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Best Fishing Poems

Below are the all-time best Fishing poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of fishing poems written by PoetrySoup members

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New Fishing Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Fishing poems are below this new poems list.

Dream Fishing by Jennings, CayCay
Fishing Phishing by Promise, Rainbow
Three Fishing Poles by Andersen, James
The Fishing Net by Reza, Muzahidul
Gone Fishing- a whale of a tale by Hauser , Mike
A FISHING TRIP TO REMEMBER by Skyles, Teresa
Old Man Fishing by Heemstra, Robert
Going Fishing by Gagnon , Karen Ann
Fishing - Haiku by Schumacker, Earl
Darkness fishing by Bohto, Holly

View all new Fishing Poems

The Best Fishing Poems

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A Farm Yarn

When we were young boys on our farm.
A fish tale never meant any harm,
We oft were given a look,
When from such a tiny brook,
We claimed a fish as long as your arm.

But then our neighbor named Meg,
Beat the fib and put us down a peg,
By claiming from the same brook,
With not a worm on her hook,
She caught a fish as long as your leg!

Well that truth was quite hard to beat,
Then Summer beat a hasty retreat. 
Winter changed the fishing world,
Meg turned from tomboy to girl.
And now this fishing tale is complete!




For John Freeman's "Fishing Limericks"


Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2011

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The Love of a Gentle Man

There is a place where the land bows down to kiss the misty tide,
Where rolling waves bring memories of the place my heart resides.
There among the old fishing shacks that stretch along the shore,
I find the thing I’m longing for, in your sweet embrace once more.

We sit together on a weathered log I carve my initials on,
And as you mend the fishing net, I sing your favorite song,
“Oh Danny Boy”, falls on the wind and floats across the bay,
As you smile at me and melt my heart, with words you do not say.

Beneath a golden sun with the fish and the smell of wild flowers,
A little girl and her Grandpa, sit happily and while away the hours,
And when the sun dips in the bay, we put the mended nets away,
And hand-in-hand walk home again, to the end of a perfect day.


                                    ~~~~~~

Author:  Elaine George




(In loving memory of Theodore Evans - My Grandfather)


Copyright © Elaine George | Year Posted 2006

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Be Careful what you Hook

  I once heard of a fisher Luciano,
  who sang bass as he played on his piano.
  Once he fished and cast his line
  by mistake hooked his behind
  since that day, when he plays he sings soprano.

  How many syllables.com
  11, 11, 7, 7, 11
  
  11.11.2014
  Sponsor Roy Jerden
  Limericks Clean and Clever 



Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

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Yard Sale Cowboy On CD

From here to wherever, I'll follow a yard sale sign,
it's a past time endeavor, for my collective state of mind,
I may buy some furniture, or a trinket for a dime,
yard saling is a pleasure, yes, a personal hobby of mine,

Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
and it gives me great joy, to see a yard sale sign,
from here to wherever, cloudy days or sunshine,
I'm searching for that treasure, ain't no telling what I'll find,

I may find brand new things, boots, shoes, or clothes the right size,
silver and gold chains or rings, or an antique will catch my eyes,
I could find my brother a nice bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
or maybe a nice piece of furniture, or something for a friend of mine,

Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
and it gives me great joy, to see a yard sale sign,
It's a past time endeavor, for my collective state of mind,
Yard saling is a pleasure, ain't no telling what I"ll find,

Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, I just spotted a yard sale sign,
searching is a pleasuree, ain't no telling what I'll find,
I may find an old bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
now one thing is for sure, I just found my cat a ball of twine,
and look here, I found my ol' dog a bone to grind,

Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
I may find an old bass lure, or a spool of fishing line,
from here to wherever, cloudy days or sunshsine,
I'm a yard sale cowboy, on the trail of search and find,
Yea, I'm a yard sale cowboy, ain't no telling what I'll find,

Hey Bud, how much for that there what-cha-ma-call-it?
Naw Naw, Naw, that there thing-a-ma-jig, there next to that do-ma-flitchie,
Yea, Yea, that thinga-ma-jig right there.....ya say three dollars..um-m-m..OK...
I'll take it...here ya go.....and how much for that do-daddy over there?
Yea, yea, right next to those 2 onion skin tires...Uh Huh..yea..well I'll be..
Well yea..I'll take it too...it's something I just can't live without...ha ha ha..


Copyright © Lawrence Ingle | Year Posted 2009

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The Woman and the Fisherman

There was a young woman living by the sea.
Her house was on the shore owned by her family.
The house of a fisherman that was tall and slender,
Was built on an island opposite to hers.

It was a starry night when they met.
Fisherman was on water preying fishes with net.
He saw a woman drowning in the sea,
She was caught by his baits accidentally.

The fisherman came to save her;
Brought her home and offered food and water.
Under the moon,they laughed and talked,
Footprints marked the sand as they walked.

The moonlight flashed in both eyes,
Hidden feelings suddenly arise.
Hearts were pierced by Cupid's dart
Filled the place with love and art.

Came the sun rise and ended their night,
Woman needs to go home and leave his sight.
Poor young fisherman can’t defy;
Hugged her and kissed goodbye.

Days have passed but memories still in mind.
On the balcony she sits, staring on the opposite side.
So she went to the opposite island to see him,
But found fisherman and his wife and child with him.

The woman stepped back and went to the shore;
She drowned herself for life’s not good anymore,
But someone stopped her and grabbed her.
It was fisherman who gladly said “You came back” and pulled her out of the water.

Out spoke the woman, --”You’re now married, so let me die!”
“What? I’m not married, you’re telling a lie!”
“I went to your house and saw you with your wife and child!”
“That’s my twin brother”, the fisherman smiled.

Now, it’s the fisherman and the woman living by the sea,
In an island where they both dwell happily.
With the moon above, they exchanged their vows so quiet,
On a lovely night where the stars are bright.


Copyright © Flora Mae Gudez | Year Posted 2014

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From Dusk Till Dawn

                                              She got it for her wedding gift,
                                        but she dropped it when she fell off the cliff,
                                                it sank to the bottom of the ocean,
                                      and the excitement caused a great commotion.
 
                                                  From dusk till dawn
                                                they float on the ocean,
                                                    from dusk till dawn
                                              they were filled with emotions,
                                                      sunrise, sunset
                                                 and still nothing in their nets.
 
                                         They went deep sea fishing in a fishing boat,
                                        searching for the pearl in the Bivalvia's throat,
                                          with cracked lips and scorched backs,
                                                 they drift around the ocean,
                                                everyone with great devotion.
 
                                               Suddenly she bursts out in tears,
                                               and explains how it was so dear.
                                            They dived to the bottom of the ocean,
                                            floating back and forth in slow motion,
                                                   life at risk from shark attack,
                                                but she did not care about that.
                                                   They caught a hundred fish
                                            but still no sign of her priceless gift.
 
                                                When they went back to land
                                             she saw a clam moving in the sand
                                               she opened the little clam
                                           and her precious pearl fell right into her hand.
 


                                                  ©2013 Christine Phillips


Copyright © Christine Phillips | Year Posted 2013

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THEY DON'T BITE LIKE THEY USED TO

He sat there in his fav'rite chair, a blanket 'cross his lap 
And covering his snow white hair was his old fishing cap. 
I knew he could not talk to me since suffering the stroke, 
But still I sensed he could relate to ev'ry word I spoke. 
"I went and wet a line today ... down where you caught that cod. 
The biggest one you'd landed yet and though it was my rod 
I reckon he was yours all right ... but cod are far and few.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"The algae's building up again and stuffing up the creeks, 
Though at long last we had a fresh, the first in flam’in weeks. 
Pulled twenty stinking euros in, along with one old dew, 
But they had sores all over them, though still that's nothing new. 
The cotton farmers cry, "Absurd!  It can’t be from our spray." 
Perhaps the fish have just got aids from turning flam'in gay. 
Its getting pretty sad all right, but what can one bloke do.   
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"McDonalds seems to be the go and good old KFC 
And eating yellow-belly is a flam'in rarity.   
Your grandson won't go fishing as he says it's just for nerds 
And when I take the missus we just end up having words. 
I really miss our fishing trips, your company was swell 
And by the mist there in your eyes you miss them dad as well. 
I heard you sold your tinny mate, your outboard motor too.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
They're introducing fingerlings and giving that a shot, 
But duckweed takes the oxygen which kills the flam'in lot. 
The droughts have had their toll as well and one thing that's for sure; 
I can't see in the future dad a remedy or cure. 
So mum's ducked down to Salty's mate and I would dare a punt 
She'll come back with a feed of fish before you say Rex Hunt. 
I guess we'll have to wash it down with some of your home brew. 
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 



Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005

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Out Fishing

I figured something was up when you called in sick today. 
The telephone in your house kept ringing; you went away. 
After you called, you decided to roam. 
No answer on your telephone meant you were not home. 
Your old trusty fishing pole was what you would take. 
There I saw you with your line in the lake. 
I hope you caught something big for your sake. 
You may lose your job if there are more call-ins that are fake.

inspired by another member's poem


Copyright © Robert Pettit | Year Posted 2014

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Pin Fishing

I remember fondly the summer when I was nine
Catching minnows in the creek was my favorite pastime
Except I called then pin fish, I had quirky names for things
As well as bizarre behaviour, year before, obsessed with swings

Decked out in my rubber boots with a bucket in each hand
My desire to capture them day after day, I did not understand
For hours upon hours I catch as many I could, then set them free
To the top of the hill I trudge to a natural spring nestled under a tree

After taking a drink from the purest water I ever sprung from this earth
I overturn the bucket, maybe in my young mind, I was giving them rebirth
For these little minnows, it must have been a harrowing event
Or an adventure of a lifetime, for to harm was never my intent

Then off to home I go to have a bowl of long strokes aka chicken noodle soup
Giving my pin fish time to travel down hill and once again regroup
The next day I would wake up eager and a pin fishing I would go
I bet those minnows were happy when them I finally did outgrow


Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane | Year Posted 2013

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Barefoot Boy, with a Fishing Pole.

 A man I am and near my end.
I have other men to call me friend.

And women round me for the lust
And four leaf clover for the luck.

Beer or buttermilk to drink
And time I have to sit and think.

I have meadows which to mow
And I have crops which to sow.

I have men that call me sir.
I have work to be concerned.

I have obligations piled.
Work to do from mile to mile.

I'd trade it all, to be, you know
A barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.

To rest in the shade by a river bed
Soft grass to lay my youthful head.

Fish and skip stones on waters calm
And sleep out all night -when it's warm.

To unravel natures mystery there
Why the turtle wears a shell?

How the Oriole's nest is hung?
How the frog's croak is sung?

Why the Blue-Bell does not ring?
Why the hornet likes to sting?

My work keeps me shod like a mule
Only in dreams, youthful things I do.

When work here ends, to Heaven I go
To be a barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.


Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2007

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A Fish Named Ben


     There once swam a catfish named Ben
     hadn't eaten since who knows when
     my worm looked just right,
     Ben took a big bite.
     No one's seen Ben swim'n since then.

     Ben put up a heck of a fight
     was thrashing with all of his might
     when reeling him in,
     that fish seemed to grin,
     and spit out my worm just for spite.

     Old Ben made one heck of a meal
     couldn't help but think how he'd feel
     if he'd been the one,
     who had battled and won,
     from the opposite side of the reel.


Copyright © Charlie Smith | Year Posted 2016

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Hope

Don't rush to wash off the sea salt 
drying on your skin;
the hopes it carries from other oceans,
those remain yet to be seen.


Copyright © A.O. Taner | Year Posted 2016

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Old Campfire Memories Still Endure

Old Campfire Memories Still Endure



Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my faithful dog Midnight in tow

Fair weather is the prayer always prayed
when granted comforts this old brain
Fire soothes when bad weather is delayed
we campers dearly hate the pouring rain

Rain and wind kill all peace of mind
soft, easy night with fire to thrill
Talk, laughter and joy we always find
fire comforts when the night is still

Overhead sparkles a smooth clear sky
glittering stars dance with our flames
We accept the beauty asking not the why
talk of old friends, honoring their names

Tales of the whale sized fish we caught
hunts where we bagged so much wild game
Such memories can never ever be bought
if they could would never be the same

Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my old faithful dog in tow

Robert J. Lindley , 04-21-2015


Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2015

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Father

Not once did i ever see my father tear up. 
Not once.
Never did i see him get emotional.
Blue with haze.
He was scared.
But he never cried.
A tear had never once fell from his rosey toned cheeks.
Those rosey tones caused by a rush of relaxation.
A rush of forgetfulness.
Crushed cans.
Like his crushed feelings.
But never once did he cry.
Never once did my father take his glasses off upon his face.
Off his bright red nose, caused by the sun that he worked under every day.
The crimson sun, hard on these men’s life and back.
Never once did i see him rub his eyes.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because he took care of his emotions.
Buried down as far under his stance.
Past the ground where he stood tall as a man.
Rooted there like a tree that is rooted for life.
As the years show my independence.
As my growth away from the nest,
So far away i may become.
Never trying to at all show the blue.
Never in front of another eye.
Never in front of a sight.
Because you are weak.
You are so weak.
You are so weak if it spills.
Never once did my father cry.
Never once did i cry.
Never once did we not not care.
We cared.
As the universe crawls into the darkest parts of the world;
?Time never exists,
Experiences rather than time.
Things always consistently changing and happening for an untold reason.
Never once did he cry.
Never once did i cry.
Never once did we cry,
Until tonight.
I saw his tear, 
His chocked up throat.
He saw my tears,
Hard, hitting the floor.
We stood there, 
Face to face, tear to tear.
We cared.


Copyright © Christina Rose | Year Posted 2015

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Farmer Joe

On the banks of the mighty Skagit,
where the rushing waters flow,
sat a fisherman of merit,
the one known as Farmer Joe.
Long he sat there, long he fished there,
always waiting for the day
he would catch a mighty salmon
and it wouldn't get away.
He had lived upon the prairies
where crop farming was his life,
working hard to care for family,
seven children and a wife.
Times were hard and for this farmer
it was toil and toil some more.
If good crops the price was lower,
if good prices, crops were poor.

He worked hard, did this poor farmer
and he fed his family well,
for he raised this big truck garden,
pigs to eat and milk to sell.
He thought often of his childhood
on the banks of the Wabash,
where he spent his youth just fishing,
some to eat and some for cash.
Rationed waters on the prairies,
in the years when it was dry,
made him long so for the rivers.
Even tough old farmers cry.
Family raised he quit his farming,
and he headed for the West,
where he'd heard of powerful rivers
and of fishing at its best.

Once he saw the Skagit River
in the State of Washington,
said he then, "We'll go no further
for I know this is the one."
Stayed he there by that big river,
never straying far away;
stayed he there and fished it daily.
It was now his time to play.
Grown old he had at farming,
he had just a few years left
for to catch that wary salmon,
the great one of mighty heft.
When the fishing season opened,
he'd get up at break of day,
fix his breafast, fix his lunch sack.
He'd be on that bank to stay.

There he met his fishing cronies,
all retired with leisure time.
Sat they fishing by the river,
all these fellows past their prime.
Then one day at last it happened.
He pulled out that fishing prize.
Then they weighed and then they measured
and declared it super size.
And the fisherman of merit,
the one known as Farmer Joe,
grinned and said, " I'm glad I did it,
before it was my time to go."
God in heaven must have noticed
how he longed for that big fish.
Said He then,  "I'll let him stay there
long enough to get his wish".

On the wall there hangs a picture 
of that farmer and his prize,
for that farmer was my daddy
who a few weeks later dies.
Called he then to old St. Peter,
standing guard at the Golden Gate.
"Welcome Joe",  said that old fisherman.
"Come on in, the fishing's great".



Won 3rd place
For Mac's Best poem contest.  (It may not be my best but it is the one of which I am most 
proud.  It hangs on the wall beside my daddy and his big fish.


Copyright © Joyce Johnson | Year Posted 2010

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A Settled Sweetness in Love

  two septets with rhyme  

At last, my friend and I bear no shame.
We spent a year seeking a soul-mate.
His eyes obliged my life to claim,
yet he could not, he would not propose.

Our calm ship was headed aground
for months we kept it together -
an ocean of hope, my playground.


Fisherman's widow!  At long last
I reeled in and quit my fishing.
I found my reach exceeds my grasp.

Two smiling faces fade from sight, 
we travel on very different waves.
Feeling free, we are all alone tonight,
the settled sweetness of farewell.


inspired by a quote from Andrea del Sarto byRobert Browning, 
"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,"


Copyright © Reason A. Poteet | Year Posted 2015

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Going Fishing on a Summer Day (Nonet Trilogy)

          Going fishing with a cane pole and
            a can of worms and hooks and a
             bobber too Down at the fish-
             ing hole there stand a might-
               y oak the best place to
                   fish and lie in
                     the shade of
                        the big
                          oak


          Down at the old fishing hole that dad
              and grandpa fished at before
              me is the best place on earth
                   Specially on a hot
                   summers day to fish
                    and swim and lie
                      in the shade
                         of the
                          tree


          Summer is the time for fun Playing
           with friends going swimming and
            fishing at the best place in
             the world is the old swim-
               ming and fishing hole
                It has been there
                   for a hun-
                   dred years
                      FUN


Copyright © Betty Lane | Year Posted 2005

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Part of Me

There's a part of me that still lives on the water
A part of me that you can never keep
Tears fill my eyes as I dream  of the ocean
I see that island paradise in my sleep

My fishing boat lies sleeping in the harbor
Anchor weighing heavy on the ocean floor
I still miss all those nights at sea
My fishing boat will sail again no more

This was the life that I had chosen
From one port to another I would roam
Never stayed long enough to be familiar
Never knew a place I could call home

Sometimes I walk along the shoreline
Listening to her song out on the sea
That's when I know that someday I'll be leaving
The song she's singing is calling me

There is something magical in a night at sea
There's a million stars hanging all around
Untold stories lying behind me
New horizons yet to be found

Now that my sailing days are over
And my life is shifting gears
I can still resurrect those memories
When I taste the salt in my tears.


Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr. | Year Posted 2006

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KARINA BAY

KARINA BAY

Green crescent arms reach out on each side,
embracing a shimmering sea.
Golden beach smiles neath foliage dense,
as young girl treads where hermit crabs hide.
Seeking them out on mission intense,
to fill mom's jar to the brim, you see,
with bait, before the incoming tide.

Low tide quiet is soon breached from afar,
as waves crash on the outer reef.
Napping seashore slowly awakens,
his lapping yawns show girl with jar,
that her crabs will soon be taken;
their sacrifice she feels with mild grief.
Mom smiles and girl's spirit will not mar.

Seashore now stretches and growls,
as if irate at being awoken,
but soon feels better and starts to tap,
a regular beat as mom scowls,
into sun, adjusting her fishing cap.
With deft hands she casts crab token,
and sea gives enough for large bowls.

The distant waves now join seashore.
Together they bounce and dance,
to an ancient rhythm of time,
rising higher as mom comes ashore.
She preps the fish and squeezes lime,
while girl watches in quite a trance,
as mom regales her with tales of yore.

2/2/2016 - HUMAN NATURE CONTEST


Copyright © San Woo | Year Posted 2016

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The Sonnet That Missed The Grade

I know with that “Ode” to a “Sonnet” - It didn’t meet the grade . . .  
“But” that’s only on account that as a “Poet” - I never get paid . . . ; )

THE “SONNET” THAT MISSED THE GRADE . . . 

The thing I'm now hitting on is to sort ‘em flippin’ “Syllables” out . . .
The amount of “Syllables” needed per line - I know “Nowt” about . . . 

One - two even three Syllables can be found within just one word . . . 
There are ten Syllables to every line - soon I’ll be a “Sonnet” nerd . . . 

There is only so much I can cope with - “Hell” If I knew the score . . . 
If not “Decasyllabic” it is not a “Sonnet” - “But” oh there is more . . . 

A line in exception can be accepted to the before and after lines . . .
"Thus" can still be "Whittled" in - as you may wish to be inclined . . . 

All seems a bit of a “Cheat” to me - because put to a famous name . . . 
Seems you can do anything you wish and change the bloody game . . . 

If I have to hear a “Shakespeare’s” take on a “Sonnet” once more . . . 
I am “Gonna” rip up every single one of his flippin’ so called scores . . . 

“So” alas “Poor” Yorick - just what are you trying to edge in to say . . . ?   
That I get some "Learning" in and maybe see me here another day . . .

The “Sonnet” has yet to get me down - though I say it with a frown . . . 
I see a “Sonnet” to beat all “Sonnets” - gone soon will be the clown . . . 

Indiana Shaw . . . ; )


Copyright © Indiana Shaw | Year Posted 2016

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Bhatiali

Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
O river of rivers, 
The queen river,
Flow as you wish, 
Gather silt forever
That on your shores 
Men may harrow, then sow
The seeds of happiness 
And sorrow to grow.

Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.
Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!

Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
O river of rivers, 
The starry river,
Your blinking waves drum
Of Behula's shiver.
I too am lost, 
The tattered merchant fool,
My peacock barge rides
Fate's whirlpool.

Hilsa leaps at the moon,
How wondrously they blend!
When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.

When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend,
O river of rivers, 
The wise river.
Who would speak for us?
If not you, may be never.
Yet the mountains rise
From the hearths' ash,
You are silent, while
The history is brash.

When the whistling wind wakes
All courage is pretend.
Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?

Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
O river of rivers, 
The hungry river,
The consort of Ruin.
An arrow in Falguni's quiver.
The infinite wasteland beckons
Hold onto heart's dream,
One more sun above
Anguish and scream.

Heaven's horn blares slender silver
For whom to comprehend?
Afloat I am, 
The blind horizon spreads to no end.





-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Form: Bhatiali
Date: 19 / 11 / 2016
Bhatiali is a form of folk music native to Bangladesh and Bengal. There is no place for Taal (a term used in Indian classical music for the rhythmic pattern) in pure bhatiali. Even rhyme is not that important. Generally, these songs are sung by the cattle herders on the fields or the fisherfolks living off a river. Among the several subjects of folk music in all of Bengal, that includes Deha-tatva (about the body) and Murshid-tatva (about the guru), Bhatiali deals with Prakriti-tatva (about nature). Probably the most renowned poet of this form is Jasimuddin. Some of Rabindranath Tagore's songs can also be categorised as typical bhatiali. 


Copyright © Tamal Kundu | Year Posted 2016

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The Victory Dance

To play as if today
Is your only chance.
Some say, “It’s just a game.”
Have they done the Victory Dance?

When hard-earned Victory
Was finally at hand,
Have they felt the glory
Raining down from the stands?

To do or not to do….
No one wants to hear, “We tried.”
Effort and dedication will be rewarded… 
They'll make the 'magic' that's on your side. 

Yes, to fall short is still an option;
But much better to succeed.
Heroes are made and remembered
Only by their deeds.

So, just go out and win.
Give your all to each and every chance.
Persevere and achieve…

And do the Victory Dance.



Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

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Went Fishin'


Submitted to the "Gone Fishin" contest
------------------------------------------------

Trollin’ the islands at Texoma,
It was April, 1964.
New rod and reel in hand,
I’d NEVER been fishing before.

A Garcia 2510T casting rod.
The reel, a Mitchell 301,
Plus hand-selected worms and lures…
I was ready to have some fun.

My teacher, a master fisherman,
Had fished all over the earth...
From trout in Austrian mountain streams
To sea bass just west of Perth.

He showed me all the basics,
Including how to tie a lure.
“No snaps. They’re no good.
Tie’em on…just to be sure.”

He made me practice casting.
“Take aim with your rod’s tip 
Take her back - ten, eleven, twelve, one;
Smoothly return to ten… with just a little flip.”

While I practiced the casting motion,
He said, “Large Mouths will be jumpin’ bugs.
Water’s bubblin’ with Sand Bass spawnin’.
You’ll know the difference if one gives you a tug.”

As we drifted around the islands,
He said, “I think you’re ready.”
So, I picked a lure, a pretty Heddon;
And tied her on.  My hands were steady.

Yellow with black dots and a weed guard. 
A streamer tail and double treble hooks.
Who knew if she would do the job,
But I liked the way she looked.

As I tied her on, I looked around
For a likely place for my first cast.
Magazine pictures always showed weeds
In the background of a striking Bass.

So, I picked a reed bed in the shallows;
Threw my first cast, watched her fly.
What happened next was the stuff of dreams.
We couldn’t believe our eyes. 

About eighteen inches before she lit,
A monstrous Large Mouth erupted from the water.
My teacher screamed, “Holy Mary, Mother of God!  
Kiss O’Reilly’s Ugly Daughter!”

When the Bass broke water, it scared me. 
My whole body jerked and shook.
So sudden, so silent, it seemed like slow motion.
Until I heard him screaming, “Set the hook!  Set the hook!”

When the big Bass scared me,
I must have set the hook.
The tussle was on, long and hard.
This fish didn’t want to be cooked.

My lack of skills prevailed, however,
As I finally reeled him in;
I grabbed him by the lower lip,
Like I’d seen Don Wallace do, time and time again.

“Oh, my God”, he murmured as he weighed the Bass;
“Jeez.  Over thirteen pounds....Thirteen pounds, two.”
He took out his Polaroid and laughed, 
“I’ll take a picture of this fish... holdin' you.”

He snapped the picture of me holding the Bass;
On the back wrote the date, the length and weight.
As he turned to put the camera away……
Get ready.  This is the part that’s great.

I’d watched Don Wallace ‘catch and release’.
He always did that on his show.
“This fish put up a good fight.” he’d say;
“Now it’s time to let him go.”

Yes, as my teacher put away the camera,
I held the big Bass by the lower lip and tail
And ‘swished’ him in the water,
Making sure his gills would not fail.

My teacher turned and saw what I was doing
Just as I let the big Bass go.
This, too, was like slow motion
As I heard him screaming, “NOOOOOOO!”

“Why would you do that, Lad?
Do ya know nothin’ at all?
A fish like that... on your very first cast?
Well...Lad, that fish goes on the wall.”

“Well…he’ll be here next year.” I said with a smile,
“And even bigger, I’ll bet.”
He said, ”You’ll make a fisherman, Lad.
It’s not for the fish that we fish…

but for the great stories we get.” 

I still have that lure…and the rod and reel.
Still in their bags and boxes, just like new.
I thought about selling them on eBay,
But 50 years later, they have sentimental value.

You see…I’ve been invited to go fishin’ several times
By golfin’ buddies and other friends;
But for some reason…I really don’t know why…
I’ve never gone fishin’ again.

They say, “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
And I believe that is a fact.
I hope you enjoyed this bit of truth and,
In the meantime…..”Ya’ll come back!”


Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

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Princesses

Pretty princesses
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Very beautiful
Just like you!


Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013

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The Fisherman

Never once have I been enclosed in exhaustion
Until now - like a black woolen blanket, drenched.
I've looked and crawled and even found unceasingly 
Before screaming from the riverbank: "This Is What It's For."
But now I can hardly whisper,
Sensing, maybe, a changing tide that sends the fish away
Or remembering past moons that moved them to more fertile feasts.

Yes - both it must be.
For now the water's meandering isn't hopeful wanderlust;
It only serves to annoy me.
And is it me or has its flow slowed?
Although now more than ever I note its swiftness
In comparison with the glassy new-born lake
Or the black curmudgeonly seas.

The gulls still call but no longer in triumph.
It seems it's morphed into a dirge
Though their wings still hang a crisp angel white in the sky.
Gliding, though again more slowly,
Before snatching a fish with ease;
Now it's mockery in their squawking. 

Continuing along,
Trudging through muddy waters,
I feel more akin to washed up wood
And the log floating on
Than to the swift fishermen
Across the river.
I sit and listen to their songs
Carried by the soft wind,
Encompassing the gull and my own fragile breath 
(A song of a son lost at sea and I can't find where to put my hands).
I taste their hope in the sand and the sun
And it oozes from my eyes.


Copyright © Matt Fergoda | Year Posted 2014