeply Flawed

The macabre’s amusing at times,
makes for off-beat, hilarious rhymes.
To my wife they’re not funny;
she wants cute little bunnies
and not ones that are strangled by mimes.

She says, “Why must the animals die?
And that one with the bird made me cry.
In the end, she did soar
off to some distant shore,
but her kin were all shot by some guy.”

“Ah, but see how it’s seared in your brain:
a phenomenon hard to explain.
It’s odd how we’re wired;
The inane makes us tired,
but an image of death will remain.”

So why aim for the grand or sublime?
Find dead leopards instead on a climb!
For the joy in the tragic,
trawl the semi-pelagic 
when your muse loves primordial slime.

Just Because I Love Words

I have no theme, no muse, no just cause or aim.
Untouched by reason, no spark nor any flame.
Yet still the words flow, kindled all the same,
By the sheer love of words and the games they play.

My poet's head is full of words churning within,
With magnetic attraction for their next of kin,
Words that describe images, thoughts, sounds therein,
It's a noble cause, just because a story must begin.

It's not just the lovey-dovey smoochy stuff,
But words that clash, jog and jangle, huff and puff,
Words that trawl up memories and a serendipitous bluff, 
Words that inspire a just cause in readers is just enough.

I wash, rinse, and recycle what pops into my head,
Creating a riddle, jingle, jangle and rhyme bedspread, 
That's washed, spun, and hung out to dry once it's said,
To flap, taunt and jangle readers passing-by my spread.

Bookshop Osmosis

The glossy acrylic smell of new editions
is cordite to my nose,
an explosive mixture of - need to know.
I finger trawl over dust covers
mindreading unread masterpieces.

Movies ransacked many of these novels,
hearsay and word of mouth
account for aisles
of open secrets and
commonly revealed revelations.

I should obtain a dozen or so acclaimed sagas,
display them on a prominent shelf –
because, well, one really ought to,

or maybe just read last chapters,
if not too long.

Poet Desire

We leave our separate solitudes
The shells in which we coil
To search for seeds of hope
In the seabed's saturated soil 

Trawl the crowded seas 
Of the white page
The glassy bubbles of thought
Flutter and escape and rage

The golden moment that redeems
The months of splintered time
Deep sea diving
For the inner heart rhyme

Trust

Tell others your innermost secrets, please be aware
Reality is, it’s something that they’ll probably share
Unless you’re certain that they won’t be blurting
Share with a fake pal, you may find yourself hurting
Trolls still trawl through the internet – you bet!

Ascertain Uniqueness

Revive forth own verve
By stating your swerve
Extolled
Height of straight, deserve
You thrive and observe
Withhold
From the maelstrom, serve
This wicked world's nerve
Remold

Show the strength you hold
Your wings just unfold
God cheers
Fawning dazzling cold
Peace and faith are gold
Calm fears
We are soft-built mold
Bleak tales will be told
Shed tears

Thwart faults from past years
When gray face appears
Conserve
Trawl wise warn from seers
Gold rings in your ears.
Subserve
Life, precious gift dears
From bright life, mind peers
Preserve

Written: March 16, 2023
Virelai Form

Write Me a Virelai Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues

A Night On the Beach

A mottled crab scuppers its sea legs
in fluorescent foam.
Blue pods rattle on green tides.
Bladder wrack, Mermaid’s Hair
washing tangled ankles.
There are voices in my open mouth,
they roll over a briny tongue,
intoning from the breath
of a luminous spray.
Where the sky hangs low,
gannet beaks gape
trawl the unseen upon a tossing surf.
Mother, father, stranger,
we are all here speaking
through a whirlpool’s gullet
we sink and surface, rise and fall
dished up on a roiling wash
never to find nor land.

Deckie Heavrn

Is there a place in heaven
Where old deckies muster
A sheltered safe haven away
From any wild storm's bluster
From sail to steam to diesel
United one and all
By the harvesting of the sea 
And the handling of the trawl.
Do the different generations
Mingle to chat about the life
United by the fishing and
The razored gutting knife

Do the three day millionaires
In their bell bottomed trews
Their slim Jim ties
Their brothel creeper shoes
Mix with the fishermen
Of all the fishing nations
Is it an easy mix of
Fishing's  generations.
Do they observe a silence
When the latest vessel sinks
Welcome new brothers with
Heavenly ambrosiac drinks.

Is their a deckies heaven
For those who paid the cost
For those quiet heroes counted
Amongst fishing's lives lost.
Do they gather in their thousands
To chew the fat about it all
Do they relive their memories
Of the following of the trawl.
Is there a place in heaven
Where old deckies muster
A sheltered safe haven away
From any wild storm's bluster

Gulls Ride Upon the High Sea's Tongue

What crashes into them
is the oceans voice beheaded.

Seabirds skim upon verge and crest,
a green swell of rise and fall.

Open mouths trawl the air
then plunge into a rising wave
to scoop a thrashing fin
that dangles now
between life and death.
Gullets gulp down then wide wings
swim on.

Indoor cats stare out of windows
as the heckling hunters tumble and dive
for shadows of silver iridescence.

Those engaged upon the land
hear the piratical calls of ocean winds,
the harsh and throaty feasting
above the seas rolling tongue.

A fishing village witnesses
this wild dance of catch and hide,
overhears that high cry above
the restless surf and spray;
and when the fishing boats return
they haul the harvest in.

Here under a shale roofed salty cottage
a portly house cat abides beside a tin dish
for its daily dine of scaly fish.
© 4 hours ago

A Jolly Fisherman

A JOLLY FISHERMAN 


   Jolly fisherman jocund Jack
   took well knitted drag-net on back
   and long fishing rod to catch fish!
   Strong wish for fish fry to relish.

    Floating a boat he loved to trawl.
    Caught small fishes:Those were to crawl.
    Fishing rod pulled fish, gigantic.
    Large fish ate small ones! Drastic.

    No disappointment for Jack.
    He put the large fish in a sack.
    Jolly jocund Jack cooked big fish.
    and enjoyed a palatable dish.

  09/13/22

  A Jolly Fisherman


Contest by Julia Ward.

Storm-Tide At Robin Hoods Bay

The steep steps go down
the winding wash,
along the plodded cobbles
between the cottages
with their smuggling hollows,
their sleet rinsed eaves.

Beyond the scarp
the bay tumbles over
shingle, shale, and scree
to a shore and its contesting tide.

Above my flying coat,
the huddled village
bobs and floats in a flooding cloud.
I could throw a stick
at the sea here
and the wind, like a dog
would fetch it,
elemental voices
return from the deep.

Now a chopping fray,
squabbles at a brim where
flurries of tern and guillemot
trawl for brill;
a pell-mell of light
roiling on a harrying spray.

Today, I allow myself to fail
here at the surging squall,
and crashing crests;
to lapse and founder -
to be redone in the one gulp
of self.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This one was written a pretty long time ago,
but recently fiddled with.

Mister Joe

Mister Joe, would-be muse, 
jangles loose change in his pocket.
Memories jogged and garnered as he walks.
Mister Joe in contemplation, 
washes, rinses and tumble dries, what pops into his head,
in hourly cycles, with riddles, jingles and rhymes.
Each wash-up, extracted, pegged, and hung up to dry,
to taunt and flap jangles for him, 
for his readers, and strangers who happen to pass on by.

Mister Joe, would-be muse, 
casts charms, jangles and sparkles,
to jog in the minds of his readers.
His words cast nets to trawl up memories and serendipity dips,
in the minds of his readers with word play, puzzles and twists.
The catch netted, is prodded, poked, shaken and stirred,
to inspire twinkles, sparkles, hums, aahaa's, grunts,
and perchance, nods of appreciation and delight.

Mister Joe's catch of memories, once jarred and jangled, are returned to reader with care.
For the reader to add jangles to their pockets, 
and gems to their lockets and charm bracelets. 

Mister Joe, would-be muse, and his reader, now walk with jangles echoing within.

Tormentors

Hatred comes in many a grade.
Divergent backgrounds will leave some swayed.
Aggressors will rarely share the facts.
They hide and trawl and wait to attack.
Kindness is not found in their hearts.
Antipathy and malice tears them apart.
They look around for power to gain.
Depraved contending is now their game.
Rogues will come and rogues will go.
Sadistic victimizing is now their goal.
Awfully imply they test our decrees.
These fainthearted consignments are never pleased.

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