Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Wabi Sabi

I’m a writer not a fighter and at times a fire lighter
I get crazy, memory hazy , petals softer than a daisy
Im a hooter and a duder, not exactly a straight shooter
Still not jaded I get faded, my hooks are always fully baited
A lead-er on-er, dusk till dawner, not a goner (yet)
Ragin Cajun', guess I’m agin’ super stagin’ imagination
Firey wirey squirely in dire need
Fragmented sectioned off loving life at any cost
Fearless of death, deathless in fear, get choked up when you get too near
Never lie, always try hopeful agent turning spy
Moved by action, frozen by attraction not trying never really buying (it)
Family ties, love my scars on the inside
Bruised fruit, serious root
Mute under pressure shaky beyond pleasure
Adrenaline and hormones in heavy measure
Delicate flower, looking for power from every tower even while in the shower
Now is my hour

Friday, September 2, 2011

Tweet.Twit. Twat.

Twitter-litter, you make me bitter I always have to tend your crops
Too much clicking and dicking around, an on-going menace in my thoughts
We human beings are fiends of dreams, technology should help us thrive
Instead it bytes like kryptonite, it stunts me when I’m making strides
I post some notes about some boats, or fish or creature I’ve encountered
Have no idea, it isn’t clear whether or not the post’s been mounted
This photos flipped or wrongly clipped or dipped in hipster-matic ink
I can’t decide and by the time I try its cropped and kinda pink
I’m so frustrated, inundated, decimated by this crap
Am I the only freaking one? I swear to you the damage done is hardly worth the stupid app

Kill your computer, before it kills you.

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Bonnie's Boots

When I get bored my mind’ll wander
To concentrate would be a feat
The far off lands of over yonder
A far more interesting retreat
Wish I was an outlaw gangster
Supposing I could rule the ranch
Bonnie Parker, at her best measure
The day awaits, I’ll have the chance
My feet will wander like my mind
And in that moment, I am free
I’ll troll throughout and pay in kind
Whatever debt’s bestowed on me
Don’t think I’ll miss a single soul
Carry them with me in my chest
Mother don’t worry, this world is cold
It’s tear-duct broke, too heavy pressed
So I go along alone, far off to a dusty place
Trailers and tumbleweeds rule the desert
Off the side of the interstate
I’d find a way out if I was clever
Sooner than later, but sooner I pray
I wasn’t meant to sit and stew
Technology bites and I’m wasting away

Thursday, August 11, 2011

ODE TO FACEBOOK BY GABE


Are you gettin the itch? Are you feelin’ the crave?
Now you’re friend-ing your teacher from the 5th or 6th grade
And the girl that you wished you were friends with in college,
Now you’re creepin’ her profile, your latest new project.

It’s a major addiction, it is something to quit
But nowadays life ain’t worth livin’ without it
Boredom at work and for study, no gumption
Then all of a sudden you are postin’ and hustlin’

Countin’ the comments on your new profile pic?
You’ve turned into a monster, a true narcissist.
The blue with the white are the colors you seek
A suggestion of friendship, at the sidebar you peek

In a relationship? Perhaps newly single?
Post that shit on your wall when you’re ready to mingle
Are you pregnant or married? Do you have a big brother?
Did you just make some breakfast? Are you fighting with mother?

Then a horrible thought, was I really un-friended?
I can’t fuckin’ believe this relationship’s ended
And although I have not called you once in ten years
Didn’t think that I’d notice? Well, I won’t shed a tear.
Nope, not over you, you’re a measly old snake.
And I happen to know about the cold you can’t shake
And I know you were fired from the bar where you worked.
So go on to hell! Ha! This site has its perks.

One last piece of advice then I’m over and out
3 o’clock in the morning and you’re drunk off the stout
You get a slight inkling to contact your ex.
You write a fierce comment on his photos from Mex.
So please don’t even go there. It’s an unpleasant look.
Trust me on this one, I wrote the damn book.


Friday, January 14, 2011

HOT MESS

It freakin' Friday
let's-get-high-day
come on down to Chinatown
that's where your friends meet
chinoise gangs greet
happy ending spots abound
name that feeling
when your reeling
from Thursday night out on the town
you got so messed up
and though you were dressed up
it couldn't save you, shame profound
you can't remember what you were doing
and surely there are troubles brewing
'cause you can't control your urge to text
now you're embarassed
your messages, shameless
at least you made it home, you're Blessed
so check your bag to find some clues
of why you came home without shoes
your iphone's cracked, you look distressed
with that blatant walk of shame
due respect you'll never gain
'cause as you know, you're one HOT MESS.

Wednesday, December 22, 2010

Who Needs Forever?

What a wonderful life, she’s a fisherman’s wife.
He begged her to be from the very first night.
So she stopped waiting tables and tending the bar.
Yes, the fisherman’s plan would take her quite far.
The last real forager, the final frontier,
The wild wild west will embark from the pier.
Eight days at sea, two in the house.
Never a fight with his happy new spouse
She couldn’t complain, never had to put out.
He was tired from the hunt, 9 o’clock was lights out.
She cooked and cleaned and took care of the brood.
Money in her pocket and a table of food
New clothes for the kids and a brand new car
She just couldn’t foresee that he’d take it this far.
He built up his empire and sat like a dragon.
And waited and waited for something to happen.
When that day never came, he became a bit bored.
And here my friends, begins this man’s score.
Working late nights, and all of a sudden
Ships tied up for winter, still always out hustling.
So what was he doing in the dark at the dock?
Just a matter of time ‘til it dawned on his flock
One night, the wife, sitting down with her daughter
Picked up the phone, and her face dropped in horror
How could it be? It just can’t be true.
I knew he was mean, but this joke is too cruel.
The girl wanted to know: With whom are we dealing?
You aren’t gonna like it, I have a bad feeling.
A neighbor, a friend, a passerby
She was driving you home from the beach in July.
And you’re friends with her brother her kids and her dad.
You know her quite well, and I knew you’d be mad.
So their eyes welled with tears, there was nothing to do.
It would have hurt less if they’d hadn’t a clue.
Now I’m sorry to say, when he gives you the ring
It may be the end of the beginning of a thing.
We are only human, nobody to blame.
Stop pointing your finger, an effort in vain.
So remember, I warned you. These words have been spoken.
Nothing lasts forever and hearts will be broken.

Monday, December 6, 2010

Don't worry about me: I'm Still Alive!!!

Holy hoochie on a halfshell, I am back from the dead. Between the stress of moving and the evil energies of an alternate universe, now, almost a fortnight ago, an acute illness manifested itself in my poor, weak bodily temple. This past week was, to put it lightly, Dante's Inferno in Chinatown. In fact, during this time, I  was in such a miserable state of affairs that I failed to accomplish some of my most important human duties on this earth. For example, I haven't been showing up for my job at the fish house nor have I been brushing my teeth on a regular basis. To be honest, my brain still feels like pudding after what seemed like an eternity of little more activity beyond REM sleep, rolling around in agony and reading the occasional text message from a neglected associate.
My hair has morphed into a greasy, straw-like pigeons nest, my armpit hairs are long enough to braid and I have reason to believe that my muscles are entering a state of atrophy.
Despite this complete lack of personal grooming and a general sense of self-loathing, I'm feeling positive. I am "upbeat". Want  to know why? Because considering what I have endured the past week or so, I can look forward to the next week-month-year-century feeling like an absolute grand stroke of luck no matter what happens.
I get attacked by a stampede of rabid squirrels in Steward Park? No biggie, I love nature!
I get thrown into the freezing and PCB ridden currents of East River by my angry boss? Cool!
Just, please please please God or whatever is up there looking down upon my mortal soul, let me be healthy.
A wise one once said: "One does not realize what one has until one no longer has that thing." When I tell you that I look forward to returning to work at my cold-ass, fishy trailer tomorrow, I kid you not. Where I used to have the luxury of driving my car to work I now must take a train and then walk twenty-five minutes every morning this winter in order to get to my job. Two weeks ago, this was stressing me out. I thought to myself, how the heck am I going to pull this off? I will contract a cab driver to take me everyday, yes. I will make a deal with a cab driver and it will only cost me seven dollars each morning. It will be worth it.  I am no longer singing that song. I don't give a rat's patoot. I will happily train and walk and bike and run if I must, come rain or shine. I plan to change my hedonistic ways. You will find me at yoga class 4 or 5 times a week from now on. No more hangovers. I will cease to pass judgement on my fellow man. I refuse to stress out about anything. I will be patient, calm and kind. Everything is beautiful, and one day I will visit India and study ancient meditative techniques in a green mountain temple at mind-alteringly high altitudes. I will never be hard on myself again. I will write for my blog every day. I will work hard. I will get eight hours of beauty rest each and every night. A pinnacle of health; an embodiment of perfection, harmony, finesse, and manners. Just please, please,please don't ever let me get sick again.

Monday, November 22, 2010

John Dory, Beausoliel Oysters, Pemaquid Oysters11/16/10

John Dory Story of Glory:

"Zeus Faber" was an ambitious John Dory that lived off the coast of New Zealand. He was always easily distinguishable with his minute sharp scales and a large black dot on the side of its head. All of the other fish made fun of Zeus because of his pathetic swimming capabilities and his funny scientifical name.  The only thing he really had going for him was his olive green camouflage coloring, sharp spiny fins for defense against predators and long expandable snout used to capture his prey. One day Zeus was meandering around his favorite reef munching on sardines, cuttlefish and the occasional squid when BAM! He was caught, packed into a box on ice and shipped off to New York City. When he arrived he was pronounced dead as a doornail, in a state of rigor mortis.  From fish heaven his soul peered down upon his lifeless mortal cadaver. Instead of feeling depressed about leaving this world, he was thoroughly psyched about having ended up at the market. At first he was a little worried that whoever tried to fillet and cook his delicate flesh would screw up, forever foiling his fish legacy. However, upon reminding himself that all chefs who buy his species are highly capable of such a feat, he calmed down. Finally he could "rest in peace" knowing that he would be forever canonized as a prized and beloved morsel. Breaded and lightly seared, plated next to diver scallops and organic asparagus, his body ended its stint on this earth. He was then served to an overworked and underpaid female attorney on the Upper East Side attending a slightly awkward first date with a dude she met on Match.com.


Pemaquid Oysters: Another brilliant oyster from the deepest holes of the Damariscotta River, Maine.
This briny and lemony delight of an oyster is sure to turn heads this season as it struts its stuff down the runway. Have you been looking for a exciting East Coast oyster that will leave your patrons saying "HUZZAH!"?  Well, here it is.



Beausoliel Oysters: New Brunswick, Canada
The so-called "pinnacle of perfection" among oysters. This East Coast bi-valve can't really be blamed for constantly one-upping its brethren. Chicks dig the perfectly formed, adorable little shell of the beausoliel. The firm, not-too-briny and not-too-sweet meat of this oyster tastes so balanced and harmonious that after only one, you will find yourself living in a world of underwater nirvana.

Nantucket Bay Scallops, Hama Hama Oysters, Monkfish 11/09/10

Nantucket Bay Scallops in House.

Harvest season has officially begun for this native delicacy. Don't wait until it's too cold out to get your fill. Once air temperatures hit freezing the animals go into shock when they are removed from the sea. I love the Cape and Islands so much I might shed a tear, or try to memorize the first 20 pages of Moby Dick tonight when I get home. Read my poem:

The King of Nantucket

By Gabe Stommel

Friends he has a plenty;
Yacht club privileges are many.
Won't find him at the Chicken Box.
Knows where to dig for clam crops.
Accounts for every flower and fauna
Making his patronage to the Pacha Mama.
Bobbing and diving amidst the surf
Reigning over his sovereign turf.
From Madaket to Third Point, hear his roar
A sky of phosphorescence to explore.
Humanity perched atop his shoulder
Every day its cries sound bolder.
Seemingly his greatest dread
Fulfilling legends of the dead.
And he can't help but stop and think
Just in time to lift his drink
And raise his glass to history told
From the darkest corners of the ship's strong hold.
His ancestors whispering in his ear
Reminding him of prophecies near.
They tell him "Don't forget your roots!"
You still have time to fill those boots.
Now take a breath and watch the waves
Say a prayer for the good old days.
From the finest island in the sea,
He's real Nantucket Royalty.




Either way your customers know it's that time of year. Go to the market or go get a rake, some waders and a plane ticket to Nantucket.
http://www.flycapeair.com/ -> flights JFK to ACK
http://www.cabelas.com/ -> scalloping gear
Also, let's not forget the simple pleasures of the Holiday season: Nantay Bays are the best kind of scallops ever to wrap in bacon. 


In Other News: 

Although I like to consider myself a staunch North Easterner I will curmudgeonly admit that a couple of west coast oysters have caught my attention recently.

Barron Points: These oysters are sweet enough to make the remaining Kennedys want to try thier luck out west. Just Kidding! Who would ever leave this?




The Barron Point Oyster hails from Little Skookum Inlet, Washington State. The water here is not too salty, resulting in a mildly salty and sweet fatty oyster to be enjoyed by all! They are "Intertidally Grown" oysters raised in a low density environment both in grow out bags and in the sand on the beach. When you purchase these hearty bi-valves you are supporting a small family run operation.



Hama Hama: I once ate a raw, foot-long Hama Hama in one gulp. It was crazy but so worth it because now I have a segway into my Hama Hama spiel. Lucky for you and your customers, the ones we send you are not that big.
Hama Hama's are thick shelled, beach-grown oysters raised at the mouth of the Hama Hama River in Hood Canal, Washington State. They are grown from a mixture of hatchery raised and naturally collected spat that is seeded on the farm's beds. They take about two years to reach market size.  The slow growth factor adds to their amazing flavor: delicate with a mild, fruity aftertaste and only mildly salty.




CORRECTION: 


If I managed to befuddle you on the sustainability of Monkfish during last week's email, I apologize. The Monk is NOT being overfished.  Click on this link for proof:
http://www.nmfs.noaa.gov/fishwatch/species/monkfish.htm
Also, FYI this is a great website to procure information regarding the sustainability of different fish species. Over and Out.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Ramona and the man of her dreams.

Ramona has a sliding scale rating system for the men she meets. 10 points for convicted felon. 3 points per kid, various baby’s mommas signals multiplication of this total by 2.  Armed and dangerous? Check. Add 3 points to the top. Subtract 8 points to the total sum if his haircut doesn’t fall into any or all of the following three categories: dreadlocks, fade w shaved lines in part/eyebrows, doo-rag.

Let’s just say he is a top scorer

Does he have a nice car? Yes, he does. Is it paid for? Um, no. She doesn’t care if he’s living way out the hizzy inside of a veritable shoe box. The car has a bangin sound system and she loves her sum Pitbull every now and again.

Does he get drunk and throw shit at her window until she comes downstairs? Does he push her up against the wall? It’s as much passion as it is pain. It is all the same. Does he love her madly? He says so. Does he treat her mean? Yes! He makes her head spin until she can’t concentrate on anything else. He makes her cry and even though it hurts, at least she feels something.

Ramona loves walking down her block and hearing the calls of the wild. Snowbunny, U too hot white gurl. Mami ven pa’ca. It makes her feel not-at-home. Acción.

And then she finds out, oh goody, he has four kids.

Ramona knows all of his evil tricks. When he calls her on the phone it means no babymomma in earshot. She looks back on the time when he called, freezing his ass off outside. For what? She didn’t even question it at the time. Looking back, a light turns on in her brain. That makes sense now, Dickhead.

He’s got the cockswagger. He knows what he’s got. What he’s got is what she wants.  If he didn’t have it he wouldn’t have come up to her like this. Confident as hell, or at least an excellent faker. Drop it down, push it up, look her in the eyes. Sweet smooth light dark skin.  Big lips, funny teeth. Bright evil sexy eyes.  Nice horrifying tattoos. Big bling, with his baby momma’s ring around his chain.  Baggage dangling from every limb. She melts in his presence. All logical impulses numb to his touch and his glance. Behold a man who packs heat and works the street. She wants to be his next victim.

Monday, September 27, 2010

The King of Nantucket

The King of Nantucket
by Gabe Stommel

Friends he has a plenty;
Yacht club privileges are many.
Won’t find him at the Chicken Box.
Knows where to dig for clam crops.
Accounts for every flower and fauna
Making his patronage to the Pacha Mama.
Bobbing and diving amidst the surf
Reigning over his sovereign turf.
From Madaket to Third Point, hear his roar
A sky of phosphorescence to explore.
Humanity perched atop his shoulder
Every day its cries sound bolder.
Seemingly his greatest dread
Fulfilling legends of the dead.
And he can’t help but stop and think
Just in time to lift his drink
And raise his glass to history told
From the darkest corners of the ship’s strong hold.
His ancestors whispering in his ear
Reminding him of prophecies near.
They tell him “Don’t forget your roots!”
You still have time to fill those boots.
Now take a breath and watch the waves
Say a prayer for the good old days.
From the finest island in the sea,
He’s real Nantucket Royalty.

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