Scumvalley sunrise I'm
surprised there's any light
I just might have to drown another
rat this morning the eye sore elephant
on the block pile of trash has grown three
feet in a week
If a ship has no rudder how's
it gonna ride the waves and just
in case you get lost at sea don't look
at me asking for directions because my
head is just above muddy waters and like
a rat I'm finding it hard to breathe
He lay supine on the MacArthur Park grass
Staring into space fixed eyes
Gods sky and oxygen
reeled in a human school of fish
Fed him a second chance meal called
Narcan
Bald head body lean from head to toe
Coughed in oxygen mouthed imaginary
bubble gulps of fresh air
Inhale, exhale
A saving grace sprayed into one nostril
Insert nozzle, touch the nose, press the plunger
Back to life
Fishes fins akin to human hands
rubbed gentle strokes from
the chest
to the torso
to the belly up
the school of fish saved him
Please don't flop anymore
She's wearing
She's daring
She's Halle Bailey Ariel donning a prom dress
A small fish in a large pond
No Little Mermaid fins to float to the very top
Neptune's Net school of dress code rules
Was King Triton Dad not swimmingly
Aware of what thoughts swam through
Her guppy curved body in all the right places
All dolled up in see thru lace
So much for imagination
No chance of a first or last dance tonight
Captured silhouette with
Barracuda intentions can't fin her way
To glide or swim into that fishtail itch
Fishbowls
What was life like in all those little fishbowls, and all those aquariums of well-cared for fish? Those domesticated aquatic creatures that happened to live during the reign of terror under that unspeakable regime? Was their contained existence as placid and as carefree -- and perhaps as boring, but also to a great extent luxuriant -- as always? Was it all that and more? Was it a parallel life of oblivion, in which all the external torment passed them by? Or did those negative rays bounce off the walls, and through their glass barriers, trapping them inside, in inescapable torment? And if so, how were these fish different from those privileged folks in their high-rise shells, with exclusive entries, and a vast array of liquors, and free conversation, and exotic young women, and actually, anything else desired? How did life in that fishbowl work out with all the torment down below? Were they protected, or existing in concentrated anguish?
Sharks hunting
Having been around on the planet over 1,000 times longer than humans, sharks have had the time to evolve in stealthy and sophisticated ways. To humans, sharks appear to be primitive, prehistoric creatures who roam the seas. In fact, just as land-based humans hunt the seas for food, so too do sharks hunt on land. Humans have no awareness of this, because of the shark's secret skills. Whenever a human has disappeared without a trace, that person has often been captured by hunting sharks and taken to the sea as a meal. Of course, sharks sometimes furiously attack errant human swimmers, but this is primarily a diversion intended to keep humans in the dark. Sharks have had 400 million years to evolve an intelligence that humans cannot comprehend. And it is not likely that humans will ever catch up, and achieve such an extended milestone themselves.
Happy fish
They took fish out of his waters, and put him by the corals in a sea far away. It was only for a visit but he was a happy fish. So many colors of the corals, so many new shapes and hues of the foreign fish around him. He was not aware of the sharks on the other side of the reef. He did not realize how easily they could hurt him. Because he was a happy fish. And indeed, the same dangers lurked in his home waters, and he did not notice those either. Because he was a happy fish, everywhere he went.
Fishlets in the River
I see them flickering,
tiny silver bullets,
the bane of
water werewolves,
if there even are such
things.
Maybe there are,
and they mate
with the mermaids,
spitting their offspring
down the
rivers and fjords—
silver fishlets
to grow up
and get netted,
battered,
and fried.
when the wind is right
we smell it
long before we reach it
meaning of course that
we have to tack into the harbour
thus earning our dinner
the day’s catch has been smoking
in huts lining the wharf
fragrant and oily in the breeze
just the scent of it is enough
to inspire our appetites
and lift our spirits
lowering sails and trading insults
with other crews who got there first
we drift toward the wal and make fast
once we have saluted the sunset
with a glass of scheepsbitter
one of the crew leaves to follow his nose
he returns with hangover prevention
arms fully loaded with fresh warm
gerookte haring
gezelligheid defined
Dutch dictionary …
wal: pier or wharf
scheepsbitter: traditional Dutch nautical liquor
gerookte haring: smoked herring
gezelligheid: when everything feels just right
definitions
we used to go fishing
my great uncle Boyd and I
mangling worms onto hooks
dangling them between ripples
casting and reeling in our lines
or slowly floating them in the stream
it didn’t seem to matter
whether it was sunny or cloudy
or where we sat so patiently
they just didn’t bite
my five year old wisdom
could not figure this one out
I asked him why it was called fishing
if we never caught any fish
he pondered awhile then said
with a twinkle in his eye
well I suppose then
it would be called catching
too young to give him the side eye
I simply accepted the truth of it
At dusk, as I urged the fish to bite
I remember the lake light shining
like a disk as I fished for perch or pike
at dusk, as I urged the fish to bite,
bite a spoonful of shimmering bait.
I remember bats flitting and circling
like the insects, they longed to catch
and ripples left by fish that were no match
I remember Father's blunt roll-call home!
The boathouse, a sarcophagus
with its two-well-rotten doors
gaping open like malnourished jaws
awaiting Death's ferryman back,
back to those perpetual, keepnet-shores.
I remember the rolling fog rising
about the gnarled chestnut trees
billowing out into brackish red reeds
and a slice of scaly moon leaping:
That frantic-fish pulling line from my spool.
I remember the lake light shining
in the scales of a real living ghoul
plucked out of the water, fighting
a fish - that wasn't one bit preschool.
Like a fish
Like a fish
Like a fish, Lord,
Like a fish, devour me.
Like a fish, consume me.
Like a fish, salt-dried, soak me.
Like a fish, smoke-hung, it hangs me.
Like a fish in a frying pan, fry me, eat me.
Like a fish, I contain the minions of the ocean sea.
Like a fish, the mermen and the mermaids all know me.
Like a fish, let me spawn in a riverbed.
Like a fish, let me catch the waves.
Like a fish, let me leap and play.
Like a fish, let me swim upriver.
Like a fish, let me spool away.
Like a fish, let me drown.
Like a fish, let me be.
Fish food for thee
Succour for you
Like a fish, Lord,
Like a fish
Kingfisher
What if God were a kingfisher?
If you and I were fish, would you hide?
Would you play hide and seek?
Since I have welcomed death,
Of death, I have no fear.
So, I welcome the kingfisher of souls.
To snap me up when my time is near
Sure enough, I shall not fight.
Struggle as he holds me midair in flight.
Fish gills shut tight; let mouths be opened.
Let every fish-scale suit of armour fall.
When it's time to answer his inanimate call.
Though the goldfish complained about the artificial blue of their aquarium walls,
staff members paid no heed to them.
That particular shade of blue had been recommended
by their horrendously expensive interior designer.
So they were going to stick with it,
till the time for renovation would come around after ten years, if all went all.
If enough tourists came.
But no matter how many generations of gold fish were placed in this luxurious, spacious aquarium,
where they were fed the best of natural seaweeds and algae,
they all had the same complaints till their very last breath.
Couldn’t this thick paint of artificial blue be replaced by a more natural one?
Luckily, they didn’t go literally blue in the face from repeating these lines.
As many story strands circled around in her head,
just like these lazy goldfish,
she wondered if or when their plots or characters would
interact with each other to form a huge mosaic of storylines.
Or would they continue to evade each other,
just like these clever fish.
Seemingly these beautiful dumb swimmers had no plans, yet
they never collided with each other,
crossed another’s path, or
blocked their fellow fish’s quest for food, and incessant movement.
Or took up arms against each other,
unlike the highly intelligent two-legged beings
who called themselves humane human beings.
I read all the papers, all the reports
and was behind in numbness
no one could remind me fast enough
humming under water
waving in the deep end of the pond
grief warming the shark for sleep
school cheers in the heat of a foreign heaven
weight down the bakery with salty bagels
potassium channels surpass the capacity for a cure
arrogant sea horses talk up the hole in the sky
reapers in socks and pants
up from California with swaying goat luck
on a thirsty arrival in the greasy gratitude
of a gesturing salmon seeking sounds to bear
displacing the dull residue of childhood
I count the roofs on one hand
I comb for floors that can hold a family
the sea looks to be half full of sunlit polyps
freshly thrown into the waves with angels
inviting ritual hanging on hooks of that tug
broken and restless as jazz for pennies
chill cross below crazy toppling scaly shut-ins
of weed architecture and barn births
in common chairs with tongues attached
I grin up a storm of clumsy desperation
and listen for a thud of slamming bodies
rows smaller than a scratch in train time
folding a haze of silly hooks into a horoscope
for the fleshy paleness of aging poets
who avoid rubbish in and rubbish out
where ashes fly house to house
and look for ruinous withdrawal
I toil under municipal glass groaning with grit
I staggered yet was no pushover in the nonsense
of annulment in corners with gauges for young fish
someone had to finish the sound of drowning
before the next star was charged for double-parking
a crony universe cut for fools and pushovers
in the blink of a spastic rabbit a forest of frogs
break the rickshaw ceiling of cherry-on-top
vibrations under junctions that jerk hard in pockets
of pleated fields overflowing in plum wine and sprouting coffins
paws up the nearest leg of slip and slide
yawning registers on bone and blade
close the curtains behind uneven stale bread
I rent the swelling taste of gnawed figs and flippers
and spirit away under uncounted candles whittled down to an uneasy flame
I will repeat myself as nocturnal fish bait
I will gulp as a summer fugitive
I look to be old enough to sleep in my own hole
footprints fill out the sentence
that will never settle in the new country
there was a disturbance in the provinces
space was allowed to flourish with debris
time was not allowed to protest
mindless despair went long and thin
I believe in asking before unplugging
it is best to strike before the planet really goes cool
noisy poetry never finds its own season
a care package of empty promises arrived with postage due
I was never good at a solo that promised infinite misery
I take my misery one dose at a time under glass
It is no longer inconceivable that I have
a structural problem swimming in a private school
marine snow
moments flow softly beneath the waves
sunlight and tide brush against the abyss
time drifts past still the water remains
fish seeking food that this sea contains
unseen struggles in the depths persist
moments flow softly beneath the waves
darkness below that’s never seen days
the dark’s many uncounted hours, since
time drifts past still the water remains
drifting bioluminescent stars shining rays
attracting attention despite the risks
moments flow softly beneath the waves
the surface drizzles what death conveys
carcasses detritus some nutritious bits
time drifts past still the water remains
life will continue in the unlit domain
change comes slow yet it doesn’t quit
time drifts past still the water remains
moments flow softly beneath the waves
sunken thought
this sunken ship sleeps down here
memory in the cold deeps down here
coral and anemone fade the shape
but remembrance still keeps down here
silvered fish through broken windows flash
reflections of dim light that seeps down here
sand and soul slowly drifts against the hull
burying memories in heaps down here
seagrass beds shimmer on unseen tides
remembering the springs and neaps down here
I turn my mind back above the seas
and wait out what time that reaps down here
Agassiz Well Done
Lit crit professor
introduced me to
own fish, shoved
my face against jar.
Hard to stare all day
on full course load.
Went on to serve
seafood in restaurant
learning about many
species, tastes, parings.
See teacher, older
not gamey looking,
untainted with like
for me, her letter for
my grad school pleas
totally backhanded.
Stare and wonder,
what more I can learn.
MULTICOLOR LIFE (Haiku)
Once upon a time
there lived a fish of rainbows
Pride was in his eyes
GIVE BRAVERY A CHANCE (Haiku)
Goldfish in a bowl
wants to swim in all the lakes
but lacks the courage
LOYALTY FISHING (Haiku)
Tell him he is great
Stroke his pitiful ego
Share his cruelty
He Painted On Doors
Jean-Michel Basquiat lost his spleen in a car accident when he was a kid.
What’s in the spleen, could the loss have made him prone to heroin, prone to sad eyeballs, the image of him alone in a bar on New Year’s Eve.
Life is a little bit like years turning a corner.
He painted on doors when he had no money for canvas
He went through doors and windows like he was building a house from within.
Footsteps rang like a heartbeat, paint scattered on Armani suits as the clock leaped like a high school athlete full of promise and bird seed bones.
We’re part animal part anima.
Part anime and part animal cracker
Playful and wandering through the molecules we inherited.
We are dunked suddenly in a gene pool and there are no life guards to warn us.
We have moments where we think we’re in a koi pond.
We swim as serene as the neon of gold fish.
I was once drawn to a goldfish at Junior’s Deli cause it reminded me with its swagger of someone I once knew.
It had this human expression.
I once was sitting in a car at a gas station and there was a dog looking over at me and nodding with the weight of the world on his snout and fur.
He looked at me with complete empathy.
There was no distance between us..
He seemed like he really understood.
Heads or tails, do we choose.
The coin of our life flips any which way.
Who knows how it will land.
We dive into life anyway, not exactly sure if the pool is full of ice panes, soft things
Or simply air.
Dreaming in Cerulean Blue Like Crayola 29172
To fall asleep under this quilt and wake up somewhere,
oh anywhere, like the shores of Blue Lake
in the earliest days of the lake’s
existence, mingle on the shore
with whales and prehistoric
fishes, talking story
then dive back into
Cerulean blue,
waken with feet
miraculously
encased in skates
lost decades ago,
with my locker
room key safely
in hand, go and
retrieve those skates,
button my good plaid coat.
Anything is possible.
Whales find their
way home by singing,
fish fly out of the waves to escape.
Shall I tell you how I flew…
Go Fish!
Louise Glück wrote about the terribleness
Of being buried consciousness deep
Beneath the earth
And how she remembers
What we call death
Ashes courtesy of Vesuvius
Mushrooms courtesy of atom
Blackouts courtesy of graphite
To bury more consciousness
Deep beneath the terribleness
I imagine whole cities
Like bulbs
Encapsulated
Hands grasp for ropes
Reach above ground
Into bloom
Fish
I was resurrected –
No myth
Long wire
reached into body
I swallowed the sinker
coiling in on myself
draped in seaweed
Unfurl from reeling
Blink against sunlight
Stagger forward
Weighted out of water
Bloop
Child named River
Who hated the water
I taught you to swim
Bubbles beat stones
Night fishing at Antibes
—Pablo Picasso, 1939
Museum of Modern Art, NYC
Night Fishing at Antibes
What sort of night is this?
Demons are loose. How
diabolically the sun shines
on this green ocean.
Is all the world upside down?
Fish fly in mountains while
respectable ladies bicycle
on rooftops
Look! A fisherman has struck
his spear into a whale,
That will make a nice stew!
Phoenicians Once Sailed from These Shores
Fishermen, shoulders bent,
set sail daily,
carrying baits,
oil lamps, a loaf of bread.
Theirs a biblical patience,
taking them farther
every day,
muscles tight, foreheads furrowing,
awaiting the secular miracle,
their nets deployed
in an ancestral garb,
flutters as a dancer’s veil
enveloping the dense,
sterile Mediterranean waters,
scooping algae, residues, dead fish,
fugitive ripples.
They return home empty-handed,
later every time,
at dawn or dusk,
eyelids lowered,
disappearing under thick eyebrows,
their flattened nets
heavy with absence
First published by Live Encounters Magazine
From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)
Blue Heron
An Egyptian sculpture
lost in the Northern wilderness,
the blue heron stands out
in the whitened landscape,
mimics an ibis’ fixed stare,
studies the frozen creek,
sensing trembling gills
beneath the transparent sheet.
But why land in my backyard
I wonder, where no lotus ever grows?
Unless he sees his own ancestral roots
in my wide-open eyes lined with kohl,
and knows that water from the Nile
still runs in my veins since birth.
In warmer seasons he has seen me
feed the silver fish,
tend the vegetable garden,
bend over perennials
springing stronger each year,
add more seeds,
making this our home,
where we’ve lived the longest ever.
Today he saw me walk in circles
in the stillness of barren trees
over crisp snowflakes
masking all signs of life,
the forget-me-nots throbbing
under their icy coat, scintillating,
a thousand suns
opening a dam of flowing memories
on sunnier shores
promises of blossoms to come
until suddenly, as if pulsated by an engine,
statuesque, the migrant bird deploys gigantic
wings, disappears through the dead branches.
First published in Come Together: Imagine Peace
From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)
Vision
Now a mural,
the page
stretches, calling for paint,
brushes, a ladder.
Words with clipped wings
stumble,
scattered here and there,
clothes
thrown in haste
as you rush
into a lover's arms.
Two androgynous silhouettes
engage
in an elegant tango,
twist and turn,
limbs bent in unison.
Later, when light after light
has been put out,
when oak branches brush
roofs and windows, filling
the house with murmurs,
when every sound,
a menace,
you rest in inkwell darkness.
Feathers escape their cotton
prison, circle
like maddened fireflies
bonfire sparks,
you think of midnight rides in a Felukah
along the glistening Nile,
of the way timid lovers
wrote ephemeral messages,
with their
lighted cigarettes.
A cloud of down
fills the room,
schools of flashing fish
slither
on the walls of your waking.
Following a ray of moon,
you yearn
for a sliver of diamond,
reach for paper, pen, to keep
the vision alive,
but it melts into water, vanishes
as you hold on tight to your
feather pillow.
First published by Parting Gifts
From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)
At thirty-four weeks, I wanted to be born foot first.
Oxygen helped my lungs but damaged my eyes.
I went home after weeks of nurses.
Then, months of colic-filled nights followed.
The beginning of my impossible voyage.
Dad said that I was created to survive.
He quit playing semi-pro football to care for me.
Mom said I was teeny like a mustard seed.
She often repeated: “best things come in small packages”.
Love dominated my tiny countenance.
I wanted to celebrate life with pride in myself.
I wanted to color ‘outside the lines”.
I began to contemplate life beyond the norm.
This little towhead was destined to rise!
Swimming and theater became my passions.
Dad named me “Fish” because I’d paddle for hours.
Mom called me “her tiny thespian.”
Bullies and nay-sayers could not stop me.
I realized that my reality resounded with radiance.
So imbedded with excess
from daily news
I step downstairs
fresh from sleep
creep toward the corner
reach out to open aquarium hinge....
I remember now
the Oscar fish has passed
Then
bubbling from the corner
a phantom eye protrudes
encased in a slimy skin
fins floating
gossamer lace
larger and larger it looms
a shadow over my skin
with a maw deep as sin
swallowing my routine
Downward Siphon
The siphon sucks the aquarium water
down into a waiting red plastic bucket
Algae liquid fills the container
as detritus from the bottom
travels through coils of tubing—
tiny green riders of modern roller coasters.
After each full trough they empty
onto summer-thirsty roses and other beauties.
The waste of fauna becomes food for flora
in a cycle of giving and receiving
Plants stand taller and open after their elixir
Fish swim with renewed vitality after replaced water
Gratitude comes in the growth of both recipients
A wish here for the case of humanity
where too often
one takes and doesn't give
and some starve
for the measured growth of others
Out of the Blue
A rhythm 'n' blues tune got me thinking in a leading chromatic way
about the fact that blue is indeed the most common color in nature.
Blue Jays are natural beings but that doesn't mean they can't be mean.
Bluebonnets are not hats azure but wonderful floral decorations in fields.
A blue lobster is so rare that fishermen throw it back if found in their trap.
My obsessed brother reminds me that blue balls are part of the scheme.
He'll find a way to work the thin blue line into the conversation as well.
Blue laws were supposedly colonial but just consider current conjuncture.
And in the big picture, the pale blue dot is so bruised by its own inhabitants.
Thus, I picked up my modernist guitar to sing: "It's all over now, Baby Blue."
Drawing a Situation to Scale
Kyle Tyler ascended sorely discontent with the wage scale
eventually coming to aspire to a new apt economy of scale
but on balance he too could see that the scales were tipped
in favor of cute chromatic scales on a scale of one to twelve
and that kale, collard greens, and mustard leaves have some
distinct advantages over slippery reptile armor and fish skins
in the current court of culinary justice now growing up around
the sheer mountain of a task he will someday have to scale
sans recrimination and without antique scale or ladder
or any other instrument of aid others might offer him
if he truly wants to measure the scale of fright and fear
Closing Ceremony
The decision to hold the final event outside
in a nice park with amphitheater and lawns
was met with universal favorable approval.
I kept my timid distance from the main stage
although I could still hear the newly minted
sexagenarian executive director fishing for
much more applause for having completed
so many tasks and chores and this and that.
Across the way another jolly chap continued
to show off his big bagels and jumbo snacks
while I had no more than mere pretzel sticks
making me wonder why I was not out to dine.
Folks began arriving for an assumed costume ball:
a petite colleague dressed as a large mean magnate;
different friends as extravagant cartoon characters;
a triptych of kids incarnating a postcard from Greece.
So many images surrounding me as if to remind me
of my relative insignificance in the grand scheme of
things coupled with admittedly admirable sensitivities.
Low Tide.
Breeze smells like seaweed
Sand & salted egg
Across the bay
Swimmers’ voices carry
Melted in seagulls‘ song
Gulls screech in harmony
Along with aircraft’s skyward hum
Soon the breeze is all that’s left
I stand where low tide
Reaches distant shores
Walk over pebbles & seaweed
A woman comes to collect
She feeds her garden
Instead of egg shells & fish bones
Bags of dried seaweed
Before high tide takes it back
Crayolas
Wind blows blue
Ripples in the pool
Like a new sweet thing
On pink & white animal cookies
Colours call to me in reverie
Ice cold beer blushes my face
Eyes burn red in a chlorinated breeze
My inner fish swallowing air
Goes under
A blanket surrounds
Beneath an aquatic sunset
Meshed with pink & white roses
Outside the lines and grandfathered in
From half a century ago
A floating bird
What Are Ya Gonna Do?
Creation’s creatures
Fruit flies & jelly fish twin designs
Built like humans
Mouth to bowel
Arid winds bluster bold
Ride me home with
Leon Russell singing
this song for you
And I take it
Like an ogre
Grotesque in my mind
Singing like the Seraphim
Dancing like a bull
Light on my feet
With a sway
My talents unclaimed
Standing in the ocean
Waves & wind dripping
Down my face
In sheer gratitude for solitude
Summer sizzled before
Marine layer made moss
Mild enough to brush away
Yet the taste lingered
Children learned rhymes
Changing a line here & there
To fit the times
Eenie meenie mineee mo
Lit a match
To a snail
Schizophrenia lurked in
Tart grapes budding on the vine
We ate them anyway
Letting go of guilt
Every time we reach for dopamine
Over any good reason
Full Moon
Away, fish.
I could loiter,
Like a voyeur watching you forever.
I could lose my footing on these jetty rocks,
I could fall into the full moon,
Your veil thinning as the tide sharpens your gown.
You,so soft-hearted.
Me,so hard-headed.
You, so full of indolence and sensuality.
Silver and gold, your gown:
I think you must be consort to Poseidon.
I hope we never meet again.
You may live a little longer, but there’s a price:
Give me back my hook.
Away, you soft-mouth fish.
BLESSINGS
Marcy arranged to have one of the Priests
From come by to bless our home
Soon after we bought it.
Father Lorenzo arrived
At around five that following Friday.
We met him at the door,
As he stood on the pathway,
He took out the Book of Blessings
And blessed the entire structure.
"Peace to this house and all who dwell here."
The structure had three units, ours was the middle.
So, our neighbors wound up getting their homes blessed too.
Even if they were Jewish, Unitarian, atheist, agnostic or Pagan.
Most of our neighbors fit one of those five.
He did a blessing in the kitchen for each meal we would share.
He did a blessing in the family room
For all the time spent together.
We then went upstairs.
He blessed the master bedroom for matrimonial bliss.
He blessed our child's room that she sleeps peacefully.
Lastly, he blessed the bathrooms (yes, even those).
Then he joined us for dinner,
And took the chair usually occupied by the cat.
He opened with the Lord's prayer.
We dined on Salmon with Ratatouille,
Accompanied by DaVinci white wine.
We talked of the choir and the Christmas program,
And went onto the Father’s coming trip to Amsterdam.
At this point, I broke in, stating that our Puritan forefathers
Had set sail from Amsterdam,
And that it was they who outlawed Christmas back in the day
Because the Bible never said that Jesus
Was ever born on the 25th of December,
And that it was a Pagan Holiday anyway.
Marcy gave me that hard glare,
Like I had said something wrong.
Father Lorenzo continued, discussing
His struggles with Dutch grammar.
I sympathized, as I had studied German Grammar,
But I kept my mouth shut.
Marcy asked me to brew some coffee for dessert.
She served a wonderful strawberry flan.
I was able to redeem myself with the coffee.
Father Lorenzo looked at his watch
And said it was late.
We saw him to the door, and even walked him out to his car.
Another 15 minutes of chats, and goodbyes.
Sometime later, Father Lorenzo would be defrocked
For sexual harassment.
Marcy and I divorced ten years after that.
dolphin chatter not nonsense,
thanks for all the fish
(Inspired by Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy of course)
remarkably shy
I stretch out one tentacle 🐙
wave at onlookers
(Inspired by Remarkably Bright Creatures)
spotted garden eel
stick my head out of the sand
write a little verse
(Inspired by my visit to OdySea Aquarium and prompt for day 3 of NaPoWriMo)
Gone Fishing
The fish were there
gathered at the shoreline
almost asking to be caught.
But that was then.
They’re all gone now
replaced by plastic
replicas.
First published in Purple Stallion Revue, March 2026
Meeting Your Match
D H Lawrence once wrote
that there were lots of good fish in the sea
but as the vast majority were mackerel and herring,
unless you were mackerel or herring yourself,
you were unlikely to find your fish-mate.
But that was in the teeming wilderness of then.
There are a lot fewer fish now than in his day
and even mackerel and herring are in short supply.
Perhaps that will make it easier to meet your match
amongst the precocious survivors.
But maybe he would have something wilder in mind,
for our times,
a salmon perhaps.
There are even fewer of them now
so only the wildest will meet their match
in today's emptying wilderness.
First published in Ultramarine, June 2025
Imagine…
If fishes were to fly
in the sky, and stars
were to twinkle
on the grass below,
how would it be?
Forget the science
where stars are
aflame and huge.
Imagine they’re tiny,
twinkle to Mozart’s
tune and glimmer
in the grass like
festive fairy lights.
And the fishes?
They’d glow
rainbow hues
of psychedelic
shades. Imagine
the brightness
exuded by the
shimmer of the
gleaming tints!
If we could fly
instead of swim
among fishes,
sprout wings
like butterflies,
then how would
it be? Perhaps,
we’d be in a new
universe — living
out a different dream.
Just open your minds
and imagine…
Axolotl
Did you know?
Axolotls are not fish!
They are salamanders
swimming with fins!
That day, I met an axolotl
in an aquarium gazing
at me and wondering,
‘What’s this creature?’
I waved and smiled.
The axolotl looked
surprised! It moved
closer to the far-wall.
In the axolotl’s universe,
I’d probably be a
giant alien from
a strange galaxy!
Evolution
The world changed
over time. In 9009 CE,
I met a talking fish
during my evening walk.
We chatted of this
and that in gibf,
the language of
universal fish-talk.
The reason I learnt
gibf is because I’ve
a new set of gills.
I am amphibious now.
As I whirl back in
this old Time Machine,
I realize, how absurd
this may seem in the
primitive world of 2026!
A fish poem
I can hear brautigans trout
Fishing in America right now
In the bathroom in the toilet
Going blah blah blah
To the crazy poet in the
Other room
Like a tear drop from the sun
The biggest fish I ever saw as child
Was a huge golden Carp
I was 5, my dad went fishing a lot
When I was that young
I never remember being with him catching
This fish
Yet there is a Polaroid
My dad in ball cap
Ball jersey lamb chop
Sideburns
Ball shorts
& Work boots
He stood w the cheesiest smile
Ever holding up a line where
Hanging half as long as he was
& As big round as small trampoline
The carp dangling from the line
Like a tear drop from the sun
A fishing story
Gray cloudy day
Creek rippling bubbling
Flowing
Sitting, watching the
Water & line
No bites for hours
I feel in pack up break out
Notebook & pen
As a great Blue Heron
Glides by over the creek
Almost close enough to
Touch
I watched that heron eat
3 fishing the opposite bank
I walked away 3 poems
Into the cool hazy sunset
Filled w joy
Gutted in Grippy Socks
On the psych ward,
time crawls
across piss-stained floors.
It smells like fish
whenever Debbie, the head nurse,
heats up lunch.
I catch her watching me
waiting for meals, for meds—
filthy, exposed, gutted.
I can’t breathe at night
when my big dreams
dwindle under fluorescent lights.
I am mesmerized by darkness,
what’s unseen—
unspeakable suffering
lights me up like a toy.
Warning: don’t press my buttons
or I might snap.
My mind is rubber,
wrapped in cheap plastic.
Unpack me gently. I’m a fall risk,
Debbie’s worst nightmare—
chasing shadows
along cracked walls,
crawling
without yellow grippy socks.
Take Me to the River
My uncle received as a gift a fish
that was on a plaque that you hang on the wall,
and when someone would walk by,
the fish would begin to sing the Talking Heads song
“Take Me to the River.” (Drop me in the water)
There was also a gift we got for my brother and his wife
that was a phone with a statue of Elvis.
When it would ring, Elvis would start dancing and singing
“You ain’t nothin’ but a hound dog.”
My brother’s wife finally said, “This is crazy,” and got rid of it.
I had a similar reaction when I had a school bus with
Simpsons characters on it. They all had lines they would say
when you would tap their heads. I put it in my closet and,
for no reason, Ralph, with his high-pitched voice, would
always come on with nobody touching it. I moved that school bus
farther and farther in my closet as, in the middle of the night,
I would hear Ralph’s voice. One night, I was so freaked out
when Ralph started talking, that I grabbed the school bus,
went outside and threw it in the trash.
This morning,
let’s balance the world.
To the depressed offer laughter,
hinges to the rigid,
trip the solemn general on his horse, intentionally,
for the sad bureaucrat, open a window with vistas to the sea,
loose the strings on sardine cans tied to cats’ tails,
purchase gladiolus to the urban-raised,
allow the expectant mother to listen to the baby’s heartbeat,
give a glass of wine to the abstemious,
broiled fish to the vegan
then,
disrobe the virgins of the park standing on pedestals
before going home to a bowl of cold soup.
The Death of My Belief That I Can Take Care of Fish
I awoke to the sight
of its corpse
floating, belly-up
fat and white
glowing like a light bulb
the life gone from its eye
the go-getter
who gulped down
sprinkles of food
with its quick mouth
before the others
had a chance
those level-one tropicals
for beginners
the tank
now a crime scene
to explain to my housemate
who went on a trip
my heart growing cold
as the fish itself
JONAH LEAVES SEATTLE
Jonah had had it.
He was sick of crying out
against the wickedness of the city.
No one was listening.
Jeff Bezos showed no signs whatsoever
of donning sackcloth, rolling round in ashes,
and begging for forgiveness.
And why the hell should he?
After 10 years, Jonah had
17 Facebook followers,
and most of those were in the dementia wing
at the Norse Home on Phinney Ridge.
Jonah decided to flee from
the presence of the Lord.
Disguising himself, he got on
the ferry to Bremerton,
but the Lord found him.
Appearing in a vision to the other passengers,
the Lord said "Hey guys,
I think I see an orca in the distance!"
Jonah's shipmates threw him overboard
in an effort to attract it closer.
Jonah found he liked it fine
in the belly of the whale.
It was roomier than
his old micropod in Hillman City.
And the plumbing was better.
After Federico Garcia Lorca
The fishes glisten,
fishermen listen,
for the blood
and the song
of the sea and
sun’s reflection
on the waves.
The startling verses,
the siren’s curses,
take hold of
fishermen,
who intently
listen, who fall
in the spell.
Hook, line, sinker,
they fall deeper,
in the mouth
of the sea,
fishermen, blind
like love, who
can blame them?
After Bauhaus’ song Dive
So alive
like moths going into the light
Kamikaze love
like moths making the last dive
Insects swoon
going full speed into the light
In the subterranean world
Molotov cocktails are the weapon of choice
A train in vain falls off the tracks
A necromantic brings back all the dead
and stitches up the living
Fingers are stripped off their fingerprints
for identity concealment; beware of
dead ringers who assume your life
On Monkey Paw Road you get five wishes
and K-Mart blue specials go on for hours
Dragon claws help us tunnel our way
to the underworld and open the magic door
where we tangle with the sumo wrestler
and dance to Bauhaus and Pussy Galore
with fishnet leatherette toothless zombies
in the dive bar from hell
as we get down, down, down
We go down, down, down
We get down, down, down
I was looking at my footprints.
I was looking at my shoes.
The footprints did not seem to match.
They might have belonged to a fish,
or a flamingo, a minotaur,
or a three-legged dog.
I gazed at a cricket jumping in
my footprints. It seemed to
be wearing a tux. My footprints
filled with rain and the tender
cricket fled. A scream from a
nearby bush altered my senses.
A cow with a pair of shoes walked
out of the bush. A cow with a
little girl’s voice walked in
footprints. It was a mad cow.
I USED TO GIVE HIM HIS PENCILS
said the bartender. "Used to
live in one of those shabby rooms
up on top of the Emporium Hotel, or
what used to be the Emporium,
and he'd come down here and drink
like a fuckin' fish. When he died
he still owed me $130." I've already
stopped listening. "But, yeah,
he'd come down here with some
great idea or another, or he'd
drink until he had a great idea,
and he'd always say 'hey Bill, ya
got a pencil, something to write
with?" And I'd go back there to
that there cup, drop him another
writing stick and never see it
OR my tab again. I don't know why
I kept serving the guy. 'Specially
later on when he had money."
And I know what he's up to,
he just wants me to ask for one of the his
shitty pencils, fresh from the coffee mug of infamy
or if I'm really stupid, to slip him $130
just to say I paid off a famous writer's tab
like the six fresh-faced writers before me,
who always seem to be chasing
L.A.'s ghosts.
I sip at my beer
which hadn't been too bad
but suddenly ain't so great
and eventually get up to leave him
with his memories, fantasies,
or maybe both.
A TRADER JOE’S SUPERMARKET IN MANHATTAN
I saw Walt Whitman at Trader Joe’s the other day. “Good
call,” he said smiling as I placed two five-ounce cups
of Greek nonfat blueberry yogurt in my shopping cart.
“Delicious and healthy while only 130 calories.”
“Yeah,” I replied. “My stomach feels so good every
time I eat some and it doesn’t exit my body too hard
like an egg, potato, and cheese burrito nor loose as
chocolate candy bars or a bag of roasted peanuts.”
The Ancient Mariner from Samuel Coleridge’s poem
appeared. “Every year 8 million tons of plastic are dumped
into our oceans,” he said. “Plastics, plastics, every where
while albatross chicks with bellies bloated with
plastic bits are dying of starvation.”
Mary Oliver pushed her shopping cart over.
“Did you know,” she said, “during the course of
their lives the albatross, while traveling thousands
of miles on their migratory journeys, spend up
to five years in the skies without touching land?”
“What’s does Samuel Coleridge’s poem have to do with us?”
Whitman asked. “This store is too far from the ocean
and the plastic cup will most likely end in a landfill
after it’s thrown away.”
Dorothy Parker behind Mary Oliver said, “Whether thrown away
and ending in a landfill or the Great Pacific Garbage Patch,
it will take centuries for a plastic bottle to decompose
after a few minutes gulp of a soda pop.”
“Thank you for this information, Ms Parker,” Whitman said.
“Obviously, we the consumers of America need to recycle
more and throw away less.”
Edna St. Vincent Millay was shopping with Dorothy Parker
“What good would that do, Walt?” she asked? “Globally we
recycle less than 10% of all the plastic we produce.”
“When I was a kid,” I said, “I’d walk to a grocery store with
an empty quart of milk glass bottle and pay only 10¢ instead of
15¢ if I hadn’t brought the bottle. I don’t understand why they
stopped making glass bottles you can use for deposit today.”
Pablo Neruda hearing us from a refrigerated counter,
dropped a package of Chilean sea bass in his shopping bag
and said, “Es muy facil, companero. By reducing labor costs
which comes with the washing and reusing of glass bottles,
food and soda drink corporations make greater profits
increasing size of landfills and ocean plastic garbage
patches than manufacturing glass bottles which can
be used over and over again.”
Whitman shook his head. “I noticed your sea bass was wrapped
in plastic over a styrofoam rectangle plate, Pablo,”
Emily Dickinson wearing a gray house robe over a striped calico
dress and walking in slippers passed by. “That’s because
they don’t wrap meat in paper anymore, Walt.”
Pablo Neruda was about to comment when
Thoreau rolled his cart by, “You mean to tell me
that for nearly 300,000 years we have lived without
plastics and all of a sudden, we can’t live without them.”
Allen Ginsberg walked in Trader Joe’s. “Hey, Walt baby,”
he said grinning!
“Hello, Allen,” Whitman smiled back.
“Do you still hear America singing?” Ginsberg asked.
fifth-day and sixth-day creation collisions
human tears open a plastic bag releasing
six-Goldfish into their aquarium
a black and orange Oscar chases
an orange and black Goldfish
Oscar mouths a Goldfish tail sucking
it down to half-in half-out
human gets a fish net and places
it between their index and middle finger
a green holy mesh chases
a black and orange Goldfish
human mouths a Goldfish sucking
it down to half-out half-in
Oscar and human swallow
the Goldfish tail and head
cause it was good
Oscars eat Goldfish
humans eat Goldfish
cause it will soon be good
Goldfish will eat Oscars
Goldfish will eat humans
LIVING IN A FAIRY TALE
I am born
Look around
See siblings
Mommy and Daddy
Not there
We are orphans
Growing up in an
Underwater city
Enclosed with glass
On all sides
With my siblings
Search for food
Live in a protected area
Tropical setting
Villages
Houses, schools
Library restaurants
Castles, mushroom houses
Pagoda, volcano
Playing hide and seek
In caves, hollow logs
Parks with statues
Trees, bushes
Streets of gravel
Look and see figures
Walking in air
We spy on them
Watch as they
Eat , read, watch TV
They are free
We are fish
Trapped in an
Aquarium
THE VICTIM
Clean
Unpolluted
Of the blue
Ocean
Before progress
Began
Invention of
Sturdy boats
Motor, Cruise, war ships
Submarines
Social surroundings
Of underwater
Sealife
Now the water
Has life above
Without care
For those below
Danger to the sea
Pollute with garbage
Thrown overboard
Fumes
Effects quality of life
For the fish
Small fish netted
Big fish speared, hooked
Look for food elsewhere
Sharks spied
Strange creatures
In the sea
Take a bit
Of human fish
Clean, unpolluted
Of the blue ocean
Before advancement
Of man
Fish them out…
Fish them out of the water
Leave them in the gutter
Not a pretty picture
But life is anything but
A lifeless journey
Without a way to swim
Unless the killing stops
Unless the hatred stops
Unless we’re given a chance
to use our own hands to create
The Big Fish
Never getting caught
is the name of the game
Played multiple times
Losses are cut
Lives are lost
Loves come and go
But the top is sweet
Though the heart sours
Who Hears the Fishes?*
“Who hears the fishes when they cry?”*
The trees gasping for breath?
Who sees the birds fall from the air?
Or feels the shudders as Earth’s heart bleeds?
Listen to Nature’s quiet voice
As she pleads for time
For space
And mercy
And consider this: who’ll be left to feel
To hear, to see
When the world’s exhausted
And our time’s gone?
*Henry David Thoreau, A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers
Totality
Do fish that swim
In emerald seas
Imagine walking
On desert sands?
Or birds which soar
Blue summer skies
Think of diving depths
Far off from land?
I close my eyes
And dream I fly
Skimming clouds
High as can be
Fish? Bird? Myself?
Or some of all?
Part of a great
Collective “we?”
Perhaps, together, we’re of a one
And ‘round with us
The Earth
Here too
Each looking, dreaming
Of higher planes
We’ll next inhabit
I, we and you
‘Til last we reach
Our given place
On land, on sea
Or in the sky
Thus finding self
Totality
Traveling, together
All side-by-side
Ode to Poi
When you first land in Hawaii
You’re welcomed with a lei
It’s Hawaiians’ way of saying their “Ahoy!”
And when comes time for dinner
Pork and fish are on display
Along with some grey-white stuff they call “poi”
They say poi has no flavor
So it’s not eaten alone
But’s used so foods’ true essence is enhanced
Poi don’t look too enticing
But it’s purpose is well known
If you have not ever had it, take a chance!
When next you’re in The Islands
And you have some time to munch
Add local condiments so you’ll enjoy
Proclaim your preference proudly
When they’re dishing up your lunch
“Please, give me double helpings of that poi!”
Late Night Swim
Deep in the water, I decided to open my eyes. They always told me that these waters were enchanted. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of a mermaid or a siren, but instead, some kind of monster started chasing me. I had a moment to take a breath from the surface when my foot caught on it. It was either this deep-water thing or the current pulling me down. I struggled and splashed until I realized I was wasting my breath, being pulled down.
Nothing enchanted
No, not that kind of magic
More like angler fish
Lignum Vitae
Tiffany slept on the beach outside
with her best friend
while Mom was desperate
to keep her boyfriend Bill
on the phone with her
sad that they were separated
by distance and time zones
The girls ended up eaten alive
by sand fleas
and Mom hardly even noticed
Nana kept beckoning Mom
to join the middle school girls
on the beach
but Mom was glued to a phone
Nana watched the girls
during their scuba lessons
and excursion out toward the coral
diving to see the colorful schools of fish
As they approached the shore
the white sandy Negril beach greeted them
the horizon slightly to the north and south
dotted with the Wood of Life
The Lignum Vitae
with its beautiful blue flowers
could not be left alone
when Columbus saw it
Rather it was torn apart
and repurposed for
its medicinal qualities
its strength supporting ships
to sail away from its home
or fashioned into ornate curios
to be purchased and taken by the tourists
I wasn’t there
Tiffany needed care and attention
like the delicate flowers
along Jamaica’s shore
but I was too busy
hosting a drunken party
for my 18th birthday
My sister came home
scratching and scarred
from fleas and neglect
and I was too drunk to notice
Lilies Under My Feet
At Balboa Park, when I was six or seven, I wanted to walk across the pond in front of the Japanese garden. The man-made pond with the lilies and lily pads on it. My mom and dad cautioned me to stay on dry land. I could lean over to look at the koi fish if I wanted to, but only a little. I sat on the side, and reached toward the lily pad nearest me. It was already broken free from its stem and browning, so I picked it up. It was dying from its disconnection to its roots. At the moment I lifted it from the water, my dad snapped a photo of me. I was accustomed to these candid photo opps. He liked to paint our family from photos. He used watercolor and took plenty of liberties with the paint, trying to make the images a bit whimsical. When he painted the moment with the lily, I was hoping the whimsy would come in the form of making the lily a deep green or painting me with the lily pads under my feet. Instead, my skin was a light violet and the lily was its actual brown.
™ I never had sexual intercourse with that woman.
GONG !
™ The glove doesn’t fit.
GONG !
™ Grab them by the
pussy.
GONG !
™ I
may be drunk, Miss, but in the morning I will be sober and you will still be
ugly.
GONG !
™
She got her good looks from her father. He's a plastic surgeon.
GONG !
™ When
you're a star, they let you do it.
GONG !
™ Fish fear me, women want me.
GONG !
My fingers follow you
Trying to figure your shape
I pinch the bridge of my nose
Attempt to blot out store signs
And all past bad news lips
As you touch my face
Melt my mental ice
The sizzling meat of me flips
My scowl becomes just a memory
My eyes crinkle, smile cracks
We go for a park stroll
You look at me like you want another child
I fight the feeling to drive an arrow into you
Because I am a gray bearded poet
But inside I’m still a flaming zeppelin
Smiling like a soldier on a train
You stand before me like an actress
In front of our local convenience store
I gaze in disbelief that you could love
A man with a belly unlike a rock
At home you slip off your heels
I lounge on the sofa with a wine bottle
Think about what could make me lose my hair
How many missile missions will it take
Until my chamber is empty
I fire into you one more time
Fall out of bed happily disheveled
You seem quite comfortable slipping on your underwear
I’m blown away by how you played my saxophone
I’ll trumpet our passion to anyone
Like a warrior on horseback
I wink with experienced bravado
Happy to maintain my vehicle
Simply so I can buy you flowers
Drive you on a distant trip
To blow my horn in front of the pyramids
Cross suspenseful bridges with you
Fight anybody who shadows our way
Frown at them like a schoolteacher
With the thought of you in your sexy dress
Making me dude up like a Kennedy
When you know I’d rather stay shirtless
Wade with you at the shore
Watch the sky paint clouds again
I never want to be around a cigarette
Or wear a black suit for any reason
Other than to kick back on the grass
And read my poem about you
How we pitch our tent united
In the evening lamplight
Crash from society all night
To stand tall together the next day
1
Can you see
the man
in the tree
standing tall
2
Fluffy white
continents float
by in a sea
of sky blue
3
Green fingers
stretch out
to catch
morning sun
4
It’s easy to laugh
at the face that
comes out of
eggs in the pan
5
Waterfall foam
flows on
from an excited
rocky body
6
People like ants
on sand gaze at
light waves then
pick up their things
7
Moon jellies
shine over
spotlight eyes
in dark water
8
Wrinkles in
outstretched
hand reach
through time
9
Clouds spray
on the mountains
as trees and cars look
stuck to the ground
10
Venus and the moon
stare on to lights
made by man below
and wonder at the haze
11
White bearded man
sits on bench reading
newspaper marvels
at continuing sameness
12
Dirigible shadow
passes by skyscraper
while clouds dominate
under vast azure
13
Tree branches radiate
outward to feel
blue-white air turn
orange-pink-purple
14
Eye holes
in the stone
are caves to
ocean memory
15
Water drops
hang from
metal rail
until heat wins
16
Outside the window
trees stand quietly
homes sit even more
autos by their side
17
Stones wedge together
for a view of the surf
coming in going out
every single day and night
18
Cliff erosion from past water could
be any planet except this one
has buildings at the base and traffic
lights signal go to mass of vehicles
Previously published in Blue Hour Magazine
Famous for taking
long baths
Also legendary because
his bass
notes were deeper
than waves
They tried to make fun of him
but he got hooked
on the moniker
This lean fillet of a man
called his first album
Fish Out Of Water
Maybe you have heard
how he anchored a group
for nearly fifty years
Until decades later
he ballooned
and developed a rare
leukemia which
turned his blood
against him
Chris is remembered
by Yes fans
as the Squire
who deliberated hours
to make music
flow in songs
and solos
The greatest he called
The Fish
(Schindelaria
Primataurus)
I wear the tee shirt
Roger Dean designed
to honor The Fish
as his band followed
his wish to continue
swimming in the prog
rock with his protégé
Billy Sherwood (getting
bigger every day)
Just Above Muddy Waters Scumvalley sunrise I'm surprised there's any light I just might have to drown another rat this morning the e...
