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

Gone Fishing by Gifford, Darlene
Go Fishing by Cranney, Damian
FISHING SUMMER AND BOATS by curtis futch jr, kurtis scott aka
Fishing with dad by Hopper, Anna
Fall Fishing by Baumgarn, Brian
LETS GO FISHING by jimmy boom semtex, nick armbrister
Just So Fishing Tale by phookan, gautami
Gone Fishing by Friedman, Mark

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The Best Fishing Poems

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)

Copyright © Elaine George

More great poems below...

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"

Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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
  11, 11, 7, 7, 11
  Sponsor Roy Jerden
  Limericks Clean and Clever 

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

A Settled Sweetness

  two septets with rhyme  

At long last, my friend, I bear no shame.
I spent a year seeking a soul-mate.
Your eyes obliged my life to claim,
yet you could not, you would not propose.

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

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

Two smiling faces fade from sight, 
we travel on very different waves.
Feeling free, 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

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

Copyright © Christine Phillips

Details | Fishing Poem | |


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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

Going Gigging

I guess those fancy city boys like using rods and reels
With hundred dollar waders, dry flies and wicker creels
But good old country boys ain't gonna be so squeamish
They like to be primeval and get medieval on them fish

You got your spoonbill snaggers and catfish noodlers too
And for some old boys a stick of dynamite will do
But when autumn sucker gigging season comes around
Ain't no red-blood menfolk hangin' in an Ozarks town

Nighttime on the gravel bar just north of Poplar Bluff
Me and Jon are smokin' and Leon's dippin' snuff
Three feet of clean clear water as cold as winter's bone
The john boat’s forward rail lights are showing ev'ry stone

Leon heads the boat upriver, a quiet and constant pace
The luminescent stream seems to alter time and space
Conversation ceases as we seek retreat within
Pensive minds in solace find a dreamy state of zen

Then our meditation comes abruptly to an end
Leon points out a gigging spot, we rise up and unbend
Upon the john boat’s bowsprit we ready spear-men stand
Poised just like Poseidon with his trident in his hand

On the shallow bottom, scattered fish are dimly seen
Hog and red horse suckers, slowly swimming straight upstream
The water bends the light, so remember this constraint
When you gig a fish, you gotta aim for where he ain't

Jon's lean and wiry frame first coils up and then unwinds
He pokes and soon a sucker is wriggling on the tines
Suddenly the action becomes furious and fast
We're poking left and right, this gigging's quite a blast!

Get that sucker! Stick that sucker! That one got away!
I can't believe I missed him! That sucker went that way!
Got that little sucker! Gonna limit out tonight!
Missed that sorry sucker! He went left when I went right!

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty! Leon counted out the score
The john boat's holding fish box would shortly hold no more!
Flushed with high emotion, I then spied to my delight
A swiftly swimming shadow just passing on the right!

Way too big to be a sucker, I thought it was a carp
I poke and then the gig rebounds though it's surely sharp
Too late I realized that in my fervent fever
I hadn't caught a carp, but almost bagged a beaver!

Jon and Leon roared and I'm crimson with chagrin
In a nanosecond all the beaver jokes begin
No mercy is allowed, according to tradition
Gotta grin and bear it, then send them to perdition

When they reckoned I was roasted rather past well done
We went back to have our feast and go on with the fun
To munch some hot hush-puppies and chug some PBR
With deep fried fish and taters cooked on a gravel bar

Then sittin' round the campfire, we pass the Mason jar
And share our tales of huntin' and fishin' near and far
Next day at work I realize the boys just torqued the screw
When on my desk I find a recipe for beaver stew...

Copyright © Roy Jerden

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

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
I'll take 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's something I just can't live without...ha ha ha..

Copyright © Lawrence Ingle

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

Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

Pleasure Angling

Cast to the left of me, cast to my right
Cast out in front of me but I can’t get a bite
I’ve changed my tactics many times, tried legering and float
And now the bitter lashing rain has soaked right through my coat

Worms and Maggots, corn and flake on every size of hook
I’ve used up all the tricks I know, it seems I’m out of luck
The weather’s gone from bad to worse and now the wind’s a gale
I should be in a nice warm pub and supping pints of ale

Non anglers think we’re barmy and all who fish are mad
“To be obsessed with drowning worms is only for the sad”
But non angling folk have no idea of the Buzz when the line goes tight
And the adrenalin rush when the fish is on and the rod bends to the fight

Not every day is action packed with solid bites and takes
When your angling comes together with very few mistakes
There are days like this when nothing’s right and all you try’s in vain
Just fishing on with not a bite in the bitter lashing rain

Any size of fish would do, just to avoid a blank
What’s this! A twitch! About time too, my inert float just sank
I’m getting lots of bites at last,'though the fishless hours were rotten
Now it’s a bite with every cast and all before's forgotten

I have learned a bit and caught a few to finish off my day
Carefully I’ve set them free and watched them swim away
I am all packed up but before I go there is one last look to see
That I’ve left it clean and tidy for those who follow me

Copyright © Rob Bettridge

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

The Bloke Who Sells the Bait

Another long weekend’s upon us and we’re ready, set to go,
To get amongst the bream again, along the river Tambo.
Our adrenaline is rushing and we’re really bloody keen,
To celebrate with fishing while, we’re toasting to the queen…
And when arriving Friday night,
We were told the fishing’s great,
When we asked for information,
From the bloke who sells the bait.
“They’re really biting well” he say’s “Up in the Lucerne patch,
And if you’re using sandworm, then they’re not too hard to catch.”
… he had a stack of sandworm boxes sitting on the freezer lid…
“So would youse like a box of sandworm?” And naturally we did.

“That’s five dollars each” he say’s to us, so we ‘cough’ up the dough.
Then at seven in the morning, we’re having our first ‘throw.’
The bream were biting well all right; but they’re all undersize!
And somehow our impression was; this bloke was telling lies…
So we’re back again at lunchtime,
With nothing on our fishing plate,
Where we got a relocation,
From the bloke who sells the bait.
“Perhaps” he said “They’ve moved along, up somewhere near the Cliffs.
So the little ‘blighters’ stole your bait? (Then with arrogance he sniffs)
… there was not a box of sandworm left, and so he let us know…
He’d heard reports from locals that “Its prawn that was the go!”

We lined up opposite the Cliffs, where the Tambo isn’t wide,
Baiting up with prawn and casting near the other side,
Where every now and then we’d see the movement of a ‘tip,’
Then winding in we’d find we’d been, the victims of a ‘strip’…
And by the time the sun went down,
We had nothing on the slate,
So asked for an explanation,
From the bloke who sells the bait.
“Well I’ve got to say I’m puzzled!” he said, as he scratched his head.
“Perhaps the bream have ‘schooled’ along the Metung Road instead,
But I’m sure you would hook plenty up around the ‘Cliffs’ you know.
Maybe it’s shrimp and isn’t prawn, that has bream on the go.”

“Another five bucks thanks” he said, and then on Sunday morn,
Shrimp attracted never-ending bites; but you know I could have sworn,
Word had traveled through the Tambo for the nursery of bream
To gather at the Metung road where getting hooked is slim…
So we went back one final time,
To set this ‘bludger’ straight.
We then got this indication,
From the bloke who sells the bait.
“It could be you’re unlucky with your timing fishing here.”	
And then from the ‘Baitman’s Bible’ he recited loud and clear,
As he gave his explanation with a glimpse of fleeting sorrow;
“Well, big bream were biting last week and they prob’ly will tomorrow.” 
	©2000 Lindsay Laurie

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Fishing Poem | |

The Fisherman

When i was just a young boy,my sister i did go see,
She had married a fisherman,they lived of the sea.
Every morning at four A.M ,he would be up and out the door,
Heading for that fishing shack, just along the shore.

Making sure there was enough gas, to get him there and back,
Checking to see if the oars were on board, life jackets were in the sack.
He asked if i would like to go,to see how fishermen pulled thier nets,
I said sure count me in,will i need some mits?

A rain coat in case it rains,a long pair of rubber boots,
He said ok your ready,once we are out there it will be a hoot.
We started out from the wharf ,the sea it was calm,
He said its going to be a good day,we may even catch some clams.

Just out side the harbor,the sea got a little rough,
He seen the worry in my eyes, said awwwww your tough.
If you feel the need ,to lean over the side,
Dont be ashamed, its happen to me when i was just a boy.

When we got to the point ,where land we could no longer see,
We found the markers for his nets ,It was the only thing red in the deep blue sea.
We began to pull the nets over the side, taking fish off as they come,
Baiting the hooks as they went back in so there will be more fish on the next run.

Then all of sudden the wind came up,the waves got even bigger,
My stomach was starting to turn,and i was feeling sicker.
So in haste , he turned the small boat around and headed for land,
I was never so happy, when my feet hit the sand.

I said sorry but fishing isent the life for me,
But thank you so much for letting me see.
So a fishermans life isent for everyone ,thats true,
Of i go to try something new.

Copyright © Alan Fitz

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

          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

          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

Copyright © Betty Lane

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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.

Details | Fishing Poem | |

Your Loving Eyes

Reminiscing of days filled with laughter and joy
Waiting for a new adventure to begin
Mangoes and peaches, palm trees and beaches
God, I wish I was sailing again
I remember the islands and the ports we had visited
Sailing under God's blue skies
I remember your charms, wrapped up in your arms
Gazing into your loving eyes.
Though the years have passed and the days are gone
The memories remain forever more
Someday my friend, we will meet again
And walk along that distant shore.
The fishing village nestled in a small cove
The smell of fresh fish and the sea
Call me it seems to relive my dreams
And the days you were here with me.
As I walk in the sun toward the marina
Where my little fishing boat lies
I remember the sights and the warm summer nights
Gazing into your loving eyes.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Fishing Poem | |


I have a dream
That I'll get another,and better job
I have a dream
That I'll have a 5 bedroom house with fireplace
I have a dream 
This house will have 4 1/2 bathrooms
I have a dream
I'll have a fishing pond in the back yard
I have a dream
I'll own lots of fishing equipment
I have a dream
My kids will finish school
I have a dream 
All my kids,and grand kids-dreams will come true
I have a dream
My grand-kids will finish school as well
 I have a dream
That I'll be able to start them all a bank account
I have a dream
To own the vehicle of my dreams a Hummer
I have a dream 
To own a nice pick-up truck
I have a dream
To take at least a week vacation with the love of my life
I have a dream
To make all the love of my life dreams come true
I have a dream
To go to the beach for the very 1st time
I have a dream
To not owe any debts
I have a dream
To be able to pay my tithes,and offering every Sunday
I have a dream
To spend lots of quality time with my mom
I have a dream
To be able to give mom a few thousand dollars
I have a dream
To go to any restaurant I never been to before
I have a dream
That I'll be able to help the homeless,and the poor
I have a dream
To have Uncle John a new water well dugged,better electricity,and trailor
I have a dream
That I'll hit it big with my poetry
I have a dream 
I'll be known world wide because of my poetry
I have a dream
All drugs,alcohol.cigarettes,and diseases will disappear
I have a dream
That all things that are not of God will go away
I have a dream
That every race will get a long
I have a dream
That gas prices will drop quiet a bit
I have a dream
To own some suits to wear to church
I have a dream
To live a long,and happy life
I have a dream
With no surgeries,or medication I will loose 200 lbs
I have a dream
To be all God wants me to be
I have a dream
I'll be able to make donations to charity
I have a dream
To go to my 1st family reunion
I have a dream
To meet my favorite wrestler The Undertaker
I have a dream
To lead songs in a popular choir
I have a dream
To see my Savior face to face
I have a dream
To hear him say well done my good,and faithful servant.

Copyright © james sturdivant.jr

Details | Fishing Poem | |


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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |

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

Details | Fishing Poem | |


      Big-Mouth Bass
An April morning, as the climbing sun
tipped up in sight, and lit the coming day
and colored red, after a storm was done,
I cast my plug, a stinger--red and gray--

to where it looked the likely place to me,
where hides the hog--from minnows swimming by;
then feeds upon those minnows, carelessly,
as pops the sun into the morning sky.

Upon the water, mirrored flat and still,
I raise the wake, so slight--then let it lay;
and cranking in, so slowly then until
I hear the chomp--that warns he's set to play!

   And all the minnows cheer me in my quest
   of battle with my most unwilling guest!
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa