Friends, Haven'T You Any Fish

The best poetry stays silent and deep It cries for attention below still waters Each one melting into oceans weeping I still fish poorly in infinity’s pool With no reward that satisfies How the fishees goad me cruelly Titles of poems swim beneath Above this captain surrendering Then fragments of stanzas bequeath I take in my morning catch Fillet and debone them into lines Till the blade parse thoughts My unskilled lines always snap But the hours in between recede Tugging fruitlessly my line's gaps The more I go fishing with a net Tempting manic thoughts gather Inspire me as Jesus did to Peter The best poetry needs no hook Leave the white whale port side Cast starboard into faith’s pools But I doubt the Lord’s mastery Bereft without empty nets or baits I dive without wit into the mystery If I pull up a catch each dour day Perhaps I will tire of idle fishing Careless of a spare haul turning gray I’ll hang tunas and shrimps on a board Hoping not to care if poems are unsold Catching and releasing every word Becoming a fine fishmonger fishing his soul ** Sorry for the deluge of poems. I'm trying to write a poem a day this month just to hammer down each poem straighter. I'm obsessive about getting it just right and hating nails that stick out.