Wriggling Poems | Examples

B I N G O

I caught me a Dingo
I named that dog Bingo
He was no more than three

He watched o'er my nippers
And fetched me my slippers
What a good dog was he

One day while out walking
I heard people talking 
They were talking 'bout we

"Look at you and that dog"
"That cur smells like a hog"
"You should set that mutt free"

"Since you've more than one child"
"And him raised in the wild"
"It's not safe can't you see"

With their hearts full of lead
They then shot Bingo dead
Said "God meant it to be"

"Now you can just shoo"
"Before we shoot you too"
"Hang you high from this tree"

Defiled, I left wriggling
They smiled and left giggling
Guess the joke was on me

So later on that night 
I grabbed gas can and light
To set Bingo's soul free

I crept up like a mouse
And I torched their damned house
Then danced 'round it with glee

Through dead flames and flashes
I gathered their ashes
And cast all out to sea

Now I take it with pride
That he sits by God's side
And chases his Frisbee

The Crying Child

The Crying Child 

The child cries 
wriggling limbs 
Scrolling the heavens 
Cringing away 
from the clinging shadows 
Streaming tears 
drowning the earth
Echoing thunders 
across the land 
The land bleeds 
even as the creators sleeps

Felix Culpa

Some time ago, when we were free to do;
       ten I was, or twelve?
I walked along a misty lane to school
the etched patterns of ferns and trees
  on my window when I awoke
         now echoed in the frozen grass
                 and early ferns
             being gently crushed
       by each step I took.
The sun had begun its morning due
          to warm the earth,
and generate the day's miasma mist;
as did the breathing of the gathering crowd,
              which hung upon the hedge
          of privet, hawthorn, yew,
      to rest upon a thousand spider webs
               a myriad of droplets dew.
And there it was
        the spider
             fat and yellow;
                 waiting.
Not in the shadows, 
     as the others I had seen
             but, eight legs akimbo
in the centre of it's now opaque web
                taunting.
I had a cricket in a matchbox
            in my pocket
A prize from yesterday's 
 sweet forage.
   I placed the wriggling insect
upon the web and watched
               the attack
          the bite
   the wrap.
                And so I write

An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair

An Ice Fishing House, Abandoned, in Need of Repair

That same shed waits
by the trees.
Waits on its skids
for the lake to freeze,
and the for the creaking 
joints of bickering 
stoop-shouldered men
as they push it out to the center
of a pool of glass.
It houses the stories of fishing
in winter, pulling sustenance, 
wriggling, through chiseled 
portals into another realm.
Old men would wait 
like death, slow,
their breath 
turning to steam
until they could abduct 
their prey from the world below.
Trout would flop 
with the thickness of a muscled fist,
striking ice like distillery rage unhinged. 
They would twist and corkscrew,
mottled black and silver slapping 
the frozen pane of the lake,
waiting for suffocation to take them, 
as the old men drifted up in 
the steam of twice-warmed coffee,
and the willow-the-wisp exhalations
of ribald stories, retold, and finally forgotten.

The Pond Gulls

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.

Grouper and Bass

    Flagging socks in worn-down boots
       shiver in storm-soaked suits
    wriggling worms cast as prey
      off ghostly piers, rods bend and sway

    dawn awaits her cue to enter 
      grouper and bass flash front and center
    solitary rowboat far from shore
      kerosene lamp lit no more

Title

baby belly
Your home
My bump
Smooth and striped
Round yet plump


Hard to bend 
I can hardly pick up 
Kicks to side stitches 
Sleepy hiccups



Wonderful wriggling
Tucked away small 
Safe and you're settled
Curled in a ball



                                             When we first meet, ill whisper as 
                                             Follows;

Welcome to the world
sweet angel 
every second near
I will protect you from sorrow 
Held on and kept close
today
and
tomorrow 
the day after that...
The day after that


                        I will never stop telling you, my daughter 
                                                I love you 
                                                

Insure that you know
as time flashes by
the taller you grow 
you will always have me
as my life wouldn't be
                                                   Complete without MUM as my title

Hawk Ascending

This day-shine has a wine glass for every atom.
A great pond of light floods a crystalline skyscape.

Here in a wind-turned clarity
glints of a lantern-etched lucidity
take substance and form.

Clearly, only elemental spirits
could have conjured such, with their innate power
to engrave the invisible.

Looking back, I see, stamped into feature,
a flight, a bolt of breathing, hawkish tinder.

Over my shoulder, swift unfurled talons
seem to seize the bare and leaping air,

only then, do I spy a prey
wriggling into one last appearance
as wings arrow upwards.

Outdated, Inflated

   The truth is outdated
      Falsehoods inflated
    With hyperbole
      created…

    Fishing poles baited
      wriggling worms slated
    to reel in us guppies
       addlepated…

What Fish Must Think of Fishermen

   What fish must think of us fishermen
      Do they wonder why we annoy them so
    with wriggling worms on silver hooks
       invading their waters, we weird-looking schnooks 

    Casting far out in hopes of catching bass
       or just dropping a line with bobbing popcorn 
    Fanatics take up the hunt by four in the morn
       no matter the forecast, sunshine or storm

100 per cent CAGE FREE

Robins seem to enjoy my yard
Awaiting the coolness of dewed mornings
To awaken the wriggling worms
A seasonal offering favored by the feathered ones

Dandelion waiters tend to the color and flavor
Serving up “all natural”, organic, pesticide free offerings
They can vouch for the claim
As they have managed the place for 30 years

A bold red Cardinal sits atop a fence post preaching
A Beyonce’ butted ground hog scurries away
Doves coo from within the safety of the hedges
A house cat stalks them from a windowsill

Buds dance to the music of the wood winds
A sparrow choir sings an opening hymn
As a disinterested hawk rides the updrafts
A chipmunk takes his order to go

Green Nights of Hope

Springy my thoughts of bunny hops, wiggles
of sunflowers in zephyr sweep. The seeds,
of dust to dust, burst forth in strong giggles.
The progeny of life does pluck grief’s weeds.

Suppose, the sun didn’t shine on yellow highs,
The pierce of thorns didn’t bleed for our rebirth.
The seed just burns…no bonny buds…the sighs
of wings, lifting the rock, thus stopped…no worth.

But, flowers bloom in living hues, refuse
to die without one child. Bunnies succeed
to sire in multiples; of pinks, of blues.
Sunrise lifted the Son, scattered the seed.

Green nights of hope, just sleep, with sun geared up.
Newborns of Spring wriggling whilst we tear up.

Bunnies

 Whether white or classic-chocolate bunny,
Enjoy Spring’s hop-a-long of polyzygotic mirth.
Two floppy and expressive ears, so funny.
Toddlers cheer, and tenderly espy, life’s rebirth.

Grownups, too, giggle at the shattered hush,
The repopulation of carrot and lettuce noshing,
The shivering and shaking softness of plush,
A wriggling nose after a long Winter’s washing.

Spring Reverie

From
Winter's
Fertile womb
Spring leaps newborn
Joy filled daffodils
Ribbons of rose sunshine
New music trimmed in lilac
Wrens and robins return the song
And savor wriggling joy like fat worms
Fragrant fantasies spin on silver rain

Catching the Catch

Effortlessly out of a seabed of notions
words rise.
Many are eaten by sharks,
or the ever-nibbling krill
of second thoughts.

You learn to make
the holes of the net smaller
no more trawling,
just the quick swoop and catch
will land them still wriggling.

Now recline on the shore of self,
relax,
put your legs in the air, count your toes,
until a line hooks you
to an effortless poem.

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