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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''>

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 Candler | Details |

The Doctor Is A Dead Man Walking

Bob had a special talent
That only worked in his men’s store.
He had ‘clothing ESP’.
He knew what his customers wanted…and more.

When customer would come into his store
Bob would invariably say, 
“Hello. I'm Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

And he was always right,
Never missed a color, fabric, style or size.
He even knew the necessary alterations.
Customers couldn’t believe their ears and eyes.

Meanwhile, in another part of town,
Joe had a pounding, relentless migraine
For every minute for more than five years,
It had driven him near insane.

He’d lost his job to the pain.
Then, he lost his wife.
He had lost a lot of weight and rarely slept.
Yes, his was a miserable life.

And, of course,  sex was out of the question…
Even a little self-abuse.
There was nothing left for Joe but pain.
He felt his life was of no use.

So, Joe went to his doctor.
“Doc, please help me end this pain.
Give me something to make me sleep
And never wake up again.”

“You know I can’t assist your suicide.”,
Then he looked sad, perhaps ashamed.
“I never dreamed it would last five years,
But I know how to end the pain.”

“You can make it go away?!
Tell me, Doc!  What’s the word?”
“I’ll have to remove your testicles.”
Was the last thing that Joe heard.

But…when he came to, it struck him.
Sex was out of the question anyway;
But he might enjoy his meals again,
And he could sleep for days.

“Please check me in, Doc.
This opportunity I cannot shirk.”
So, the doctor removed his testicles.
He did his very best work.

A few days later, Joe waddled along,
Headache free and feeling pretty nice;
But every attractive woman he saw 
Reminded him of his sacrifice.

He decided it was appropriate
To do something nice for himself for a change.
So, he went into a travel agency;
And a six month cruise he arranged.

As he left the travel agency,
He was excited, feeling ready to go;
But for such a glorious adventure,
He would need new clothes.

As he walked along, he saw Bob’s Men's Store.
He walked in, only to hear Bob say,
“Hello.  I’m Bob. Don’t say a word.
I already know what you need today.”

“How could you know?” asked Joe.
“It’s a gift.  I don’t know how, but I do.
You’ve suffered five years with an ailment,
Found relief, so now you’re taking a cruise.” 

Joe could not believe his ears.
How could this stranger possibly know?
"You're right! That's amazing!
And I'm going to need new clothes." 

Bob then laid out a fabulous wardrobe
All the right colors, fabrics, styles…and each size.
Joe was incredibly impressed.
He could hardly believe his ears and eyes.

“How do you like the wardrobe?”
“It’s wonderful!”  Bob could see that Joe was pleased.
“Now,” said Bob, “What about undergarments;
You know…shorts and tees?

Let’s see…medium crew neck tees, all cotton.
I believe that you prefer white….
And jockey shorts, all cotton…. 34s.
Yes, I'm sure that’s right.”

Joe beamed, “You’re an amazing talent
And I just this second realized,
You've laid out this entire wardrobe
And only missed one size.”

Bob, surprised by his mistake, asked, “Really?
What did I miss?  I did my best for you.”
“Well…you’re right.” said Joe, “I do wear Jockeys,
But…well…I wear 32s.

“Oh, no!” said Bob with an ugly grimace.
“That would be a serious mistake.
Thirty-twos would be too small, 
They would cramp your balls.
You’ll get migraine headaches.”


Long poem by Robert Candler | Details |

The Last Laugh

One of Life’s indisputable facts:
Government reserves the right to tax;
And tho’ they waste far more than they should,
It’s supposedly done “for the common good.”

Economists use the word “propensity,”
Just a fancy word for “odds”, you see:
The odds you’ll save, the odds you’ll spend,
And how many Tax Dollars those odds will rend.

The basis for U.S. government budgets is “Total Tax Dollars Collected”;
And any overtures to reduce those collections are summarily rejected;
And should a source of taxes have declined or dissipated,
Other taxes are increased and/or new taxes are created.

Many, if not most, of these taxes are “regressive”.
That means their actual impact on income is “progressive”...
But “progressive” in a very negative way.
Relatively speaking, the Less you make, the More you pay.

Whether you make it or sell it, need it or want it, Congress will tax it;
And, once a tax is on the books, Congress has zero “propensity” to relax it.
Congresses, Federal and State, love to tax Luxury and Sin;
Smoking Sinners have had their taxes raised again and again and again.

Cigarette taxes are frequently raised, the “claim” is to drive users to quit;
But Truth is measured in Billions in taxes, so we know supporters are “full of it.”
Meantime, Non-smokers reap many benefits, while Smokers foot the bill;
And if that should change, Non-smokers would taste a financially “bitter pill.”

Taxed and taxed and taxed some more, but not yet into submission,
Smokers could shift their tax burden to Non-smokers…without their permission.
Yes, what if one Fateful day, those Smoking Sinners, Each and Every one,
Just put them down and said, “I quit.”; said en masse, “We’re done!”

Congresses would be clamoring to derive Billions in Taxes elsewhere,
At first, Non-smokers may not realize the impact they’re about to bear.
When an industry dies, businesses and people’s jobs are lost…it’s true;
But all those Tax Dollars must come from somewhere...the likes of me and you.

So righteous, whining Non-smokers maintained their hue and cry.
Ever pushing Congresses to tax those Smoking Sinners… tax them ‘til they die;
But after quitting, Ex-Smokers would pay less, while Non-Smokers would pay more.
Guess Non-smokers didn’t think far enough ahead, didn’t really know the score.

All those dreary anti-smoking ads, many of which falsified the cause,
Would disappear.  And what about all the useless anti-smoking laws?
Instead of Non-smokers not liking Smokers, Ex-Smokers would serve instead.
"The bastards are costing me money. I wish they had smoked 'til they were dead."

So, Ex-smokers would be getting healthier and spending far less;
And may be cause for some Non-smokers’ financial distress.
While they ruefully pay more, Ex-smokers' pocket books will attest
By reminding Non-smokers daily......the Last Laugh is Best.


Long poem by William Masonis | Details |

A Hospital Stay - Part VI

                                                                   6.

                                                   Miracles and Miseries

The world resolved itself back into focus
As I lay amid the swarm of monitors
Still gulping the sword that brought me breath.

The worst now past
Many small miseries remained,
Chief among them the continuing mystery
Of my flooded, struggling lungs.

Finally I breathe well enough for the sword to be removed,
But the tests go on and on
The birth of each day bearing forth
Its own fresh indignity.

They give up guessing and haul me down again
To be opened anew and read for signs.

On the day this is done
The invisible agents of death outside
Decide to mock their pursuers
By leaving a tarot card at that day's shooting site.

They chose the Death card, of course
Revealing how little those 
Who choose to play God games really know
About the mystical.

Dreaming of omnipotence through dealing death
The unseen assassins miss their own meaning;
For this card signals change, the ending of present things.
They have unwittingly declared their game will soon be over,
Predicting their own demise.

Meanwhile the doctors make their own spread of me
And come up blank again.

     Once more I return to I.C.U.,
     Held together with staples.

     Once more the little agonies ensue:
     The sitting, the turning, the testing.

By night they come for my blood.
By day they come for  tests.
Always, in the background, the quiet moanings
Of we, the damned, condemned to medical Limbo
Roll on with the blind passage of hours and days.

     The English nurse comes, all brightness and bubble
     To heave my fragile self about;
     She's a welcome break in the monotony
     As my sustainers come and go.

Again the busy bedside conferences
And again the final admission
That all their probings have led down blind alleys.

A last-ditch effort is finally proposed:
Direct drainage of the drowning lungs.
To them this seems as a grasping at straws,
But to me it seems the one sensible solution,
And I look forward to it eagerly.
My inner mantra of "This too shall pass"
Is wearing thin.

Like a Christian martyr of old,
They pierce my back with their lance,
And the sea within that is drowning me
Finds its way out.

As the noxious waters within rush out,
Air surges into my grateful lungs.
From this moment, recovery becomes the new reality.

As I recover,
Indiscretion leads to capture 
Of the unseen terrormakers.

To the astonishment of all, 
They prove to be a dignified looking black man
And his enthralled protege' -
No prior convictions, no history of trouble 
Attached to them at all.

This is how our modern Destroyers come calling.
Well dressed, well spoken models of propriety.


Long poem by Ruben Hernandez Diaz | Details |

The Bleeding Roses

Roses in the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

Roses impearled,

But now roses curled...

 

Peach roses show modesty,

Peach roses show gratitude,

However, they are often insincere...

 

Yellow roses seem to care,

Yellow roses show friendship,

However, they are often joyless and jealous...

 

Pink roses communicate sweetness,

Pink roses radiate elegance,

However, they are often unthankful...

 

Orange roses have desire,

Orange roses show their pride,

However, they are often impassive...

 

Purple roses are majestic,

Purple roses express love at first sight,

However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...

 

Green roses are harmonious,

Green roses carry hope,

However, they are often unpeaceful...

 

Blue roses like dreaming,

Blue roses are imaginative,

Blue roses desire to know the unknown,

Blue roses are mysterious,

However, they are often elusive and unattainable...

 

Red roses are emotional,

Red roses are devotional,

Red roses are respectful,

However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...

 

Gold roses are occassional,

Gold roses like memories,

Gold roses are preserved,

However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...

 

White roses are pure,

White roses have innocence,

White roses are spiritual,

White roses carry secrecy,

However, they are often arrogant...

 

Silver roses are rare,

Silver roses like to grow,

Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,

However, they are often lost and uneasy,

But they seem unpredictable and mystical...

 

Black roses are mysterious,

Black roses are rebirth,

However, they often remain elusive,

They often symbolize death and loss,

But they are unpredictable and silent,

Though, they are often harmed...

 

Roses in  the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

But now roses swirled and twirled...

 

Although, now peach roses are lying,

Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,

Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,

Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,

Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,

Green roses losing hope and harmony,

Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,

Red roses being regretful and voided,

Gold roses bewildered and confused,

White roses losing purity and innocence,

Silver roses turning black and unused,

And black roses silenced and unborn...

 

All there is to see are roses vanishing,

Roses burning,

Roses trembling,

Roses surviving,

Roses aching,

Roses battling,

Roses crying,

Roses suffering,

Roses drowning,

Roses drying,

Roses fading,

Roses trying,

Roses wiltering...

 

All there is to feel are roses withering,

In a bed of bleeding roses...


Long poem by CHUKWU DABERECHI | Details |

LETTER TO A SORE BROTHER BEAUTIFUL SISTER DEDICATED TO MY BROTHERS AND SISTERS LOVE

LETTER TO A SORE BROTHER, BEAUTIFUL SISTER (DEDICATED TO MY BROTHER’S AND SISTER’S LOVE)
 Early jungle makes me a desire
To be alone in the belly of our dear beautiful mother
Because our growing up is such and irony
Which made me rejoiced each moment this time
That wishes were never allowed to be rose
For men of wrong mind to buy
There in my childhood irony moment
We fought as if it is created share hatred
We wish for all except one that pays a little pain
For i held back from all
As all held back from me and other all
Indeed, people taught that our life is a share pain
A sore injury to the world of love
Because i loved each moment my brother bleed from our father’s hell
I went behind the scene to celebrate my goal
kindly, the moment is always become
As i happily shun and damn the future
... who did you think you are with my future
I sometimes ignorantly murmur as a child
In my little kingdom emptiness, i rejoice in the brothers pain
A little hatred of thee, a more love of me
I love each time i am loved alone
To hate thee by my blood and cause sheepishly i became and honour
As this irony grows into something still ironic
I wish my pain could allow my pen speak plain
To cry such an awesome deep and sore blood
At each moment the rain of thee bath me thoroughly
To see thee share all to have me clothed
To borrow from the enemy to have me homed
even to lose all from the gods to make sure that i have all from the goddess
The brother even stole to have me meal
More like the blood and doing of the mother, it shared abroad
As brothers all lie to have me protected
 Much illiterate to make me the literate king
Oh bleed me death less i say this pain of love
Sisters risk of the night, the horror evil men to see a smile in this lips of mine
That i wish never remember the selfish boyhoodness
Ay! How i see my brother’s cry in his desolation
Not for him or for his little joy
But for the pain of a dear brother
To save all only to loose all to life a brother
Its pain of the ugly moment in a close death
It was determined and death paid of thee
But the brother and sister’s coming death
Woke brothers will up, sisters ghost down
I need to save my brother
Leave my life to save my brother
And take it once his breath is back
There the sacrifice of a dear brother made me desire
Never a child as this in my next world
Because you are a brother, a beautiful brother
A sister, very handsome sister that i hold dearest to my breath
And love dearest to my heart beat


Long poem by John Beam | Details |

The Tinker

The high road, the low road, did it ever occur to the Thinker?                                                                                             When roads diverge to travel straight, down the unbeaten path.                                          while molding their thoughts, all the while thinking nought                                           and then traveling the hinterlands of studious minds.                                                                                                                           Who would have thought? Lost –wax after his kind.                                                                                                                            It is not carved in stone? Yet he frets at the Glyptotek                                                                                                                A little under the weather in Cleveland repairs need to be made.                                                                         Mindful that this man of the world, has never had an original thought,                                                                    yet sets in places of prestige and cares not what you think?                                                                                               While countless wonder? What does he think, sitting at the gates of hell?                                                                                                 Ponder awhile? Reflect on the intertext and then rail on,                                                about a bricolage of the mind, which is not to be wasted in a land of nomads.                                                                                                                 tinker, tailor, a poet maker                                                                                                                                                        soldier, sailor, a thought shaker                                                                                                                                         rich men, poor men, a writer’s end                                                                                                                                    beggar man, thieves, and a mind penned                                                                                                                                               the Thinker, the Tinker’s damn


Long poem by Dave Collins | Details |

Interalphabetnet sex stew



Primose path leads to the slaughter of American
dream delete pause proficiency with internetty
webbegone after thoughts of yahoo googleyed 
interred intracacises that shed benign capsules of
 mom entary apple pie delquiences cooling 
the soul shopping for the next alias avenue of
pointless me procurement mauling an ongoing
onerous dildodate vis a vie meme.com/me in 
an engaging omnipresence of sextext no tact
spell ckeck chicshicshakplak no sense tic tac.
Talk? Walk? Balk? Chalk? Sue? Sulk? 
Dinosaur diligence posse with the senior
gestages gestulating, we r forevre 21 and ying yang 
dung. Yes, good f ing luck with that!! Look at your 
petridish parents and see what box u check to lid close
and abscond with the lost liberal leftovers. That
is you in reverse in a few carnal years after Hilter youth
children decide to screw us as the new 
generation which skewer post present parental postulates 
to the oldster outhouse outlets so u can be "youf" free. Little
do they notknow as they cumulatively co opulate 
that they set the stooge stage for no thanx ahole actions. 
The DOS does'nt fall from the Apple tree. Leave it, 
love it, learn it while ye may, the kid crisp cosmos of
offspring social dicktates are biting at your heartbeatbit 
empty elmo enterprises. Pause parenatal prenatal
preferences prepearing perinatal persons pretasking
postnatal practices, in which you have veno papa preparation.
Think before you For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge and Analyze
your ass-incarnate initiate. Borrow berofe u basterdize, 
condomize before u copu culminate, decide before
u dicktate, envision before u envy, fail before u foil, 
grasp before u germinate, halt before u hinder, 
illuminate before u illerate, jump before u jinx, 
kill before u keep, love before u lay, meaning before
moaning, neutralize before u now, obilerate before
u ooops! presence before predicament, quit before
quake, resilience before ridiculous, sanity before
sexusensuality, thinkth before u thumpth, utilize
before u unionize, victory before victimization, we 
before want, xx nor xy, zen before zeal. Pocket 
passion files fly in the face of ruined reason residules
to the point of pronounced perplextion plagued 
prominantly with no recall references to problematic 
protocals for near north normalicies in my buckeye
life measures of simpatico silly symbiosis sublime
of mini me monophile mucous made misdemeanor
milktoast memories. Pass go, collect $200.



Long poem by Shahana Jackson | Details |

Drowning in a box of condoms

    I'm a virgin. 
 Yet I'm a peer educator 
  I teach people about sex
    and how to put on the condom.
    sometimes the irony does bother me
 There's an endless supply of condoms 
     in my custody daily yet I have no need for them
     You should see the eager faces of the kids  
    grabbing them out of boxes like their gods best made gift
      I can't share in their glory 
      all I can do is watch 
        I hate  watching
         I'm mostly a doer not a witness
         So in this case I just feel out of place
             out of context
              Lost? Not exactly
              Cause i'm not exactly a saint
                  I probably know more than the one's who are active
                   which makes the irony even more ridiculous. 
                        But I guess it's just that need to be in with the crowd 
                            The need to feel like I belong
                               Less and less virgin's hang around these parts
                                   I'm starting to feel like i'm the only one left
                                             like i'm waiting for nothing. 
                                                         The condom box is calling out to me
                                                          The multiple flavors tempt me to taste. 
                                                                     Yet i'm still me. Therefore i'm lame. 
                                                                     Therefore i'm waiting...
                                                                    For what i'm not even sure anymore.
                                                                    I though it was because I was looking for the right guy 
                                                                     Maybe i'm just inept in this area. 
                                                    LoL that's a laugh. My body knows I'd  be a champ.
                                                                  But it also listens to my head. 
                                                                               Maybe that's what's the problem.
                                                                               Who knows? 
                                                                All I know is that i'm drowning in a box of condoms. 


Long poem by Herbert Siao | Details |

Sketches 14

The young boy was pale, 
He walked slowly in the alley 
No. 41.His skeleton hand hold a rusted tin can. 
He was in business,for him it was. 

On his innocent face, 
In a modern world,who really forgotten 
Kids like him was also human too.His eyes 
Pasted on a piece of bread on the dirty pavement. 
On his side was tall buildings,on the other was a busy EDSA. 

A dove whose feather blacken by the third world metropolis, 
Peeped down from the lamp post, 
Measuring the distance of the bread on the ground 
Look at the child,inclining its head side ward, 
Then,their eyes meet,resting on each other stare 
Like eternity, 
And it flew toward the blinding sun. 

The boy saw a man approached, 
Polished shoes landed on his lunch 
The gold Rolex,tailored clothes,big ring, 
A heavy necklace hung loosely on beefy neck. 
Surprised on a sudden hand that raised on his way, 
"Move out!" bellowed angrily,then scurried quickly on a green traffic
 light. "Fool..."the boy sighed. 

Business is business,he thought,as he reached out the crushed bread 
Uttered a little prayer,ate it religiously with tears on his eyes. 
Every bite he remembered his little brother he left this morning
on their cartoon box house 
At Smokey Mountain outside Manila,its smoke ascend forever 
Till the end of time,because of the corrupt lordship in kings palace
His little brother burned at stake alive waiting for his pancit. 
His father was an inmate at Bilibid prison selda katorse (14)
His mother was a girl  in the street. 

Then an old woman came out at the Binondo Church. 
Walked briskly as the wind swept the dusk on summer days. 
Stopped,a discolored dirt hand spread for an alms. 
Irritated,she rummaged her purse,and gently place the one peso 
on the boys hand,made sure to slow her movement,maybe the rest 
Were looking at her, she raised her brow and smile
"Of course.", she said sweetly
Father hope will see this act she thought that
Might mention her name in homily,Mrs. Cerbo was kind to the poor. 
He spit the coin and swipe it on his dirty torn shirt 
And say..."God Blessed Maddame." 

Then he ran at the little Sari-sari store
Brought a piece of bread,break it into halves 
He hid his share on his  pocket 
Then tossed the half on the side walk
When the boy had gone, blue wing landed 
Ate with pride and thinking, "stupid boy..stupid boy..".


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