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Best Fishing Poems

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Details | Fishing Poem |

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)


Details | Fishing Poem |

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"


Details | Fishing Poem |

Return To Slippery Lake Bridge

I took my son fishing
down on Slippery Lake Bridge.
It's a wooden bridge with rough-cut timbers,
smoothed on the edges by all the behinds that have sat
and all the legs that have dangled.
I remember being there as a child.
I remember my uncle taking my arms
and swinging me out over the edge.
He was the kind of uncle that you were never quite sure
whether he would let go or not.
I remember a lesson I learned there as a boy.
So when my son asked me,
"Dad, why do they call it Slippery Lake Bridge? ...
I thought you said this was Old River."
A grin worked its way to my mouth,
"I did. And it is. But I'll tell you about that later...
for now, grab that bucket and go fetch us some water."
I pointed, and like a good son,
he went for a bucket of water.
I could tell he was confused about me withholding information,
and I fought the smile that wanted to surface.
It wouldn't do to go and give the lesson away
before it was learned.

I watched him tip-toe his way down the bank.
I watched him scoop up half a bucket of water.
I watched him turn and take two steps back up
before he slipped and fell in the mud.
He came back to me with more water on himself than in the bucket,
trying to wipe the mud from his clothes
but succeeding only in smearing it more.
He looked at me with a mixture of hurt and amusement,
"Dad, I think I know why they call it the Slippery Lake Bridge."
I laughed heartily as I clapped him on the back,
"It's a mighty slippery lake ... ain't it, son?"


Details | Fishing Poem |

Kayak Fishing Surprise

Ole Les set out by kayak from the shore

Big blue marlin rose from the ocean floor

  Nipped his bait, gave Les a tow

  Water-logged craft sank below

Friends shook their heads and said, "No Les, no more"



4/27/2011
Written for John Freeman's "Fishing" limerick contest
Okay, the man's name wasn't Les ,but this video shows two kayaks being towed 11 
miles by marlins.  I took a little poetic license with the ending too.  Both men 
survived.  If you fish you will be amazed by this video:  
http://www.youtube.com/user/KayakFishingTales?
v=FqVEvNocKTA&feature=pyv&ad=4751720259&kw=kayaking


Details | Fishing Poem |

This Is No Picnic

This Is No Picnic
 
We packed up the grill and my uncle took us to the lake
I was hoping for a burger, maybe even a juicy steak
Amazed was I to see the cooler packed with frozen shrimp
What kind of picnic is this?  My smiling lips went limp
 
“Stop pouting,” said Uncle Tim, tossing me a fishing pole
“This here lake is filled with huge trout. It’s the best fishing hole”
If we wanted to eat lunch, first we would have to catch it
Seems his picnic invitation this info did omit
 
The hours dragged past and we hadn’t had a single bite
Our clan was growing hungry and grandma seemed uptight
So she took charge and lit the grill in spite of Tim's protests
But he could not do battle with her so he acquiesced
 
Mosquitoes were drawn to scents of shrimp on the barbecue
Then a horde of hornets found our camp and buzzed on through
We screamed and scurried about to avoid their bites and stings
Till Uncle Tim doused the grill and took us to Burger King
 
He ordered burgers to go, placed a blanket on our lawn
Till this day we still laugh at the antics we’d undergone
 
 

Written for Carol Brown's Picnic Time contest


Details | Fishing Poem |

Chinese Fishing Nets

Death hangs on the poles
At river banks.
The sun smeared smiles
Grow grim grins in the night.
Being loosened ,
Chinese fishing nets
Sink down with baits
To lure in to the fate.
Wide spread death does wait
Till the sudden lifts.
Wet joys dry, and wriggle
In breathless net.
At bottoms lie hidden nets
To snare when care slip.


 (Chinese Fishing Nets are common at river banks of Kerala.These are a kind of nets hung on poles.At night ,these are lowered and laid at the bottom of the river.In the morning.these are lifted up with fish) 


Details | Fishing Poem |

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..


Details | Fishing Poem |

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


Details | Fishing Poem |

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." 


Details | Fishing Poem |

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


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