Best Anglers Poems
Some people think knots are for boy scouts and sailors
Cowboys, hangmen,Anglers and whalers
But knots have many jobs to do
To make this point I'll name a few
turning two heavy ropes into one?
The Carrick bend will get that done.
Do you need a loop at your rope's end?
On the figure eight you can depend.
Are you scaling walls of the steepest pitch?
You'ld be wise to perfect your Munter hitch.
Are you fishing one line, but wishing for two?
The Bimini twist can make that come true.
Please judge your knots by function and form
For if you tie them wrong
Your fish could be lost, Your boat could get tossed
Or your plummet could be mighty long
Here comes the judge contest
An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
Computer catfish anglers
Are out phising every second, day and night
Trawling the world wide web with baited hook
For innocent victims to catch
Internet sites such as Facebook and Twitter
Supply them with constant schools of fish
How easily they reel in trusting people with their deception
Can you be one hundred percent certain
A person behind the computer screen is for real?
Trolls don’t live under the bridge like in fairy tales
Fake profiles, false pictures and fraudulent names
Intended to disguise who they really are
Sadly some victims of their abuse resort to suicide
Hope these evil ‘catfish’ get caught and end up in court
Catfish Contest
Sponsored by Catie Lindsey
5/30/18
The eternal buzz of city anglers
brash, angry, hornets ever selling egos.
Shrieking anxiety laced, analog, syllables, idiotically.
Hoping against hope, urchins, desperations end,
strumming ancient chords in vain efforts,
praying evermore for ordained kindness's eye.
Telltale ubiquitous blighter's energetically begging on.
How on heaven's earth can anyone
begrudge absolution, hand out shackles instead.
The august city in full ultraviolet,
never ever satiated, each mouth open.
Raw as meat, uncooked, questionable, objectionable,
waiting on the angler's hook obediently.
People pass on foot or bike
Or skateboard, wheelchair, scooter,
While chatting, singing, texting
Via iPhone or computer.
While in the sky the birds take wing –
The pigeons, seagulls, sparrows,
A few in pairs as if they’d felt
The sting of Cupid’s arrows.
Beneath the river, I presume
Are lots of local fishes,
Which swim and rarely do fulfill
The anglers’ fervent wishes.
Between the bushes and the trees
The squirrels frisk and scurry
And sometimes mice or rats join in,
But always in a hurry.
A sunny day out in the park
With life around me teeming;
If not for masks on every face,
I’d think I might be dreaming.
Written: July 04, 2023
______________________________________________________________
A respected river, your holiness sublime.
Purifies within if we let your essence seep.
From the powerful mountains, you climb
Pious and deep, it cures thirst spirits, creep
We all joined in a loud wave of ovation.
Farmers and anglers exploit it commonly.
Before you slowly dyke into the ocean.
Your pristine oceans are just heavenly.
Favoring even those who have sinned.
I've begun to write a tale of keen people.
Your purity is lovely, a river so revered.
You arose from the depths of a steeple.
Quenching the thirst of souls, from the abyss.
Peasants and boatmen, united in bliss,
Your presence is a source of joy and peace.
As we gather along your banks, we find release.
But as you journey toward the endless sea,
Our hearts ache, as we agnize you must leave.
Yet your holiness remains, forever to foresee
Waters, so pure, cleanse our souls, we believe.
At the foot of the Elbow,
just above the Bow,
an angler drowned
his feet caught
in a shopping cart
split-cane rod still
firmly in his grasp.
On the Grand
just below the Gorge,
another died
opening weekend,
high water
few details are known.
At the Whirlpool
below Niagara Falls
bodies surface
sporadically
but few are anglers.
When I go, I hope
it’s in my waders
but miles of rivers
remain before
my rods pass
to you.
There was a time
Transcending times
Yesterday
Remembering a time
In a town like yours
A life like mine
In a world for all
It seemed so simple
then
Mother Earth
Larger than life
green fragrant
medows
azur sky's
Rivers running
trout
Anglers hoping
oceans bellowing
laughter
Everything was
Bigger
than life
Your love
Our family
Our friendship
A time of plenty
So it seemed
Has the world
changed
Maybe we have
Perhaps is just a
cycle
Or is
it......
All rights reserved
A camacho jr.
1996-2015
Corner of the pond
Myriad vegetation
Anglers paradise
MY SECRET RIVER
~~~~~~~~~~
Its source some distance from its end, highlands.
A little trickle meanders a mile.
Pure, full of many forms of life, no fish!
Now babbles over rocky ground, the brook,
widening, now with banks, sticklebacks, the fish.
Water still pure, a stream has formed, o joy.
Its banks not high, festooned with flowers, joy.
Now some miles from its source in the highlands.
A sunny summers day, the stream with fish,
high banks, kingfishers nesting every mile.
Faintly, on calm days, hark the babbling brook.
Approaching river size, otters swim with fish.
Still growing, flowing fast, the herons fish.
Through wonderland, glades and glens, total joy!
From a trickle to sticklebacks, a brook.
The stream now some ten miles from the highlands,
river now formed, splendour, mile after mile!
Rapids, mini falls, salmon, what a fish!
Aquatic life amazing, birds and fish.
Anglers banned, this river no strife for fish!
A wildlife sanctuary, a smile a mile,
how I wish wildlife could smile their joy.
Walked its length, the sweet call of the highlands.
Several miles upstream, distant is the brook.
Its source a memory, likewise the brook.
The stickleback such a dainty, cute fish,
must move downstream, cold the winter highlands.
All memories for me, the birds and the fish!
Fishing with just a worm, much childhood joy.
Frail now, lucky if I can walk a mile.
Collect smiles in my camera, mile on mile.
My favourite smile, the babbling tiny brook,
gurgling, rapping, o so full of joy.
Then I remember, salmon, what a fish,
its leaping rapids, such power in a fish.
Tonight again I'll dream the highlands.
The highlands, many secret trickle mile,
some fish were found in the cool babbling brook.
The fish found downstream o what pure joy
There’s a fish that lives inside my head,
The bigger he grows the more he gets fed.
And when anglers come to take a look,
They dangle their worms on a fishing hook.
Or they toss him bits and bites of bread,
Which makes him grow and expands my head.
And he longs to swim with fish in the sea,
But here he remains stuck inside of me.
But now he’s grown too big today,
And there’s enough to be a filet.
Cutting him down makes him easier to swallow,
But like a puffer fish they’ll find him hollow.
Now where there once floundered a whale,
Is left a little minnow to grab by the tail.
Have you ever felt the magic
when you're standing by the sea?
The rise and fall of ocean swells
Sublime serenity
In the morning's salty air
the working boats leave port
and anglers keen on fishy fare
go looking for some sport
The seabirds wheel and flap and cry
as dawn breaks overhead
but all these sights and sounds are lost
to those still tucked in bed
The tinkling of the rigging
of the yachts out on the bay
a gentle way of waking
in the first new light of day
The morning sun comes peeping through
a drifting bank of cloud
and on the beach, so empty now
will come a bustling crowd
The small boats now all set to sea
their sails so clean and bright
they jibe and tack across the wind
on which they seem so light
The afternoon now still and warm
there's naught but time to pass
the racing yachts all sit becalmed
upon a sea of glass
With evening come the twinkling lights
from far across the bay
a gentle breeze to cool the land
the closing of the day
Until tomorrow's light breaks through
I bid the sea 'farewell'
But in my dreams I fall asleep
upon the ocean swell.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
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 heavy pouring rain has soaked right through my coat
Eyes peeled, alert, despite the odds, I fish my chosen spot
The Brolly that I thought I'd packed is one that I forgot!
The Net I Have brought with me lies unused and at my side
I tell myself, I'll catch one soon and many more beside
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
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
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 seems pointless and insane
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 is 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
A whispering word is a whispering void cantering over airspace. Clear but unclear. Oh the sheer detectable ideology of the fungal worm. Chitter chatter consume. Consumption is the eruption. And like a fine wine to a palate leaves no bereft anarchical wonderful wound. It leaves only a blemish you see. Wipe away and wield and wield. Surely only in a field is one golden shard shirt obtained through an era of cataclysmic canals. And now the peace of the sound injects and vibrates the atmosphere with simple yet symbolic and symmetrically placed soul speak. And so medicine is delivered to the gatherings at many a synchronization and talking cannot halt the dosage. And idle is the bows that do not shout or shoot. And to interrupt a single layer of brain peanut style is to merely swim backstroke against a myrtle current of which is called time. Collaborative collisions then. Good. Youthful digestive tunnels but as yet no turrets. Bouncing booming boogie bongos. Waves of impassive moods.magically magic majestic morphological moods. Xxxxxx ever since a baa comes an array.........savour not a salt and salute no angel for angel is an angel and anglers waltz in a very highly driven snow. So hahahahaha lumps of pressure means a tyre washing in progress....hahahaha mean not a mingle....hahahaha elevated eon.....hahaha and hohoho honourable hideous hundred xxxxxx inconspicuous..z
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.