Fishing
Compliments hang, speared
On subtly barbed comments,
Disguising deadly intent.
Weave between the lines,
Better to be a cold fish
Than a terrible warning
Prompt: Fishing
Form: Sedoka
Self-Doubt
Why is this? Where does all this doubt creep in?
I want to write for the sheer joy in it
Don’t want to write deep for the hurt it brings in me
The g-police are sure to get me
I compare and then I’m mad at me
Other people don’t see what I see
Other people don’t think like I think
Their poems are beautiful,
Deep, and full of visual
They inspire and they tire me
I have to keep on telling me
I do this for the joy it brings
That’s why I do anything
For the joy it brings
I’m deaf to my critics now
I don’t write for them any how.
I do this for the joy it brings.
That’s why I do any thing.
#3
I write poetry to empty my emotions
I’m not even aware of the baggage
until I write it out- what’s happening in my life
and the lives around me
I journal
If I go too long with out- sludge builds up
and motivation gets stuck.
I try to journal daily and write other stuff too
Hour one post. Atlantis Ruined
Tridents clash,
And rocks they smash
In the depths
of Atlantis Deep.
Leviathan and his kin
Making ruin of it.
Scaled and scared
An old war dog,
Brains waterlogged
Vengeance in mind
For his time
Ridiculed by mermen.
Poseidon answers
When trumpets sound
Calls his arms to war
They wrangle in the weeds
Of the deep sea
And bloody red torrents
Run free.
Like scarlet bright
Lit by sunlight
Swirling all around.
Atlantis gave,
And became a grave
Forever, to those bound
By scaly beasts
And pointy teeth
Never to be found.
#3 Not Much for Fishing
Not much for fishing,
but I caught a lot of tadpoles
with my hand and a jar.
Not much for fishing,
but swimming in the river
a turtle caught my toe.
Not much for fishing,
but I washed a picnic bowl
and caught some minnows.
Not much for fishing,
caught butterflies, frogs, crayfish;
but never used hooks.
In Names
Let’s call a sunrise morning,
Let’s call a sunset night,
Let’s call our calling calling,
Let’s call our death a life.
THE SANDWICH KING
HOUR THREE
POEM # 3
24 HOUR
POEM
MARATHON
THE SANDWICH KING
A man named Bing,
Is the sandwich king.
When Bing was a boy,
Sandwiches were his joy.
Peanut butter and jelly,
They would fill his belly.
Bing stopped for lunch,
Sandwiches by the bunch.
Bing could’t wait for dinner,
Hamburgers were a winner.
Bing loved to ride his bike,
Or a ten thousand foot hike.
He would always say please,
Give me a ham and cheese.
Looking at a restaurant menu,
Was Bing’s favorite venu.
Many sandwiches to choose,
Bing knew he couldn’t lose.
Bing loved to try them all,
He grew round instead of tall.
Let’s name a sandwich Bing,
BING is the sandwich king!
Written by Carl Mann
The kurlman
6-13-2015
Boxes
(inspired by David L. Wilson’s poem)
Boxes
I have known several
My Dad was the first
All neatly encased when I got there
The work already done
I lifted him up
We all did
He was light
Hard to imagine
A whole life in one small box
Carefully sealed
Later he would sit next to an American flag
Encased with his medals
A veteran with honors
But not heroism
Just a lifetime of being a hero
Next would be Mom
I drove her home myself
Feeling like I should drive slowly
No speeding
No radio
I had to be respectful
Worried that she might fall on the floor
Even in death I worried about her
It was hard to stop
She would sit next to my Dad
High on a bookshelf
Where the cats wouldn’t knock them
And the kids wouldn’t pull them down
The boxes were covered
With Grandma’s embroidery
I would ceremoniously wash
Every few weeks
Dusting the shelf and thinking of them
Wondering how they were
Stacie was like an anomaly
Passed around as we discussed death
Her death sudden and unsettling
She was heavy
much heavier
Her bones still strong and full
When she passed.
She too found a shelf
And a place.
I would visit sometimes
And wish I could change things
Perhaps scattering would come
One day for all of them
The boxes, small complex
The remnants of a whole life
Unceremoniously transformed to ash
And memories
Memories I would write about
Memories collected
That would one day be a box
Someone will toss in the trash
After I am placed on a shelf
Away from cats and kids
Collecting dust.
A Sport Fish #3
Oh! I have done quite a bit of fishing in my life
Always at the end of the line
Holding on to pieces of time
Mingling for the right catch night after night
Taken ample time to prepare each asset
To become the unattainable yet desirable bait
Just so there would be something worthy for man to eventually put on his plate.
I have played by the rules of the game
Learned traditional chores, hobbies, technique
Encompassed in the tackle box known as me
Worked hard and accepted less pay
All in yearning to be treated, respected the same
I have tears and sweat and scars where smiles should be
Brought forth human life from inside me
But each time the line sways back, and drops,
I can’t help but wonder how far we have really come
I am not your sport fish, I am your bait
In all the competing mankind just figured out way to late.
#2 not using the given prompts
sun and clouds
alternate the sky
traffic buzzes by
highways jam with beach goers
weather warm and humid
relief at night
when the sun hides.