Tag Archives: #Fish

My grandmother was a Pilchard by Acab Dab

My grandmother was a Pilchard,

her husband was a Dab;

I can’t swim for toffees,

someone called me Acab.


Ours was a seafaring family,

we set off one day from the shore;

I have a distant cousin,

who’s cousin is distant for sure.


Around the seas you’ll find us

Around the seas you’ll find us,

swimming for all that we’re worth;

or following those familiar currents

to all corners of the round earth.

The Parrot Fish and the Carrot Fish

Best friends, they were;

swimming the oceans

from north to south

and easy to west.

Never apart;

for to separate

would mean the seeking

of a very small fish

in some very large notions.

‘Have you seen my friend?’

they would ask as they swam about –

I doubt that they would ever again reunite,

although there is the slimmest possibility of a chance that perhaps they might.

The Clown Fish

The Clown Fish

looked at the oversize shoes

with an expression of confusion

upon its face.

“How am I supposed to wear these?”

it asked.

“Wow! A talking fish!”

exclaimed a passing Monkfish.

“Very funny!” replied the Clown Fish,

“And, anyway, I thought that you had taken a vow of silence?!”

The Monkfish smiled and said no more.

Your plaice or mine?

Your plaice or mine?


The plaice is its own property,

and we should leave it alone,

to hover and hoover above the sea floor.

And, what’s more,

I side with all the fishes,

a-swimming in the sea.

The Worm and the Fish

The worm, said to the fish,

‘I really, really wish

that this hook

wasn’t stuck up my bottom.’


The fish said to the worm,

‘It must make you squirm;

by the way that you look

you could be mistook

for a worm who has … worms!

Have you got ‘em?’


‘No.’ said the worm,

‘And, another thing I wish,

is that you didn’t pop me on your dish,

as it won’t do

either of us a favour or two.’


The fish could see

the point of the words

that the worm spoke to warn;

and if it hadn’t have been so hungry

wouldn’t have treated them with scorn.


The worm and the fish

we’re both caught in a trap;

fed the same old line,

and never let off the hook –

always predestined to endure a final mishap.

Hidden Place

A hole in the wall,

an ‘X’ marks the spot,

you can have them all

for the things I have got;

hidden within

buried down deep;

is a love that I have

that’s forever to keep.


Chests full of gold,

silver, or lead,

are all worthy of others,

but, here, in my head,

is a vision to behold

whenever I wish,;

she’s a beautiful ocean,

and I am her fish.


Listening hard

to the birds in the trees,

observing the bees,

and the butterfly lees;

are all lovely things

I can soon discard,

when the feelings inside me

make me feel like a poet,

an author, the Bard.

The Sadness of Sardines

I don’t really know

how a sardine feels;

or any fish,

if truth be told;

but I’m sure they’re fine

whilst swimming around;

but, when crammed in a tin,

like… well, tightly,

I bet they’re not so happy.

The wishes of fishes

The wishes of fishes

The wishes of fishes

rarely receive consideration;

they are rarely considered at all;

when they seek a vacation,

from their ocean location,

who is it, then, that they call?



Sordines are like Sardines, but spelt differently.

Although, saying that, one is a muting device for a trumpet, whilst the other is a smallish fish.

Most Sordines, however, are ‘not’ found in the sea; whilst most Sardines are generally ‘not’ stuffed into the ends of various instruments in the brass section of a band or orchestra.

Apart from that, they are virtually identical.

Piranhas in a Waiting Room

Piranhas in a Waiting Room

Pottering past ‘Reception’ was easily achieved;

and, now, I am waiting in the “Waiting” room,

watching the fish in the ‘all-too-small’ aquarium;

the sign pinned to the glass stating:

‘The Piranahas will not thank you for your intrusion into their green algae-infused and passingly pleasant (if a little compact and bijou) lives.’

is most reasssuring,

assuring me, as it does,

that a big fish in a little pond,

is only as important as the person feeding it deems it to be.

It seems that a particular Piranha has an appetite for poetry,

as it is eyeing me up as I write this,

obviously awaiting for my literal offering

to be served up

upon a silver salver plate –

It awaits my fate.