Long poem by
Jack Scott | Details |
It is so hard to let go of love,
unpeels more gut more quickly
than reel or reeler ever lost
in all those years of lazy inches
in and out:
winding in and playing out,
hardly fishing, rarely catching
from the deepness out of sight,
hardly ever losing . . .
Blisters lust into the greedy thumb.
the startled brake lets go.
It dives full length into the never,
finds the limit of its leash,
pounds against its half-round prison,
at end of end of rope -
Got you, shrieks the reel and reeler
cranking in the give and take.
The line is taut,
the weight upon it heavy,
and waiting . . .
. . .waiting for adrenaline:
against the angry, smoldering thumb.
Caught to catcher,
fish to fisher:
let me go!
It tries too hard to turn to something else: away.
Away and bottom still beyond the knot,
the creature climbs toward the light,
her leap, an alchemy:
silver unto gold.
crinkled all about.
Million mile amnesia.
a flash of tooth,
then placid lips close over any sign of youth . . .
. . . as if the fish had never been.
-the fisher wonders:
The line is limp
as if . . .
for all the years of it,
nothing at its other end.
A flash of recognition:
she leaps another time,
not knowing if what held her holds.
Silver fish scales golden ladder
a sunbeam at a time,
and all the rungs of memory -
breaks air an instant.
The line has held
and as she leaps, it claims her,
a thunder clap.
Arrested in her flight,
she drops deadweight into the bucket sea-
fish to air to gold to water,
Of the gold,
an afterglow centered in the thumb.
Did it happen?
Was she really there?
Air turns to air once more,
the fisherman to memory,
pig-a-back the job at hand,
one slender monofilament insisting: no!
and memory, another plastic,
refusing to let go.
my pretty lovely,
so flying and so softly spun,
you seemed the air to me.
So high and free,
so very near the sun,
my tears dissolve the earth’s connection.
The line my hands are holding:
to limit freedom at its height,
impossible without restraint-
the line between us,
subtle and so gossamer.
There, it glinted,
there! So very real.
Real . . .
The hook is realer.
Tangerine transfusion from the fastened lip,
bleeds unreckoned into the larger blue.
The sea - as wide as weakness -
sucks the strength without a hunger.
Tired, the hooked,
and tiring even more,
the line grows stronger,
shortening toward the bobber boat.
I’ve got her, cries the fisherman,
raping at dead weight,
dragging mystery toward the kitchen
-on his mind is steak.
Slaughter, separate from supper,
passion with a knife,
the knife . . .
. . . the knife is ready
held tight between the skinless thumb,
and vendetta fingers -
five Sicilian brothers
waiting for their sister to come home.
The other hand around the rod
is closing on the lover’s throat.
The rod’s erect,
the reel is angry.
Come, my dear, come, come.
She hears the music of the end,
the bowstring whine of gut
still lean and taut from her weight alone,
hears the rhythm of the reel
and tries to run once more
-provoking lust to snatch still harder-
but can’t . . .
. . . is free at last
surrendered with the last of blood:
quicksilver nearing zero-
and two dollars worth of ice.
(a virgin: never dead before)
betrayed and penetrated,
(it’s time now to give in, enjoy)
rests her weight upon the line,
toward the bottom of the boat.
The whore! I see her in the water!
She gave me quite a fight.
The captain, ready with the gaff,
the lover, in his rented swivel chair,
seize her from the water.
The maiden’s heartbeat
is faint and futile as a final cry of rape.
Her breath is fear, yet sounds like passion
at the very end.
Her swoon is now complete.
Her swain is prickled with his heat.
His blood pounds within his thumb.
is left alone with her.
He ponders . . .
. . . while he does,
she pales and sheds her rainbow.
Her eyes turn glassy from the air,
She’s turned to meat.
He lusts at memory for a moment,
then dries the little sweat
and goes forward for a beer,
and band aids.
The captain’s seen it all before,
surgically removes the hook
and tidies up the gear.
He and the mate carry her to the ice
and lay her out within the cold.
The mate disinfects the deck
with sea water and a stiff brush.
Returning with his second beer,
a badge of gauze and Vaseline upon his thumb,
the lover is confused.
The deck, shipshape,
of scales and blood
it all might not have happened.
Then there would be hope.
The mate calls him to the ice chest
for the viewing,
opens it . .
I’ve lost her. There she is.
The smell . . . it must wash off !
Time to go home.
The sea is empty.
It is over.
Long poem by
Robert Candler | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/went_fishin_547715' st_title='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!”
Long poem by
Robert Stoner Jr | Details |
I Caught A Golden Fish
I went to the sea to catch me some fish
hoping to catch dinner was my first wish
my trusty old boat was tied to the shore
battered and old the condition was poor
the sea was calm so I decide to try
to hook me a fish that I could not buy
my battered old boat groaned from my weight
saying this trip it was going to hate
I took up the oars with rusty old locks
set them down into their rusty old chocks
I pulled on the oars and set off to sea
just one beat up old boat, a pole and me
not terribly far from the shore went I
looked like a perfectly good place to try
dropped in my line ready to test my luck
if normal for me I’d bring up some muck
then surprise my bob did lower and rise
seeing this I couldn’t believe my eyes
I pulled on my pole with all of my might
out of the sea water came a strange sight
a large golden fish was pulled in my boat
the fish spoke to me and this I will quote
“Please sir to the sea, release me today,
I’ll bring you gold coin in which to repay.”
this was a thing I would never believe
how could a fish talk I could not conceive
he lay in my boat looked right in my eye
talking golden fish logic would defy
“Please sir to the sea, release me today,
I’ll bring you gold coin in which to repay.
Place just a red string on your hook today,
a coin I’ll put on the hook right away.”
a taking gold fish was hard to believe
what if he wasn’t trying to deceive
what could I lose but my supper today
if he spoke true I could afford to pay
I pulled a red string from my shirt just right
tied on my hook making sure it was tight
then the golden fish I gave back the sea
expecting him to make a fool of me
dropped in my line to the bottom this time
I pulled in an old coin covered in grime
rubbed the coin on my pants right away
off came the grime for the gold to display
my eyes grew to the size of a pie pan
some serious fishing quickly began
every time to the bottom I would drop
another gold coin would come to the top
I pulled in gold coins till my arms grew weak
I couldn’t stop, had my fortune to seek
the bottom of the boat full everywhere
all of a sudden a big crack was there
water rushed in to my old trusty boat
telling me not much longer would it float
I bailed out water as fast as I could
just not enough for this old boat of wood
fast under the water it soon did sink
putting me floundering into the drink
did struggle to shore swam as best I could
crawled up on the sand and I wobbly stood
“I’ve lost my fortune it belongs to me,
all of my gold is lost, how can this be.
I was rich beyond need for a short while,
now I am in my poor style.”
there in the water was the golden fish
the very same one that gave me the wish
looked up at me and then this he did say
in his most serious wet fishy way
“I brought you fortunes to make life an ease,
so much gold anyone should ever please.
Your greed blinded your judgment on this day
now poor you’ll remain, just poor as you say.”
“It’s to the sea for me I have my life,
it’s off to land to continue your strife.”
The big golden fish swam back to the sea
looks like it’s canned tuna again for me
Robert Gene Stoner Jr ©
Long poem by
Terry Trainor | Details |
One fine blustering autumn day an old man puts on his boots pulls up his trousers off he goes,
If anyone wondered where he was going it was to a forest a good long walk it was a fine day,
The old man walked at a leisurely pace stopping every now and again pulling up his trousers,
Looking over fences just to see what the farmer’s men were up to and who was ploughing today.
In his days, the prime of his life, he and his old horse would plough the fields from early morning,
Working through the day stopping for a bottle of cold tea a loaf of bread and a large lump of cheese,
The horse had a nosebag and while they rested, eating, the clapper of the bird boy could be heard,
He would work on until the sun went down on a blue horizon and shadows disappeared with the day.
As he paused he took pleasure at the sight of fat cattle and poultry roaming around the farmhouse,
Duck and geese and turkeys busying themselves beside the big barn doors pecking out the chaff,
And he could hear the flail, or the swipple, knocking the corn, as the bails piled high in the barn,
Happy that all was well he carried on walking, smiling and made his way up to the brow of a hill.
As a young farmer he leaped over stiles and ran in the corn, the land was his workplace and home,
There was no job he could not do or did not enjoy doing, whatever needed doing it had to be done,
His arms were so thick, strong, the farm girls giggled but could not get their hands all the way round,
He used to blush as each girl tried, he was a bit shy, but it made him feel good to be so very strong.
He also stopped at stiles, or a rustic bridge casting its arch over water, fish swam in the shallows
Breathing in deeply through his nose, sampling the fresh autumnal air, a bonfire in the distance,
After looking all around he wished he had brought some tackle to catch some for his late dinner,
Never mind he thought it’s another day tomorrow I will be up here to fish at the crack of the dawn.
In his young days he was not allowed to fish the river, so in the moonless nights he would poach,
Beautiful brown trout as fresh as a berry from a tree eaten with warm bread a feast fit for a king,
It would not be long before he stopped again getting his breath resting for a few short minutes,
As his lungs filled with the purest of pure air he restarted his country walk and relived his life.
He passed by clusters of rich, jetty blackberries hanging from a hedge and took time to pick a few,
And clusters of nuts hanging by the wayside through the copse on his way along a little old lane,
And in all this natural beauty the old man seemed to have enjoyment of a child one more time,
The world moved around but this time backwards he saw the things he used to see as a young boy
Long poem by
Jay Anderson-Taylor | Details |
I serve out here each and every day as I walk my beat, I protect the homes and business of others that never even bother to get to know my name...they see only the name (Officer)... which comes just before my real name.
They never see my real name, just a badge and a uniform and the last person they like to see, depending on their game? They never ever see my real name "James Taylor"
which was given to me by someone who loved me way before I even thought about patrolling our streets in DC...what everyone else seems to take for granted every day of their lives as they leave out of their homes to go to work or play...
They fail to see I'm probably all that maybe standing between them and the predators that walk our streets both night and day? No, I'm nothing special, just a mere man... even a good policemen can fall from grace…we get angry with our kids…we even fight and argue with
the ones we love…and we put our legs in our pants one hole at a time too, the same as you do. We flush our toilet the same way and it goes to the same place as yours… and spins into an abyss seen by few.
I pray to the same God that most of you all do…The only difference between me and some of you? I can’t look the other way when I hear a child pleading for his Momma to stop beating him...
and I can’t look the other way when Mr. Pookeys comes home from the fish market where he works all day…and when he is mad about the cuts that he gets on his hands and the fish gut smell that just won’t go away...so he slaps his poor wife Mrs. Pookeys who just picked the wrong day to have complained about Mr. Pookeys pay?
So the next time you encounter me as I'm walking my beat? As I walk pass by you and head down 7th St and wearing what appears to be a frown on my face? As you start to spread your lips to tell me to smile?
And say, "it can’t be all that bad, Mr. Policeman?" I think I would say back to you... Hey, my friend it’s not about being a cop that makes me into this police officer that you see…
It’s the fact that I chose to be Officer Taylor today, but it could have went just about anyway...I could be that drunk or a wife beater or even the thief down the street? So, the next time you see your local policeman on the beat? Just look him in the eye and tell him with a
sincere heart...I know you could have made the choice to have been any of those people I see out here every day? But I want to thank you Officer James Taylor, I’m sure glad to see you did chose to work on our streets and make the world a much safer place for me!
Long poem by
jay del fierro | Details |
Innocence and peace are states of mind at the very beginning and
towards the very end . Everything in between , the mid-cycle , of our lives are what
create all the differences , through multiple emotional interaction .
The dual mind , positive / negative , and how it effects our behaviors ,
which ultimately becomes who we project and how we eventually percieve
ourselves , or decieve ourselves and others , by not knowing honestly who we
truly are internally , our soul being , a spark of light which is that spark of love
within' . Our physical being is a shadow of our spiritual self , our shadow
becomes an expression , an accumulation of emotions learned through
experience . From the moment of our birth into the physical world , our life
experiences begin as pebbles . Through the course of time and space , our
experiences , our spiritual growth , become larger stones , boulders , or better
put , " weights of burden " . Once we begin to understand and recognize , at that
moment of facing our heaviest obstacle , at that moment , we have to take an
honest look internally and summon the strength and courage to properly remove
it . Once we can unlearn to relearn , those boulders , obstacles , begin to get
smaller , until they again appear as pebbles . A story in retrospect .
Imagine yourself as a fish in the river . One day the river floods
over it's embankment , and you the fish , instead of staying in the river , you get
caught in the wave of the flood into a pool outside the rivers edge . As the flood
waters recede to normal , you now become stuck outside the natural flow of your
existence , in an outer pool . In time as the water evaporates into the air from the
heat of the sun , you begin to lose sense of your life force , the essence of your
being , until the moment comes when you begin to die and as the ground around
you begins to dry and crack , so do you , being reduced to dust to be blown in the
If the fish hadn't lost his way and had faced the challenge of the
flood , and stayed true to itself and stayed the course of his natural existence , he
may have avoided such a tragic fate . Like the fish , that monstrous boulder is our
challenge to remove and stay on our pathway , our soul journey . The moment we
look for the easy way around and head in a different direction , we could possibly
be setting ourselves up with the same fate of the fish .
Long poem by
Sidney Beck | Details |
Always cold in the morning, this kitchen is warmed now
With a roaring fire and my wife working beside me making just desserts
We stand here two hours this afternoon doing one of our projects
Cooking soup and fish for this evening’s xmas party of friends.
The ghetto, the Projects, contained me with the music of
The school’s leather belt and cane. And then
Parents lost in a fire.
That was a tough xmas, alcohol boozy flavored in an
Empty-bottle kitchen, crowded and smoky.
It was a tough meat just cut today red blooded, now pale in the friends’
Xmas gift, the tureen shiny clean. The soup’s
Alcohol flavored in effort to disguise taste of the firm onion, now soft slop. Next, must
Empty bottle of sauce in …add spice…Oh, now chop more veg: and the
Kitchen knife peels and reveals their secret inner fleshes,
Crowded and jostling with juicy tomatoes, now reduced to wrinkled skins; and
Smoky, tall, erect celery now chopped into mini-sets of false teeth
Innocence lost in the poisonous smog of Dublin’s
Orphanage hymns and anthems: God and the state will help
Uniformed religious staff and teachers to tell me
I do not belong - I must reveal no secrets about being
Woken, shaken out of bed, taken (with no word spoken) from the
Cold dormitory, scaly hand on my knee:
Drown in this grasp - fish out of water
Cold. A small shivering fish caught in net, taken now from its fridge
Dormitory for this sacrifice: staring, unfeeling, cold-blooded creature, its
Scaly skin shining on my cutting plate.
Hand on knee, I sit down to gut it, gills first - which made him
Drown as he struggled in the tightened net; and
In this grasp I cut the fish open - an old
Fish which was still feeling
Out of water. It seems a silly, scaled creature now, lifeless, staring at nothing.
I lost my loneliness from that hostile world:
She gave me peace and serenity -
Warm feelings of belonging ; and it’s
Christmas every day.
She is sweet, inviting, colorful, and around her
Melt-in-the-mouth music plays.
She is the essence of sugar,
Sweet free-running chocolate,
Inviting me to dissolve all of her creamy meringue shells
Colorful and delightful, which will swirl
Around her taste and
Melt like love on a summer’s day.
In the mouth of my hell, she has uttered
Music, and forever now, it
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written for and entered in Debbie Guzzi’s Contest GET SERIOUS
Long poem by
Anna Hopper | Details |
Early in the morn, just before the sun would rise
The scent of bacon, thick enough to burn my eyes
Crept under my door, across the sheets and into my nose
The aroma I smelt every morning before I arose
It's a memory. It comes with the territory
Each and every time I tell my favorite story
The vibration of the morning news, ringing from the t.v.
The first sound I would hear, inevitably
Good morning sleepy head, my daddy would grumble
From behind his coffee cup as he watched me fumble
You have "bed head" he'd chuckle
"Now give me some knuckle"
Before I knew it, we were wrestling and I'd end up in a head lock
We'd pack up our breakfast and head to the dock
Sitting side by side as the sun made its way into the sky
To this day, I've seen nothing more beautiful than an Albuquerque rise
We didn't speak much as daddy loved to soak up the hues
I know now that he wasn't thinking of the morning news
Like clockwork, his coffee cup began to leaven
He would look up to the sky as if straight into heaven
By this time I was anxious, beginning to squirm
He'd look down with a grin, "let's drown us a worm"
I remember the feeling, so vibrant and telling
theatrically alive as a result of my compelling
We'd sit there all day, stirring the pot
Bragging to one another of the fish we had caught
When the sun was blazing, I'd grab our swimming trunks
Around the lake we would race and then, "Kerplunk!"
Out once again, we would dash
To see who could make the biggest splash
Tossing a ball, to and fro
I dreaded the words "it's time to go"
But of coarse they would come and I'd suck in my lip
No towels for drying. He'd tell me to drip
Back to the dock, we'd resume our position
Everything the same to satisfy our superstition
We fished until dark, catching our dinner
Then playfully argued over who caught the winner
I peeled potatoes as he cleaned the fish
Together we made a manly dish
We caught fireflies and frogs before hitting the sack
Then went to bed like zombies, tomorrow we'd be back
I reminisce those days before my daddy passed
The greatest days of my life went by too fast
My time with him tragically ended
Never again was my life so splendid
Like a piece of luggage, shipped off to the city
People would look at me and say "what a pity"
I would always stand out, in my cowboy boots
Despite my environment, I was true to my roots
People grew tired as I would ramble on about my dad
To this day, I ramble, to quiet the sad
Long poem by
Ivo Cosentino | Details |
For this Turk Turku is a 1-horse
city but he has got to have horse
sense. He will not be as happy as a peacock in Turkey.
Hindi, the Turk word for turkey, is how we'll call this turkey.
Hindi, when living in Turkey, was a horse
dealer. Today he's no longer into horse
trading. He quit selling that drug. One morning
when he got up all his belongings were gone
He was shocked & almost started mourning
over this theft like a baby. His gun
gone too. Instead of going bananas
he sat down & thought: "That a lot of my country fellas have a monkey
on their backs is my bad! I won't cry over my pilfered pelf! No more monkey
business! From now on I decide to be a good egg!
I'm starting a new life! Today I cease being a yegg"
The Turk turkey put all his eggs
in one basket & wended his way to Turku!
He got a job in a Turkish bath as a front desk clerk. One noon he met a not
pigheaded porky from Alaska who told him had quit smoking blunt cold turkey
of late & was quite itching to relapse. Hindi didn't want to be a cold turkey
nowadays so he gave him advice on withdrawal. He jotted down some
notes for the porcupine to read & apply & didn't ask, at all, a sum
of money in exchange for the nice advice. The porky thanked him a lot & got
inside the bath. Finn tongue was Greek to Hindi
Whenever he had a chance, took a gander at
the phrasebook to learn Finnish.
At 5 pm he was glad to finish
his shift get the puck
out of that place
go home have duck
soup & plaice.
He wanted to invite the hake for supper. The latter
refused, didn't want to feel like a fish out of water.
Hindi, quite offended, told him off but it was like water
off a duck's back. He didn't want dinner alone, so
he thought who else could come. Bingo! The sow!
And she did. He did indeed bring home the bacon.
The food was very simple to prepare. It was duck
soup. He was cocksure the sow would love duck
soup & plaice. For dessert, a piece of cake
they'd have. Cooking all this was a piece of cake
without doubt. When nosh was ready, the sow
brooded over & said: "Wait a sec. This is so
weird. You invited the hake, a fish, to eat plaice.
You're eating duck & you're a turkey. In place
of eating explain. Are you a cannibal?" "Clam
up & pig out!" he said, not happy as a clam.
"O In a pig's eye I will! You are such a cold fish!
Horsefeathers! Besides, I am no longer hungry!
I've never seen anything like this in Hungary!"
"I eat duck soup and, if I want to, I cook my goose!"
The sow, horrified, at once did for sure vamoose.
Long poem by
Su Ben | Details | . You can read it on PoetrySoup.com' st_url='http://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/a_fish_and_the_ten_percents_brain_mystery_625534' st_title='A Fish and the Ten Percent's Brain Mystery'>
I had deep thoughts on man.
Is he God’s masterpiece or a fiasco?
I determined, man is God’s failed handiwork.
The reason being, although God gave man a specially designed brain
that is way superior from all other creatures, man’s uniquely
designed brain is not any better than a mannequin’s brain
attired with the latest fashion dress watching passersby from
inside a show window. The mannequin’s brain is not for practical use
but solely for display.
In the ten percent’s brain mystery,
it is a waste for man not utilizing
ninety percent of the remaining brain. More than a waste,
it is poison because man dips ten percent of his brain
in and out of polluted water ideates nothing but evil.
There was Eden in the beginning of the world,
and in the middle of the garden there was a tree
that will bear God forbidden fruits though it unnecessarily
stands there just like a man’s brain. Man ate fruit anyway—although
the serpent told man’s companion to eat because he will take responsibility,
and became the way we are now. Even if man did not eat, it will not make
a difference in human nature.
If man fills remaining ninety percent of space
with thinking processing media and wholly utilizes it,
man will become god crossing over the God’s inviolable domain.
And that’s why, to humankind,
there is a story about a pathetic fish*
which abandoned water to reach the dry land.
The fish labors on land breathing with its dried up gills,
suffers under mistreatment and all kinds of mockeries men make.
The story sad and grim continues,
the fish, in order to reinstall the good relationship between God
and His creature, he was put on a spit through a bone torn off from
his own flesh stood on the mound of death, the body dried
under the scorching sun, twisting in the boiling air.
How could we survive in this trying world
without this story so sad; yet exceedingly beautifully
fabricated with only ten percent of the brain, man’s mystery.
because the fish with no dazzling color would infatuate
onlookers eyes or is streamlined that enables swift maneuver
in the water, man became not failure but God’s masterpiece.
????s is Greek word for Fish and when undo the letters and place in the row with new word begins with each letter it becomes: Jesus, Christ, God, Son, and Salvation. That’s why Fish symbolizes Jesus Christ, as well as basis for the profession of Christian faith.