It is no coincidence that our "SMOKING" poetry contest has ended just before November 19 - the same day as the Great American Smokeout 2009. Hopefully it lands us a few more Google hits than usual!
In all seriousness, thank you and congratulations to all of the poets, especially our winner: Liz Sheridan. We'll be in touch with everybody next quarter when the new topic is announced.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A message from: Frank Calo
I would like to thank all the poets that submitted work to this contest. It has been a very hard choice. The short poems were fantastic and to the point. The longer poems wove stories. In the end I had to go with one of the longer poems. "Untitled" tells the story of a family of smokers: a mother, father and daughter whose vice of choice was tobacco, all starting in their teens and foregoing harder drugs and spirits for a lifetime of nicotine addiction. In the end, it is a tale of choices and roads not taken.
WINNER, November 2009: untitled - Elizabeth Sheridan
We began
before I had begun.
My mother was eighteen,
living in the desert
and avoiding the accessories
of Sixties living (although she loved turquoise.)
Who lives in Tucson
during the height of Haight-Ashbury
and never samples
peyote?
Mescalin?
Marijuana?
My mother.
At eighteen, she shrugged
and shook her pack of Virginia Slims.
Her cigarette was her alibi.
My father was eighteen,
living in Pell's Hell
and reveling in independence
of being a kid (finally!)
Who prepares parents' taxes
for the fifth time
and never refuses
liquor?
Ladies?
Marijuana?
My father.
At eighteen, he laughed
and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth.
His cigarette was his golden watch.
I was seventeen,
pulling straight A's
and sweeping up my family's fractures
as I worked 40 hours a week (at Chuck E. Cheese's.)
Who can dig herself
so deep that her only options
seem like
pills?
Liquor?
...?
Myself.
At seventeen, I considered
and bypassed the Stoli for the Marlboros.
My cigarette was my longest relationship.
before I had begun.
My mother was eighteen,
living in the desert
and avoiding the accessories
of Sixties living (although she loved turquoise.)
Who lives in Tucson
during the height of Haight-Ashbury
and never samples
peyote?
Mescalin?
Marijuana?
My mother.
At eighteen, she shrugged
and shook her pack of Virginia Slims.
Her cigarette was her alibi.
My father was eighteen,
living in Pell's Hell
and reveling in independence
of being a kid (finally!)
Who prepares parents' taxes
for the fifth time
and never refuses
liquor?
Ladies?
Marijuana?
My father.
At eighteen, he laughed
and pulled out a Marlboro with his teeth.
His cigarette was his golden watch.
I was seventeen,
pulling straight A's
and sweeping up my family's fractures
as I worked 40 hours a week (at Chuck E. Cheese's.)
Who can dig herself
so deep that her only options
seem like
pills?
Liquor?
...?
Myself.
At seventeen, I considered
and bypassed the Stoli for the Marlboros.
My cigarette was my longest relationship.
HONORABLE MENTION: The Flick, The Flint, The Spark, The Fire - Caroline Frank
What would Roosevelt say if he walked into a bar,
To relax with a whiskey and smoke a cigar,
And the bar back ushered him 20 feet from the door?
The man who was leading that Second World War.
Smokers are lazy, unhealthy, degenerates-
Don’t idolize people,
Only their sentiments.
Pick and choose what great things to admire,
Ignore the great minds and their portable fire.
Let’s travel back to 1905,
When Einstein observed the speed of light,
A discovery in one hand and in the other?
His pipe.
Would we live in darkness when the secret was told,
What Edison lit before lighting the bulb?
And what about Orwell, Wilde and Tolkien?
We love all the stories they wrote while chain smokin’.
And we all know of a rebel, who didn’t have cause,
He stole our hearts and he gained our applause.
In honor we printed a stamp with his face,
With his signature cigarette safely erased.
We danced to The Cool and we Flew to the Moon,
Then broke out of Folsom in our Blue Suede Shoes,
With nothing but Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Throw on those records and let’s hear those songs sung,
Our melodies and memories from those famous black lungs.
Marilyn was an icon but her habits, excusable?
And did anyone care when they went to her funeral?
It’s a good thing we’re safe now and given the facts,
About cancer, low birth weight and of course, heart attacks.
Tobacco was fine when it was funding our nation,
Before there was cotton and household radiation.
Another Truth commercial?! Please, change the station.
You can warn us and scare us and force us our health,
And forget all of those who chose for themselves.
To relax with a whiskey and smoke a cigar,
And the bar back ushered him 20 feet from the door?
The man who was leading that Second World War.
Smokers are lazy, unhealthy, degenerates-
Don’t idolize people,
Only their sentiments.
Pick and choose what great things to admire,
Ignore the great minds and their portable fire.
Let’s travel back to 1905,
When Einstein observed the speed of light,
A discovery in one hand and in the other?
His pipe.
Would we live in darkness when the secret was told,
What Edison lit before lighting the bulb?
And what about Orwell, Wilde and Tolkien?
We love all the stories they wrote while chain smokin’.
And we all know of a rebel, who didn’t have cause,
He stole our hearts and he gained our applause.
In honor we printed a stamp with his face,
With his signature cigarette safely erased.
We danced to The Cool and we Flew to the Moon,
Then broke out of Folsom in our Blue Suede Shoes,
With nothing but Subterranean Homesick Blues.
Throw on those records and let’s hear those songs sung,
Our melodies and memories from those famous black lungs.
Marilyn was an icon but her habits, excusable?
And did anyone care when they went to her funeral?
It’s a good thing we’re safe now and given the facts,
About cancer, low birth weight and of course, heart attacks.
Tobacco was fine when it was funding our nation,
Before there was cotton and household radiation.
Another Truth commercial?! Please, change the station.
You can warn us and scare us and force us our health,
And forget all of those who chose for themselves.
Constance - Daniel Larkins
Because her lover quit her, Linda said
She would end her life puffing,
Shriveling, silent and slow suicide. I
Can’t help but think of my mother. I held
Her sharp knuckles and thin wrists and yellow
Fingertips—the drags made my mother: more
A woman, Skinny, younger and older,
Grow on her adrenal gland a tumor
The size of a filter. Disposable
Buyer—A smoker and her son in chains.
From my bed by the window, wind whistles
Speaking her speech, my mother exhaling
Speaking to me, sick, and sad, and wheezing.
She would end her life puffing,
Shriveling, silent and slow suicide. I
Can’t help but think of my mother. I held
Her sharp knuckles and thin wrists and yellow
Fingertips—the drags made my mother: more
A woman, Skinny, younger and older,
Grow on her adrenal gland a tumor
The size of a filter. Disposable
Buyer—A smoker and her son in chains.
From my bed by the window, wind whistles
Speaking her speech, my mother exhaling
Speaking to me, sick, and sad, and wheezing.
A True Love Affair - Sue Grass
It started when I was twelve.
From my first puff,
I was in love.
True love.
The never-ending, can’t believe it,
butterflies in my stomach true love.
Yet…I toyed with a full commitment.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen,
that I really consummated this love affair.
I held nothing back,
I was a pack a day smoker.
I always had a pack
and I bought cartons.
The perfection of our relationship
lasted until I was twenty seven.
I wanted to have a baby.
My husband said,
“Not until you quit.”
So, I held my middle finger to my thumb
every time I wanted a cigarette,
and chanted,
“Baby, baby, baby,
I want a baby, not a cigarette.”
I was lying,
but it worked.
I got pregnant,
breastfeed,
Did it all again
and had my two babies.
Always, always
mourning, the end
of my beautiful relationship.
From my first puff,
I was in love.
True love.
The never-ending, can’t believe it,
butterflies in my stomach true love.
Yet…I toyed with a full commitment.
It wasn’t until I was sixteen,
that I really consummated this love affair.
I held nothing back,
I was a pack a day smoker.
I always had a pack
and I bought cartons.
The perfection of our relationship
lasted until I was twenty seven.
I wanted to have a baby.
My husband said,
“Not until you quit.”
So, I held my middle finger to my thumb
every time I wanted a cigarette,
and chanted,
“Baby, baby, baby,
I want a baby, not a cigarette.”
I was lying,
but it worked.
I got pregnant,
breastfeed,
Did it all again
and had my two babies.
Always, always
mourning, the end
of my beautiful relationship.
Expenses - Eliezer Sobel
My vaporizer showed up today;
I’d been thinking about getting one for 27 years,
but always thought it would mean I was a smoker,
and I was unwilling to make that commitment.
Before shelling out $165 for a vaporizer,
I could continue polluting my lungs for three decades,
comforted by the idea that I might choose to stop any day.
Now I can’t stop, or I won’t get my money’s worth.
Worse, this new contraption seems to use up a whole lot more herb,
so my overhead is going up as well.
I guess I could factor in all the money I’ve saved over the years
by never smoking cigarettes or getting into cocaine,
and only buying the $3.99 merlot at Trader Joe’s.
And if you consider the heroin I’ve never purchased
plus all the soft drinks I’ve avoided since my 20s,
I am virtually swimming in dough from all the ways I DON’T get high,
all the addictions that passed me by.
I’m a substance abuse success story!
(My accounts got skewed by all the Ecstasy, though;
at thirty bucks a pop,
it messed with my numbers in a disproportionate manner.)
I’m going to turn the whole thing over to my CPA and see if he can crunch it
in such a way that the IRS gives me a deduction for the vaporizer
and offers to score me some Lebanese Red for the holidays.
I’d been thinking about getting one for 27 years,
but always thought it would mean I was a smoker,
and I was unwilling to make that commitment.
Before shelling out $165 for a vaporizer,
I could continue polluting my lungs for three decades,
comforted by the idea that I might choose to stop any day.
Now I can’t stop, or I won’t get my money’s worth.
Worse, this new contraption seems to use up a whole lot more herb,
so my overhead is going up as well.
I guess I could factor in all the money I’ve saved over the years
by never smoking cigarettes or getting into cocaine,
and only buying the $3.99 merlot at Trader Joe’s.
And if you consider the heroin I’ve never purchased
plus all the soft drinks I’ve avoided since my 20s,
I am virtually swimming in dough from all the ways I DON’T get high,
all the addictions that passed me by.
I’m a substance abuse success story!
(My accounts got skewed by all the Ecstasy, though;
at thirty bucks a pop,
it messed with my numbers in a disproportionate manner.)
I’m going to turn the whole thing over to my CPA and see if he can crunch it
in such a way that the IRS gives me a deduction for the vaporizer
and offers to score me some Lebanese Red for the holidays.
Last - Mike Drabble
The match flares
Gutters
And with a wrist-snap-flick
Is cast
Aside
With the first lungful
I watch him wheel
And stride back
The precision of his gait
The breeze
This bead of sweat
Meandering
Down my forehead
Suddenly much
Brighter
Clearer
Another drag
And I recall
My village
The bones amongst the ashes
The rage
In the corner of my eye
He raises his sword
A last hit
And I spit the cigarette out
I’m glad
I refused the blindfold
Looking
At the one opposite
The way his barrel shakes
I know
He’s more scared
Than me
I laugh
And the sword falls
Gutters
And with a wrist-snap-flick
Is cast
Aside
With the first lungful
I watch him wheel
And stride back
The precision of his gait
The breeze
This bead of sweat
Meandering
Down my forehead
Suddenly much
Brighter
Clearer
Another drag
And I recall
My village
The bones amongst the ashes
The rage
In the corner of my eye
He raises his sword
A last hit
And I spit the cigarette out
I’m glad
I refused the blindfold
Looking
At the one opposite
The way his barrel shakes
I know
He’s more scared
Than me
I laugh
And the sword falls
Apostrophe to Marlboros - Ruth Yeselson
Lovely macho-boros,
cowboy killers, coffin nails,
necessary butch accessories:
you speak for me when I have no voice to say
STONE—
smoke curling up her thigh, intimate yet aloof,
a long distance touch while I
shoot pool all cool behind that screen—
RAGE—
cartoon red ticking bomb box,
sticks rolled up, packed tight, and even filtered,
never forget that cigarettes burn—
and, yes, DEATH—
one bar suicide each hot tube,
secret black lung spot scar,
seven minutes solitude,
oh sweetest savored death-ward time
smoked most alone.
cowboy killers, coffin nails,
necessary butch accessories:
you speak for me when I have no voice to say
STONE—
smoke curling up her thigh, intimate yet aloof,
a long distance touch while I
shoot pool all cool behind that screen—
RAGE—
cartoon red ticking bomb box,
sticks rolled up, packed tight, and even filtered,
never forget that cigarettes burn—
and, yes, DEATH—
one bar suicide each hot tube,
secret black lung spot scar,
seven minutes solitude,
oh sweetest savored death-ward time
smoked most alone.
Diner, 2005 - Mark NP
he tick-flicked a cigarette in a rhythmic and nervous way over the plastic ashtray
trying to unstick ash that wasn’t through burning yet
so the cherry would rip if he didn’t stop
a thought crossed his mind that he felt like a slave and he was immediately embarrassed
but he couldn’t help reassure himself that he wasn’t absurd in the feeling
he smoked spitefully
precisely because his mother told him not to all the while growing up and when
he finally did quit he’d only start again once she was dead
strings of smoke hung about his head like Christmas garland just as gaudy and pointless as everything else
and when the smoke began to pour from the cigarette like a storm of wild horses he got scared and rubbed the butt into the old ashtray
out lifted that terrible odor like a chemical death and he lit another one right away
to fill his nostrils with a better smell
trying to unstick ash that wasn’t through burning yet
so the cherry would rip if he didn’t stop
a thought crossed his mind that he felt like a slave and he was immediately embarrassed
but he couldn’t help reassure himself that he wasn’t absurd in the feeling
he smoked spitefully
precisely because his mother told him not to all the while growing up and when
he finally did quit he’d only start again once she was dead
strings of smoke hung about his head like Christmas garland just as gaudy and pointless as everything else
and when the smoke began to pour from the cigarette like a storm of wild horses he got scared and rubbed the butt into the old ashtray
out lifted that terrible odor like a chemical death and he lit another one right away
to fill his nostrils with a better smell
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Introducing: Frank Calo
We are proud to introduce Frank Calo as the November 2009 poetry contest judge. His background in theater should prove to be an interesting lens through which he'll view the submissions.
Frank is the Executive Producer and Artistic Director of the Spotlight On Theatre and Co-Producer of Planet Connections Festivity (both festival producting theater companies). He has produced hundreds of plays and productions through his New York theatre festivals. Most recently, he directed and co-produced the Paris production of Andy Warhol’s "Secret Girlfriend" which had a successful run at the Theatre De Nesle. He has also produced and hosted specialty events including the Variety Tonight shows in NYC and NJ.
Frank is the Executive Producer and Artistic Director of the Spotlight On Theatre and Co-Producer of Planet Connections Festivity (both festival producting theater companies). He has produced hundreds of plays and productions through his New York theatre festivals. Most recently, he directed and co-produced the Paris production of Andy Warhol’s "Secret Girlfriend" which had a successful run at the Theatre De Nesle. He has also produced and hosted specialty events including the Variety Tonight shows in NYC and NJ.
Monday, October 26, 2009
NEW Deadline - NOVEMBER 17
The contest deadline has been extended to November 17th.
Also, a judge has been selected! Stay tuned for details.
Also, a judge has been selected! Stay tuned for details.
Monday, October 5, 2009
SMOKING poetry contest - $5 and poem due by Oct. 31 for entry!
ANNOUNCING the second quarterly poetry contest. The contest is $5 to play, open to anyone, and the WINNER TAKES ALL. All contestants are published on this website.
The topic this time around is SMOKING. The contest will be decided and winners posted by November 19. We think the topic will lend itself to some interesting poems.
The rules are simple. Create a 2 page MS Word document. On the first page, write a short poem or prose poem about SMOKING. You can be as creative as you like with this in both form and content. On the second page, write the title of the poem, your name, your cell phone number, address and email.
Send $5 through PayPal and e-mail the document by midnight on October 31, 2009 to neurohr.pierpaoli@gmail.com. The PayPal link is in the right hand margin of the blog.
The entries will be evaluated by a qualified judge, yet to be determined.
Good luck!
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A message from: Mike Drabble
Thanks to everyone that entered this contest: it was a pleasure to read your work. There were some strong pieces submitted, but a decision had to be made and I went for 'Hot Fun Shark Attack'. This is a poem that captures the blank-eyed menace of the shark, but in an unexpected yet jarringly familiar setting. It shows that the shark has survived for hundreds of millions of years because its predatory efficiency can be adapted to places other than the oceans; places where, just like at some sunny shoreline, apparently innocent play can mask a more ruthless undercurrent. The writer reveals this undercurrent to be as dangerous as any we may encounter, and leaves us alert for the next time we may venture into a place - or relationship - that sees us out of our depth.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
A regular writing & poetry contest: SHARKS
Posted here are the submissions of the poets who participated in the first regular writing & poetry contest, August 2009. The topic was simply "SHARKS." Each contestant pitched in $5 in a winner take all short poetry free-for-all.
Ruth Yeselson's "Hot Fun Shark Attack" was declared the winner, with Dan Larkins & Anthony Lioi receiving Honorable Mentions. Mike Drabble of Unquiet Desperation judged the entries.
Feel free to leave comments for the writers.
WINNER, August 2009: Hot Fun Shark Attack - Ruth Yeselson
I search GOOGLE for “shark facts”
and find: Shark Attack Hot Fun Girls Video:
Join Amy, your hot teacher in swimsuit and floaties
for Fun Facts About Different Types of Sharks.
I fear to click on it, imagining pornographic shark SPAM
circulating tirelessly in my electronic ocean, but
I cannot help but imagine the different types of sharks
nosing among the hot fun girls
as they giggle and splash for the video camera:
the Hammerhead butting against the buttock cheeks
and the Great White gliding amidst the swimsuited crotches,
as hot fun artificial boobs bounce beside fins and floaties.
Amy, this is not the poem I had planned to write,
but I feel a motherly urge to advise you:
Do not believe what the sharks tell you.
There are no fun facts about sharks:
they do not have 8-inch dicks that are always hard;
their wallets do not re-grow $100 bills each time they spend one;
life with a shark is not more fun because it’s dangerous.
Sharks existed before dinosaurs. They have territories,
but no loyalties. They perceive an injury
as a weakness, and will rip you up
when you are down. So, Amy, if you see a shark
swimming your way, flexing his athletic physique,
trailing the blood of his friends or rivals,
flashing some bling and a BIG smile,
do not wait around for the hot fun shark attack,
but swim the other way immediately,
and do not look back.
and find: Shark Attack Hot Fun Girls Video:
Join Amy, your hot teacher in swimsuit and floaties
for Fun Facts About Different Types of Sharks.
I fear to click on it, imagining pornographic shark SPAM
circulating tirelessly in my electronic ocean, but
I cannot help but imagine the different types of sharks
nosing among the hot fun girls
as they giggle and splash for the video camera:
the Hammerhead butting against the buttock cheeks
and the Great White gliding amidst the swimsuited crotches,
as hot fun artificial boobs bounce beside fins and floaties.
Amy, this is not the poem I had planned to write,
but I feel a motherly urge to advise you:
Do not believe what the sharks tell you.
There are no fun facts about sharks:
they do not have 8-inch dicks that are always hard;
their wallets do not re-grow $100 bills each time they spend one;
life with a shark is not more fun because it’s dangerous.
Sharks existed before dinosaurs. They have territories,
but no loyalties. They perceive an injury
as a weakness, and will rip you up
when you are down. So, Amy, if you see a shark
swimming your way, flexing his athletic physique,
trailing the blood of his friends or rivals,
flashing some bling and a BIG smile,
do not wait around for the hot fun shark attack,
but swim the other way immediately,
and do not look back.
HONORABLE MENTION: Guantánamo Bay - Dan Larkins
My husband:
Born in captivity
Released and caught in the wild, now
The fish fat you scrape into your scalp
The fin on your plate in Sapporo.
Our child:
Parthenogenesis then Royal Caribbean
Broke off his front teeth
But he grew them back.
Myself:
Just a hammerhead who
Sometimes at night stares
Breathless at the moon’s lights
Above spears and sirens and screaming.
Born in captivity
Released and caught in the wild, now
The fish fat you scrape into your scalp
The fin on your plate in Sapporo.
Our child:
Parthenogenesis then Royal Caribbean
Broke off his front teeth
But he grew them back.
Myself:
Just a hammerhead who
Sometimes at night stares
Breathless at the moon’s lights
Above spears and sirens and screaming.
HONORABLE MENTION: The Shark at Fox Point - Anthony Lioi
The window is empty.
The window of George and Irene’s Aqualife fish shop is empty.
The window at Aqualife is empty.
The window in Providence is empty.
Once the tank had perfect water.
The 200 gallon tank had perfect water
and a dogfish shark, family Squalidae.
The dogfish swam in perfect water in Providence.
The dogfish was the delight of pedestrians.
The shark swam in the mighty Aqualife ocean tank,
a sign that Rhode Island fishkeeping reigned supreme!
The shark was a wonder of Providence.
Then, like Marilyn Monroe and Michael Jackson, the dogfish died.
The tank drained under mysterious circumstances.
Like Robert Kennedy and Gandhi, the shark was dead.
The shark was dead only minutes from the sea.
The mighty tank lies empty.
George and Irene are at work at the window because
like Elvis, Jesus, and the Pawtucket Red Sox
that shark is coming back!
That shark will be a wonder of Providence!
The window of George and Irene’s Aqualife fish shop is empty.
The window at Aqualife is empty.
The window in Providence is empty.
Once the tank had perfect water.
The 200 gallon tank had perfect water
and a dogfish shark, family Squalidae.
The dogfish swam in perfect water in Providence.
The dogfish was the delight of pedestrians.
The shark swam in the mighty Aqualife ocean tank,
a sign that Rhode Island fishkeeping reigned supreme!
The shark was a wonder of Providence.
Then, like Marilyn Monroe and Michael Jackson, the dogfish died.
The tank drained under mysterious circumstances.
Like Robert Kennedy and Gandhi, the shark was dead.
The shark was dead only minutes from the sea.
The mighty tank lies empty.
George and Irene are at work at the window because
like Elvis, Jesus, and the Pawtucket Red Sox
that shark is coming back!
That shark will be a wonder of Providence!
The Shark in a Well - Philippe Javier Garcesto
In a restless concoction I once encountered
The Shark in a Well with whom I Battled
Terrorist of All Blue stuck in pipe
That could barely fit his Monstrous hide
Trapped in the confines of this Steel room
My only escape was through the Well
Where certainly awaited my Doom
With only a Strip of plexi-glass to cover the opening
I pressed my weight on top to brace against the Titan
His determination to barge into the room was Shocking
The pearly Knives that graced his Smile;
This beast of the sea sought to Chew upon My Head!
With no weapons on hand just my mind to withstand
The Fear of this demon Awash all over me
Pressure against the glass; my Will close to Collapse
The end was near I was losing my strength
Time crawled towards the inevitable conclusion
I stared into his black Soulless eyes
The Hunger was his only Allegiance
He broke through the surface as I was thrown back
He smiled to me a shivering quivering Edible mess and said
“STRUGGLE or SURRENDER”
The Shark in a Well with whom I Battled
Terrorist of All Blue stuck in pipe
That could barely fit his Monstrous hide
Trapped in the confines of this Steel room
My only escape was through the Well
Where certainly awaited my Doom
With only a Strip of plexi-glass to cover the opening
I pressed my weight on top to brace against the Titan
His determination to barge into the room was Shocking
The pearly Knives that graced his Smile;
This beast of the sea sought to Chew upon My Head!
With no weapons on hand just my mind to withstand
The Fear of this demon Awash all over me
Pressure against the glass; my Will close to Collapse
The end was near I was losing my strength
Time crawled towards the inevitable conclusion
I stared into his black Soulless eyes
The Hunger was his only Allegiance
He broke through the surface as I was thrown back
He smiled to me a shivering quivering Edible mess and said
“STRUGGLE or SURRENDER”
Other Fish - Mark NP
white legs dangle down wriggling toes, flashing thighs reflect across the room
that skirt is so short; so are your legs and you can’t touch the floor bottom
you stir the smoky blueness as you bounce one foot and splash looks to make waves
see my jagged tooth grin and the oily fins circling, do you smell blood?
there’s no frenzy - just a cool ripple that cuts the water all power and stealth
a wet rush swimming in drinks and you think something looms beneath
but I glide by without incident; your eyes follow the smooth length of my body
no attack, you’ll wake in tact left to wonder just who got rubbed the wrong way
that skirt is so short; so are your legs and you can’t touch the floor bottom
you stir the smoky blueness as you bounce one foot and splash looks to make waves
see my jagged tooth grin and the oily fins circling, do you smell blood?
there’s no frenzy - just a cool ripple that cuts the water all power and stealth
a wet rush swimming in drinks and you think something looms beneath
but I glide by without incident; your eyes follow the smooth length of my body
no attack, you’ll wake in tact left to wonder just who got rubbed the wrong way
Little Fish - Caroline Frank
Will you cry when I die?
Or instead, will you sigh,
a breath of relief,
around my demise?
Never did nothin' but try to survive,
can't help how scary God made my eyes.
Can't help how violent my meals may have looked,
but if it makes you feel better, I left lunch with a hook.
A hook in my stomach to tear my insides to shreds,
but what do you care?
You'll be safe when I'm dead.
I doubt that you understand any of this,
when you're just like the others...
just a scared little fish.
Or instead, will you sigh,
a breath of relief,
around my demise?
Never did nothin' but try to survive,
can't help how scary God made my eyes.
Can't help how violent my meals may have looked,
but if it makes you feel better, I left lunch with a hook.
A hook in my stomach to tear my insides to shreds,
but what do you care?
You'll be safe when I'm dead.
I doubt that you understand any of this,
when you're just like the others...
just a scared little fish.
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