Fishing Poems

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
...

I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
...

The green village, the colored city, the ever familiar locality
Each path, tree, house, turn, each native I have left behind
But creepers, hedges have entangled with my leg and hand
The green crops fields, green hills, fruit trees, call me back,
...

call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn't rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
...

'Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis
vidi in ampulla pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent:
Sibylla ti theleis; respondebat illa: apothanein thelo.'
...

When Ironbark the turtle came to Anthony's lagoon
The hills were hid behind a mist of equinoctal rain,
The ripple of the rivulets was like a cheerful tune
And wild companions waltzed among the grass as tall as grain.
...

When the moon was full they came to the water.
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.
...

This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.
...

She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
...

Something strange is creeping across me.
La Celestina has only to warble the first few bars
Of "I Thought about You" or something mellow from
Amadigi di Gaula for everything--a mint-condition can
...

I saw you twice the other day
Stirring passion anew
It's easy saying just move on
Less easier to do
...

I'll tell of the Battle of Hastings,
As happened in days long gone by,
When Duke William became King of England,
And 'Arold got shot in the eye.
...

Sitting on the sands of the Bay, a small sea
Gigantic waves throw themselves on the sands, I see;
Methinks a true fact the sea never knows, is
How horribly, hungrily and thirstily it roars!
...

When the morning star,
Sees first sun ray,
And disappears,
In grief and distress,
...

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
...

Forth upon the Gitche Gumee,
On the shining Big-Sea-Water,
With his fishing-line of cedar,
...

Now can you see the monument? It is of wood
built somewhat like a box. No. Built
like several boxes in descending sizes
one above the other.
...

On an island the soft hue of memory,
moss green, kerosene yellow, drifting, mingling
in the Caribbean Sea,
a six-year-old named Alfred
...

Wallowing in this bloody sty,
I cast for fish that pleased my eye
(Truly Jehovah's bow suspends
No pots of gold to weight its ends);
...

A pathetic tale of the sea I will unfold,
Enough to make one's blood run cold;
Concerning four fishermen cast adrift in a dory.
As I've been told I'll relate the story.
...

Today I'm thankful for fishing…and for our son Ryan

I am not a fisherman…but our son Ryan is…
you might say when it comes to fishing…
...

Silent sails chase the secrets of depths, a fishing boat casts a wide net.
...

With each cast, a line unfurls, a good fishing pole, life's hidden jewel.
...

Transparent thread dances, fate's lure in fishing line.
...

RIPPLES

I was fishing with my dad one day…sitting on the shore…
for the life of me I can't remember if it was the fishing…
...

go fishing
when fish bite
when salmon run
these are good
...

high noon is the time to be fishing
in deeper holes light penetrating
sunset dusk hours perfect for fishing
...

geroscoping dreams of mystic fishing beside magicality of reality in driving innovative hymns for layerring wisdom of resilience to de-weaving established forms of multiple-composition of truths in societal formations from all walks of life
for the networked poetry of moving-changing-expanding multiuniverse.
what is the point of weaving -fishing culture?
...

An old widow does live nearby,
And when the weather does permit,
We do go fishing, she and I.
Waiting for her here now I sit.
...

A strange vision unfolded; unfazed I gazed.
A beach flanked by a long fishing net in the haze.
Dark silhouettes and shadows formed a crescent band.
Figures, forms and fishing net fused in the sand.
...