Best Bobber Poems
Going fishing with a cane pole and
a can of worms and hooks and a
bobber too Down at the fish-
ing hole there stand a might-
y oak the best place to
fish and lie in
the shade of
the big
oak
Down at the old fishing hole that dad
and grandpa fished at before
me is the best place on earth
Specially on a hot
summers day to fish
and swim and lie
in the shade
of the
tree
Summer is the time for fun Playing
with friends going swimming and
fishing at the best place in
the world is the old swim-
ming and fishing hole
It has been there
for a hun-
dred years
FUN
His long cane pole limber and perfect,
Patiently waiting, his eye on the bobber
For his prey, he has the utmost respect,
The big fish almost becoming his cobber.
He’d seen it swim among the rocks alone
Unmindful of its nemesis on the bank
The water clearer, he could see the stone,
He longed to hook it firmly, give it a yank.
Four times before he’d watched it feed
Once in the rocks, thrice in the shallows
A great catch it would surely fulfill a need
To cement his place among his fellows,
But the sun now approaching mid-morn
Signaled he was too late to catch today,
Beaming on the fisherman with scorn
No prize catch would there be to filet.
Written August 15, 2022
You are about to enter another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A wondrous land whose boundaries are those of imagination; Your next step- The Twi-Light Zone.
Sometime in the year 2024, in a small town called "Dreamer's Lake" an old man sat on a bench that rest on the corner of the lake that gave the town its name. It was a beautiful sunny spring afternoon; the sun was bright, and the lake was mirrored and still. It was the old man's favorite place to go, and he went there every day because it brought him back great memories of his childhood. He and his pals would fish there all day from dawn to dusk or until the lights went out. I see the old man always there with his can of worms and his antique style bamboo fishing pole, the kind that had no reel just fishing line attached to the tip and a bobber and a hook. He was very old and there were times when I passed him by that I noticed the bobber going down, but his sight was so poor he never knew it. Besides having poor sight, he usually fell asleep and had no idea he had a fish on his line. I watched him every day, but on this particular beautiful sunny spring afternoon, with the sun shining bright and the lake mirrored and still, the old man saw his bobber go down. As I watched him with his huge smile- I shouted, "Bring him in Old Man, bring him in" But the old man must have been as deaf as he was blind because he never acknowledged me. In fact, he just sat there with his eyes open holding his fishing pole looking like he was daydreaming and asleep with his eyes open.
He dreamt a dream with eyes awake
As he sat alone 'round Dreamer's Lake
He dreamt that he was in the crowds
Of white-winged angels above the clouds
Watching himself, near his death
Gasping, panting for his last breath
Watching, waiting for his eyes to close
To get his wings when his heart slows
Above the clouds he went to be
But when he died, who died...was me
Dreamer's Lake, a place of thought and mind.
A place where old men go.
A place to dream a dream.
A place where only dreams like this take place.
A place called- "The Twi-Light Zone"
Motor is nudged to life in an arcing motion, arm pulling
cord. Vein-furrowed hands grasp the fishing pole,
slinging bait and tackle beneath one arm. Another
arcing motion, arm casting pole. Bobber spins
a helicopter course through sun-nipped air.
Loons call a soulful greeting, the moans of centuries'
separated lovers in mourning. Time trickles through
the notes of their songs. Meanwhile, bass glide
with their loud-mouthed sass,
perch and blue gills play tag. A lone
blue heron bills the murky depths for lunch.
Man baits his hook, readjusts his hat. Eyes squint
into the dark undertones of the pond. He casts
his pole, a fermata in the song of the loons. When this man
was a boy, he drove the spires of the Rocky Mountains,
frequented the five-and-dime, nuzzled
a nightly routine next to his wife, who mothered six children, raised
in a house far away from any pond. They bustled themselves
along through school as well as any fish pouncing on
supper-flies, dabbing napkins to the corners
of their mouths. This fisherman sliced their steak, knotted their ties,
held their hands crossing the street
until they were old enough to
mail college resumes,
pay for first dates.
Five years,
fifteen years,
thirty-two years and here is Granddad,
with his child's toddler learning to walk in the bowed
belly of his fishing boat. They stumble,
clanging clumsy feet on the metal, frightening
the fish away. The old man bends low,
a note in the song of the loons.
He places the toddler on two feet, guides her hesitant steps,
each pendulum swing carrying them a moment
further toward separation. In twelve years, the grown child
bends low, a note in the song of the loons, to kiss her
grandfather's forehead, as he casts off on his helicopter
course of afterlife.
Hook, Line and Sinker
I went fishing by myself today
It is not something I normally do
I like to sit by the water’s edge
Watching the light reflect off the blue
Yes I like the fishing part
The hook, line, sinker, bobber and worm
And just in case I get a bite
I have a grip on the pole that is firm
I can’t think of a better thrill
Then to see the bobber go down
I try to remember all that you said
To make that fish land aground
But whatever has taken the bait
Is not coming in like I thought
It has other ideas in mind
I can tell you that fish really fought
Finally after quite a while
The fish gave up the fight
I was tired clear to the bone
But oh my what a beautiful sight
Twenty pounds at least I thought
I envisioned catfish filets all around
It got it close up to the bank when I heard
The most terrible horrible sound
I lost my hook line and sinker
The sound was the twang of my fishing line
The catfish saw me up close and left
And destroyed my vision of catfish divine
Connie Moore
Long trips we would take
As we awake another day
Grab our poles and head to the lake
For this is a day we surely have to make
My grandpa puts on his lucky hat
As I look at the map
So many places to fish
So we have supper on our dish
We head out on a sunny day
With no hurtful words to say
We start the boat up right away
With nothing but sun shinning our way
I take a seat by my grandpa as he drives
Smile as we reminisce about our lives
Yep just me and my grandpa on the lake today
And everything shall go our way
Come to a slow stop
I jump up as my pole drops
With a slight swing I cast my string
Waiting for the dinner bell to ring
Starring at my bobber with hope
Hours go by without a mope
Until finally I see a little action
From my reel I feel traction
My line tightens up
As I smile and take a drink from my cup
My grandpa turns to me and smiles
“You got one there my child“?
I jump up and whip my pole to the air
As my grandpa looks at me in care
I finally hooked one
But my work isn’t done
Reel in slowly he says
As happy thoughts enter my head
Will this be my first catch
This fish is a perfect match
I finally reel in a big one
My work is done
With a smile on his face
He takes my picture just in case
I the fisherman wait patiently by
For patience I developed
Back when I cried
My stalking is simplistic
I have what they like
I only spring into action
When the bobber sinks from sight
My poll bends
The fight is on
I the fisherman smile at the fun
A whooper
Perhaps a whale
Tis a grand endeavor
And a grander tale I will tell
Oh sweet patience
What golden rewards in-store for me
As I the fisherman wait so patiently
When summer's in the meadow
and the bluebird's on the wing,
I love the simple pleasures
that a country morn can bring.
Then all the world's a cane pole
with a bobber and a line,
the catfish are a jumpin'
and all I have is time.
My back against a willow tree
the clouds float softly by,
the wind is gentle on the pond
as it mirrors the summer sky.
With bated breath and baited hook
I love the joy it brings
when summer's in the meadow
and the bluebird's on the wing.
I watched the old man mosey to his favorite fishing spot.
Ahead of him his faithful dog capered at a lively trot.
No fancy fishing lures for him, just a simple bamboo pole,
And a can of worms as content he seemed in heart and soul!
Settling in the welcome shade of a spreading oak,
He lit his pipe for a pleasurable afternoon smoke.
His old dog lay contentedly at the old man's feet.
What a life! How could it be any more complete!
At fishing the old fellow was extremely deft.
Why, he was pulling them in right and left!
With all the expensive lures that I had at hand,
Not one consarned fish did I ever land!
As the sun waned he lay back and took off his shoes,
To savor his usual afternoon snooze.
Imagine my dismay as his bobber danced about!
(Why can't I reel in some of those wily trout?)
As the sun settled in the west he called it a day.
(Alas, I still hadn't had a nibble, I must say!)
He waved asking, "How's your fishin' luck been?"
"Not a bite" I replied, much to my chagrin!
Placed No. 1 in Paula Swanson's "The Allure Of A Lure Is Alluring" Contest - Apr 2012
An old pond full of plops
with jumping fish and Bobber drops
From my pole, As I cast a line
I sit to watch the clouds blow by
A snapping turtle rises up
His leathery head, like a log
He takes a breathe then slips below
A trail of bubbles as he goes
And the frogs leap to and from
Singing songs of clicks and croaks
"Spring peepers" we used to call
For they announce the winters thaw
Even the trees now seem alive
Their woody branches stretching high
Towards the sun to soak it in
Their leaves rustling with the wind
The grasses along its outer flanks
Drift and flow like green sea waves
And wild flowers wave hello
As bumble bees feed on nectar flows
Today's a day I meant for work
But changed my mind and off I took
To sit beside this old pond
Of which I've grown so very fond
Teaching me how to put on the hook and bait,
He would cast it for me and then we'd wait
With three other kids he would go and help them too,
We would sit and watch for what bobbers do
Up and down the bobber would go,
We'd be so excited and let everyone know
Telling them we had a fish at the end of the line,
Reeling it in would take some time
Dad would want to help, but I'd say no,
This was a chance for all he had taught to show
Finally after what seemed like such a long while,
The fish hits land and I break into a smile
Mom says, "Hold up your fish!", and a picture she snaps,
This memory forever saved in a shutter and flash.
The Prize
The bobber floats, but when it dips, my heart skips for hooked lips. The line tightens, the tug is strong, I reel in. The fight is on. It's a tug of war, an uncooperative catch, an unoiled hinge you sometimes won't budge. I grab my net and it's like you know. Deeper you go, but I won't lose you. Slow and steady, I wear you out. You break through the water's surface like a newborn from the womb. You are born again, gasping for familiarity. My thumb in your mouth I snap a photo! Shiny scales, and stiff fins, your ancient beauty is mesmerizing. I'm hypnotized, caught in the moment, trapped by present time. No future. No past. No watches, clocks, or calendars. Just me and you. My prize. Then I realize.
I thought it was the fish, but it's merely a wish, to be connected. A primal need for Mother Nature to wrap me in her earthy foliage and soothe my urban lungs with her fresh rural air. To hear an orchestra of crispy insects buzz and feathered friends chirp, the forest is a song that never stops playing. The reds, oranges, yellows, purples and greens. The wildflowers cover the ground like an old fashioned quilt. Their sweet smelling nectar teases the nostrils with odorous pleasure. A painter's pallet, a living canvas surrounds me. A Groundhog munches, a squirrel races up the tree, a woodpecker pecks. Was that a mink? An otter? I think so, as a deer stares at me from the distance. You could have called she appears to say. I smile. I know. I'm aware. To feel small is too feel tall. All questions can be answered in the woods. It's the journey, not the catch.
I release you. Back in the water you swim, and I exhale.
I used to fish from the banks of a lake next to our farm
many many years ago. My fishing gear consisted
of a thin branch cut from a willow tree. For a hook
I used a needle my mom gave me. I would use pliers
and hold it over a fire.
Then I would bend it to form a hook. For a line, I would
use white sewing thread. For bait, I would use mom’s
cookie doe and shaped small balls and place them on my home-made hook.
I remember the blue green water of the lake where one
could drink without fear of contaminants. I would
use a match stick for a bobber and caught numerous perch and crappy. Mom would clean them and cook them in lard she made herself.
Life was simple then. Dad and Mom were always together and would often held hands as they walked to the grocery store. The air was so clean and pure that breathing was like inhaling nature. I would listen to the silence and my thoughts
were so clear and simple. I knew who I was and where I came from.
Oh, how I miss those carefree days.
I sure am missin' fishin'
Sittin' by a stream
A cooler full of colas
Livin' out a dream
The gentle, lazing waters
Slowly driftin' by
I watch my bobber floatin'
And I can only sigh
I reel it in and cast again
Against the currents flow
Then settle back to watch it drift
With dangling bait below
I stare up at the clouds above
And hum a little tune
When time is right, I'll eat a bite
Probably 'round noon
Again I reel my line in
To check upon my bait
To see if I still had some
Or see if it was ate
When day is done at settin' sun
I pack my things away
I go to pick my rod up
When suddenly, "OH, HEY!"
The rod was bent like crescent moon
Engaging tug of war
The battle raged twixed fish and me
From water to the shore
When I became the victor
I grabbed him by the mouth
And held him high for me to see
Then something came about
How could I have done this?
I set a baited hook
For unsuspecting innocence
Whose life I nearly took
I held it up once more
And looked at it with pride
I didn't fish from hunger
So I won't be why he died
I did it for the sport
Like boxers in the ring
I kissed him and I let him go
Back into the stream
That being done I gave a smile
Knowin' I did right
I loaded all my gear up
And drove into the night
Rockman :-)
Lightening bugs flash,
like the worn celluloid images of old movies,
I sit beneath a great Greta Garbo moon.
I am the heroine of this short.
The dew point drops,
Mists rise.
Crickets chirp.
Muskwats buzz.
Loons ululate and wail.
My dialogue,
The click and whir of my spinning reel.
The glug-glug-glug of the Hula Popper lure.
To prepare for the climax,
Bring out the proven method acting.
I taste the dirt on my fingers,
Licking and twisting monofilament.
The savory sign of night-crawler trails.
Add the bobber, the weight.
I smell the algae and rotting leaves.
The sweet stew of the lake.
My nose tingles from the life motes it captures.
I cast.
This night, I ad-lib.
There never was a script,
No stupid fish.
Fade to Me,
The Garbo moon,
Clever fish,
Loon interlude.