Long Fishmonger Poems
Long Fishmonger Poems. Below are the most popular long Fishmonger by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fishmonger poems by poem length and keyword.
The Headless Greenlandic Horseman
A Meditation in 6 parts.
Avalanche
I.
The sky is starry
The night is scary
I'm very afraid
of the living dead;
On a mission; or Fugitives in the city
II.
The headless Greenlandic horseman
speaks Kalaallisut very well indeed,
plus Dansk and English! What a man!
A polyglot he is! Yes, sir! Although he
Is evil and wants to behead Mr. Donn
Oh! How horrible! How horrible! The
reason being, Donn owes him plenty
of money. More than 500.000 bucks!
Camera Obscura
III.
Mikko Donn (whose dad is Finnish) is a fugitive in the city
& Hansen, the cowboy from Kalaallit Nunaat, is his hunter;
500.000 U$ is that debt's figure, folks;
Oh! This is horrid! Truly horrid for sure!
I contemplate upon this very jittery and jumpy
Oh, I am scared! Oh, yes! I am scared!
Donn's head is at stake--because he's a debtor;
Another headless man? And multilingual again?
Isn't that whimsical? A headless man wants to
decapitate another man and both speak many
superb languages! That's admirable! Yes, sir!
Spasmodic Apostrophes
IV.
Ave Hansen, Morituri te Salutant
anthropologizing, vexillologizing;
Well, Donn's head is still extant.
Though, I dare ask, for how long?
Equestrian Interregnum
V.
Fear is what Donn feels
even down to his heels;
He feels he's gonna puke
even though he is a duke!
The philanderer's philter will save him no longer
The Greenlander and his plug are after him;
There's no escape--the event is rather grim;
He is doomed. Period. Good-bye, fishmonger!
Hurkle! Hurkle! Hurkle!
VI.
Donn's head is safe now. Why?
Because of my idea; Donn is a fish vendor
and has a friend who is a surgeon;
Therefore, I suggested "What about implanting
a fish's head on Hansen? Wouldn't it be nice?"
Donn okayed what I said & called his friend,
Mr. Sherry, the surgeon. Hansen accepted.
They made a deal. Besides the fish's head,
Donn has to teach Hansen Suomi, a
perfect language. And that's how this tale
ends. Hansen and Donn became friends
and ate partridges together.
Charlotte and the bear came out of hibernation at exactly the same time.
The bear was irritable and hungry, and she looked tasty.
Don’t even think about it, I’ve killed bigger people than you before breakfast.
The bear hadn't a clue what she was on about, but there was definitely something weird about her.
They both headed into town.
The fishmonger recognised Charlotte from the wanted posters he had seen around town.
This didn’t faze Charlotte, as the gutting knife entered his neck.
She took a bucket of fish out and handed it to the bear.
The bear was grateful, but still left with an uneasy feeling.
Charlotte was not enamoured with the old guy driving the sports car, especially when he made sexual remarks to her.
She did like driving the car, though, and she was sure his body would be found at some point.
Charlotte couldn’t believe the police were on her tail
She headed back to the cave where the bear was napping
The manhunt had begun
They came across the cave and began to move in
Charlotte prodded the bear and told him to growl
The bear got such a fright, it scampered right out the cave into the path of the oncoming police
The officers, shocked, decided she sure as hell wasn’t in there
Charlotte was not enamoured with the choices she had made in her life and decided to turn over a new leaf and get help.
The bear hoped to hell that mad woman was gone because
the strain was really getting to him.
Charlotte agreed with the psychiatrist, electric shock treatment was definitely the way to go.
The psychiatrist sort of agreed as ten thousand volts surged through his body, killing him outright.
Charlotte left the wanted posters behind and headed for a new life in the big apple.
Hopefully, Charlotte will change and become a model citizen.
The bear hopes so too, he wasn’t really enamoured with Charlotte.
Suburban Mindmelt
You and I know what it takes to make the sky turn around.
We still know when to stop in our tracks,
To look and smell and pause; we must, if we can,
For we are sad souls in a suburban mindmelt;
We know the numbers but not the rules of return.
We must daily continue on and go our wearisome ways,
Opening metal doors to various offices,
Housed with experts we pay to rid our lives of the various afflictions and maladies,
Acquired in divers ways, during esoteric transactions,
Privately and publicly exchanged, apportioned properly and lawfully,
before dinners in dark dives, with candle-lit apparitions traipsing on the walls,
and ketchup bottles jostling in the middle of large tables.
We have seen the stars, mad as dancers twirling sur les pointes in the dark.
We have seen them startle us with their consistent placements and positions.
We have heard the stoned sounds of a multitude of vibrating cymbals,
Slicing the suburban mindmelt, with the notes of mayhem, madness and redemption.
You and I now know what it takes to lock a door and turn out a light, just before midnight,
When the earth demons go on the prowl for lost faces and young sadness.
We know what it takes to change a record, or the sound of our voices at noon.
Be quiet as you speak when it is midday, for the fishmonger and his boy have big ears.
Be still and do not breathe.
You and I know what it takes to make the sky turn around,
For we are sad souls in a suburban mindmelt;
We know the numbers, but not the rules of return.
Dead fish on the dead fish counter;
surprised bulging aqueous eyes stare,
none of them belly-up
but spread on their sides in a pageant
of slippery colors.
Silver, red, rainbow streaked
and all the muddy tones
of river and sea are laid out
on the broken ice for all to judge.
Armored scales flash as if still warding off
other sharp-finned hunters.
These dead fish look uncomfortable,
packed so close as they are
to their sharp-toothed salty cousins.
Fat scallops glisten under the lights,
lobster and crabs hogtied and still glaring
angrily out at this dead fish world.
The skinny kid probably doesn’t know exactly
what a fishmonger does - so few ‘monger’ now.
Of course this is the Midwest, not Seattle or Maine,
we are far from any deep blue waters
and this is a large grocery store;
they don’t hire fishmongers here anymore,
just this kid, and he don’t even like seafood.
When I ask for a Monkfish
pointing out the ugliest dead fish on offer
he handles it as if it were radio-active.
His cringing fingers slip over its wide gargoyle mouth
and for a moment he looks like
he is about to throw-up.
The ugly dead fish is on my kitchen-top now.
I want to cut that hideous head off
but know better,
the best meat is in its fishy cheeks
and the rest is good also, 'a poor man’s lobster.'
besides it will always be a drop dead truth,
that beauty is in the eye of all dead fish shoppers.
The best poetry stays silent and deep
It cries for attention below still waters
Each one melting into oceans weeping
I still fish poorly in infinity’s pool
With no reward that satisfies
How the fishees goad me cruelly
Titles of poems swim beneath
Above this captain surrendering
Then fragments of stanzas bequeath
I take in my morning catch
Fillet and debone them into lines
Till the blade parse thoughts
My unskilled lines always snap
But the hours in between recede
Tugging fruitlessly my line's gaps
The more I go fishing with a net
Tempting manic thoughts gather
Inspire me as Jesus did to Peter
The best poetry needs no hook
Leave the white whale port side
Cast starboard into faith’s pools
But I doubt the Lord’s mastery
Bereft without empty nets or baits
I dive without wit into the mystery
If I pull up a catch each dour day
Perhaps I will tire of idle fishing
Careless of a spare haul turning gray
I’ll hang tunas and shrimps on a board
Hoping not to care if poems are unsold
Catching and releasing every word
Becoming a fine fishmonger fishing his soul
** Sorry for the deluge of poems. I'm trying to write a poem a day this month just to hammer down each poem straighter. I'm obsessive about getting it just right and hating nails that stick out.
My first love
is a whore
but i want her back
because she always had my back
when everyone
threw me back, barked, nagged disappeared
continuously on me
just because,
i try and cry to make them understand how i feel
about them
My first love
is a whore
but i want her back
because the love apple, love bite, and her loving
kindness,
makes me lovesick,
and unloved to other love birds, that promiscuously
convey my way,
to convict my heart.
My first love
Is a whore
But I want her back
because she has not false me
but she has inherently taken me the way I am
So I am also readily convinced
to take her the way she is
into my love life
My first love
Is a whore
But I want her back
for I now known
that those whom I took as the goal keepers of my
life 'my friends'
Imprisoned my affections for my first love,
overstretched my suspicion,
and tore my first love's glossy fondness, into
unscrupulous odiousness
My first love
Is a whore
but I will become a fishmonger
Just to fishnet her back into my life,
because I truly want back my first love
even if she is going to come back without her love,
but with her heart
that will serve
Just to see and be with her again
I once dated a pilot …
We both had our head in the clouds
Our relationship lead to a lot of turbulence -
I guess it never really got off the ground!
I once dated a glazier…
He thought I would be putty in his hands
But I could see right through him…
He was constantly smashed
I once dated an undertaker…
He knew he had stiff competition
I couldn’t cope - he was always ‘coffin’ when he picked me up in his hearse
He had no sense of humour in fact he was dead boring
I once dated an angler
The thought he was a real catch…
But the scales soon fell from my eyes
As he was obsessed with his flies
I once dated a footballer
He thought he could score with me
Told me he had great tackle…
But it was just a load of balls
I once dated a fishmonger…
He thought he was cod’s gift to women
He invited me back to his plaice…
Where I found out he was really a cold fish
Submitted to 101 poems in a row
Sponsored by PD Linda:-)
15th April 2016
Nestled in coconut groves and lush fields of paddy,
with the love of a large family, each day warm and tardy,
Ever poised and elegant, stood my trove of memories,
as boys and girls innocent, played under mango trees.
Soon as grandma came in sight, her hair grey with age,
we rushed to hold her tight, dropping our baggage.
It felt as soft as feather, touching her frail hands,
her eyes filling with tears, to see us back on her lands.
Dewy mornings crawled by, as we grew lazy by the day,
sultry afternoons passed by, watching cows feed on hay.
Breaking the serenity of dusk, came a fishmonger yelling,
catch of the day cooked with much spice, there was no telling.
Swollen with the monsoon, the dark night sky,
eager to pour it down soon, still as the earth did lie.
And soon, when will I see you next, grandma would sigh,
Feeling sad, as the moment came, for another good-bye.
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