humuhumu, a fish,
nukunuku, a snout,
a, like, and, pu-a'a, pig,
pineapple princess breaks,
the spell of, sweet fish prince;
sweet prince and princess are one.
Caught fish, ebb tide.
Shared dish, pan fried.
9/ 20 / 2025.
catching a fish is easy
getting the hook out of the mouth not so much
I feel guilty
wondering how much pain they are in
feeling sad
while at the same time
wanting to cut their head off
so those fish eyes will stop accusing me
I thought I had seen koi fish before, but nothing like this
Owned by an eccentric widow whose koi fulfilled her wish
their brilliant oranges were a lovely contrast to green lily pads
I could not tell if I was looking at baby fish, mamas or dads
The koi were all beautiful, they made a fine contrast to the water
You are a lucky woman, I said to our town’s favorite daughter
She is generous with her money, her resources and her time.
We know she can be counted on for much more than a dime.
They are my babies, she said, delighted at my appreciation.
They were gorgeous, their colors as brilliant as any in our nation.
The koi knew I was watching and did tricks to show off a bit.
I will never forget my visit to the koi pond of Mrs. DeWitt
THE JOY OF FISHING
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rods in hand, fisherman stand,
the weight of the world drifting away,
each cast—a gentle surrender,
their lines dancing over glassy reflections.
Dragonflies flit, their wings catching fire,
their laughter carries on the warm breeze,
echoing in the space where time softens,
and worries drift like clouds above.
Oh, the thrill of the tug,
the sudden pulse beneath the surface,
every nibble a promise,
every catch—a moment suspended.
stars emerge, shy and trembling,
the fishermen reel in not just the fish,
but memories woven into the fabric of night;
they pause, lost in the joy of fishing
Summertime
in Louisiana's Big Easy
bass are jumpin'
and the cypress grow high
no your daddy ain't rich
but your ma's not bad-lookin'
so fish a little bayou
won't you try
some of these evenings
they're gonna rise up flyin'
and they'll spread their wings
as pelicans take to the sky
but 'til next mornin'
there ain't no one can charm you
like Acadians or Cajun standin' by
With apologies to Edwin DuBose Heyward (1885 — 1940)
Osprey scans waters
Swoops fish caught for young in nest -
Natural food chain
4 am
fishing hole magic
I am with my daddy
catfish, bass and bluegills are calling our names
we are the only ones alive
The rain came down,
The pond overflowed
Through village paths.
The fishes, reared with patient care
Swarmed to freedom.
They darted through rills and drains,
Caught in casting nets,
Some speared in the yards,
Where rushing streams swept by.
The farmer, with hurried stride
Through drains and rills,
Tried to catch fish,
Casting his gaze with weary aim,
Pondering where the fishes gone .
Cookiecutter Shark
Deep in the ocean, where shadows reside,
A small, sleek hunter, with nowhere to hide.
The cookiecutter shark, a name so absurd,
For a creature whose bite is truly assured.
No great white's terror, no hammerhead's might,
But a circular cut, in the dark of the night.
With a mouth like a scoop, and teeth sharp and keen,
It carves out its meals, a remarkable scene.
From whales to tuna, no creature is safe,
From the alien mark, a peculiar chafe.
A perfect round wound, left on muscle and skin,
A testament to where the small hunter has been.
It lurks in the deep, a cryptic design,
A parasite predator, truly divine.
So next time you swim in the ocean so wide,
Remember the cookiecutter, and where it might hide.
Good day for Huckleberry Finn
sporting a big proud grin.
Cast and caught a real winner,
he's taking it home for dinner.
Quote:"Lurking in stone’s shadow, quietly flows a fleeting saga of heroism.
And I, too, swim like that koi—through stillness, I traverse time in contemplation. " --- Zen thought
In the jade-mirrored stillness, scales ripple like silent sutras,
Broidered ghosts of light drifting beneath stone and shadow.
Each breath of water carries a hush—a teaching unspoken,
Inviting the mind to rest in the ebb of being and non-being.
A single red mark, bright as a lantern in deep quiet,
Breaks the surface of calm—a spark of courage in stillness.
Here, the koi becomes memoir of perseverance—the ancient river’s echo of transformation,
Softly urging, "Continue beyond the current, and become."
Beneath moss-fingered rocks, time flows in slow meditation,
Every ripple a lesson, every current a silent koan.
The fish, with graceful intent, glides through root and reflection,
An embodiment of Zen’s paradox: movement within stillness.
And so I am koi in the mirrored pond—seeking and serene—
My heart a tracing of curves on water’s face,
Finding in each quiet stroke the eternal in the ephemeral,
Swimming not to arrive, but simply to become luminous.
You stand with your suitcase like a buoy,
bright, bobbing in the shallows,
and I am the pier—
rooted, barnacled, smelling of old salt and rope.
You tell me you’ll stay
if I keep my hands wrapped round your ankles,
but I know the tide you carry in your ribs.
Even on windless days
it pounds against my palms,
shouting for the open mouth of the horizon.
The gap is a sandbar—
we could walk there together,
let our knees sink into its damp skin,
pretend it will hold us longer than a season.
But I have seen what happens
when the sea grows impatient.
It chews through land like bread,
swallows the footprints before we can name them.
I want to say go after the storm has passed,
when our nets are mended,
when the gulls return to roost in my hair.
But your moon is full now.
It pulls at your water
even when you swear it won’t.
And I—
I cannot anchor you
without learning how to drown.
I have been watering it for months—
the small black bulb in the cupboard
that I never let touch sunlight.
It swelled in the dark,
fed on steam from my cooking breath,
fat with the whispers I never spoke aloud.
I told myself it was only a seed,
a pebble in soil, nothing more.
I would open the door,
look at it once, and close it—
like checking the locks before bed.
It learned the shape of my glances.
But today, I reached in.
Today, I held it in my palm.
Its skin was slick as a fish
and when I pulled, the roots screamed up from the earth,
all tendon and white hair,
and the cupboard air smelled of rust.
You said it casually—
your mouth arranging the words
like setting a cup down on a table.
As if the syllables were a button
popped from a shirt, no one’s fault.
I felt my chest open—
not like a door,
but like a letter slit with a knife.
Paper-heart curling, bleeding ink.
You were already talking about something else,
your voice trailing petals across the floor.
I sat very still,
the bulb still in my hand,
its black head beating against my pulse.
I did not crush it.
I only held it tighter
until my fingers forgot they could let go.
tadpoles in the stream
swimming zigzag everywhere
frogs are soon to be
Related Poems