For Terry Flood,* since you insist,
Here, in rhyme’s my shopping list:
Orange juice and Starbuck’s (iced,
Even though it’s overpriced),
Bagels, Swiss and muenster cheese,
Whitefish salad, frozen peas,
Broccoli and salad greens,
Carrots, berries, nectarines,
Melons, muffins, chocolate treats,
Licorice or gummy sweets,
Ice cream, cookies, corn chips, bread,
Hummus, pesto, peppers (red),
Eggs and butter, IPA’s,
Pasta meant for many days,
Chicken, mushrooms, sometimes meat –
Think that makes my list complete.
(For omissions, I’m to blame
Since rhyme, not shopping, was my aim!)
*a fellow poet on Poetry Soup
Categories:
whitefish, food,
Form: Couplet
consenting consort
a silvery fluorescence ~
liquid lightning flash
(November Full Moon – Algonquin)
Categories:
whitefish, environment, fish, moon, nature,
Form: Haiku
There was a store in Brooklyn selling
Food we’d often crave.
The owners were a couple
Known to all as Ruth and Dave.
On weekends I was sent there
Walking just a few short blocks
To buy bagels, cream cheese, whitefish
And some thin-sliced salty lox.
At times there was baked salmon
And if my mom had the urge,
On chocolate-covered jells
And graham crackers we would splurge.
It wasn’t every week we’d get
Those yummy foods to eat.
We knew a trip to Ruth and Dave’s
Was for a special treat.
So many years have passed I’m sure
That Ruth and Dave are dead,
But I can see them smiling,
She with braids piled on her head.
Categories:
whitefish, memory,
Form: Rhyme
In memory of the SS Edmond Fitzgerald
November 10, 1975
Seventeen miles Northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan
Lake Superior
Twenty-nine crew men are cradled
in a watery grave
no distress calls were ever heard
no bodies ever recovered
the gales of November turned fierce
as the 729 foot ore carrier
plummeted to her final resting place
530 feet below
Lake Superior holds too many secrets
and leaves to many mysteries
It's unforgiving of sailors, yet
catches every tear from the families and friends
of the SS Edmond Fitzgerald
Categories:
whitefish, anniversary, death,
Form: Free verse
If you’d compare my fridge and yours
You’d marvel at the food each stores
For everybody’s taste’s unique,
So open up – let’s have a peek.
I’ve orange juice and lots of cheese
And coffee (Starbuck’s, if you please).
Butter, berries, veggies, beer,
Salad stuff and never fear…
My favorite cookies, hummus, fruit
And eggs and condiments, to boot.
There might be olives, whitefish spread
And in the freezer, bags of bread
(Including bagels) and, for sure,
More ice cream than you’d know what for.
There’s frozen chicken, a knish
And meatballs, eggplant, but no fish.
I’m sure there’s more, but look around –
Organic products won’t be found.
Still, we should all relate a smidge
‘Cause we all like what’s in our fridge!
Categories:
whitefish, food,
Form: Rhyme
at the old fishing lake
In a kingdom full of whitefish
And the mussels are never filleting.
~
at the old fishing lake
I remember I was oystering
That moment my soul grew scalloping
~
And the estuaries never reefing
Mudfish - mudfish – mudfish!
The lagoon laughed
As I threw in my line
Surprise carp and catfish whaling and barks
Dogs chasing squirrels onto rotten logs
~
look at the water
into the pond bubble-bubble
circles swarms
~
my line gyrating slightly moving and bobbing
guess the fishes are biting
at the old fishing lake
6/25/20
WRITTEN WORDS BY James Edward Lee Sr. 2020©
Categories:
whitefish, analogy, engagement, fish, fishing,
Form: Free verse
Steering our boat across the moon glow
Like a fork stabbed through cream
We careen in the sheen of upside down light at 3:30 A.M.
The July night tries to close on us like a lid
The result of one too many martinis
By dad at Dockside Shhhhhhh
Let it go
The bow parting the Milky Way Shhhhhhh
Startling the Whitefish Weightless
Them and us
Life vests free of bodies
The kids in their early 20s Passengers wondering
How they had gone through life
Never feeling the sweat of the moon
On their skin like this
Until now, their dad their uncle her husband
He has something left to offer them all
Grinning
Like any secret boat owner still alive on a big lake.
Categories:
whitefish, boat, freedom, good night,
Form: Free verse
walking away satisfied
returning home fully recharged
that will change come thursday morning
i will focus my brain on forgetting....until the alarm goes off
as i unpack, i begin to think about how blessed i really am
my friend maurice mohammed reminded me of that recently
i take a look outside my window and a smile appears as i lightly nod my head
amazingly i am thinking about the scenic route for next summer
all of a sudden, the salty air seems to be coming from each vent in the apartment
i can taste the lobster potatoes
i can taste the alaskan whitefish
i can taste the grilled jumbo shrimp salad
i can taste the buttery garlic breadsticks
i can taste the tropical colada....and i do not even drink!
then a vision of a hot tub completes the overtaking of my mind
it is then that i get another smack on my butt
with a goofy laugh and a playful sprint, i am brought back to reality
....another lesson learned about Being Blessed....
Categories:
whitefish, blessing, god, growth, thank
Form: Free verse
The company was wonderful;
The meal was quite delish,
All lovingly prepared except
The jarred gefilte fish.
But certain things you have to have –
Tradition reigns supreme –
And years ago, gefilte fish
Was added to the scheme.
Of course, back then my grandmothers
Prepared it all from scratch.
They started with the pike and whitefish,
Fresh from someone’s catch.
I’ve heard of homes where pike or carp
Would swim around the tub;
Nobody took a bath ‘til grandma
Clunked it with a club.
Now that gefilte fish was great,
‘Cause it was made with love;
The fish in jars is tasteless, yucky, bland –
All the above.
To make it fresh you need much more
Than I have got to give,
And so I serve the bogus stuff –
My guests will all forgive.
The other food was killer
So I really must profess
That, minus homemade fish, our Seder
Was a great success!
Categories:
whitefish, food, holiday, fish,
Form: Rhyme
Why are the sea gulls shopping here, if not
for "White Stag, "No Boundaries." or "Faded Glory?"
Is there some other story? Coffee, Tea or You,
or just practicing beach and gray-sky calls
over concrete, carts, and Handicapped Blue?
This turf is for blackbirds of the piercing cry, haughty
strut and beady stare. It's not for you to straddle
halogen in your evening wear of dove-gray, black
tie in this car-lot of no swells, no breakers.
What lures you displaced gracefuls-- calls you
from rides on a rogue wind, pushing lace-topped
tides to stock minnow meals in pellucid sloughs?
You've paid your dues, and dour land birds
are the parking lot denizens. Surely you harbor
a peculiar appetite for hors d'oeuvres that do not
swim or paddle, though you buzz pedestrians
on stony reaches as when dive-bombing
the deep, or cruising the beaches.
For whatever draws you to the superstore,
super birds, I pray you reap Neptune's
pardon as you vie for the rail over the holy grail
of the Wal-Mart sign, where no whitefish,
black fish, shrimp or snail, no fiddler crab
scuttles for safety. And may our God absolve
us our sins of the past-- our ever advancing
invasion of concrete, steel, and glass.
Categories:
whitefish, urban,
Form: Free verse