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New Cod Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Cod poems are below this new poems list.

Herring Run at Cape Cod Canal by kerttula, judith
Cape Cod by pederson, doug
Big Fella Cod by Anderson, John
Cod Fish Stew by Macfarlane, Cecilia
Cod by Stroh, Uwe
On a cod cold winter night by NEWAN, SHARLOTTE
I Hab a Cod by Johnson, Joyce
Cod Fish in Australia inland by JOHNSON, DON
Honest to Cod by Inka, Joe
COD: Call Of Duty by Johnston, Tyrone

View all new Cod Poems

The Best Cod Poems

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The Guise Of The Blue Jay Skies




F l y i n g a sailing tailwind in cerulean streams through beams colored creamsicle - are wings reflective of turquoise truth and the white purity of Autumn’s ether - he aviates a clear troposphere riding an unbridled capricious and combative boreas on the cusp of a new season ~ with a plumage infusion of shifting Cape Cod skies the blue jay mixes hues with the Northern azure - that fades to shades of turmoil to the South and East - becoming lost in its milky breadth its lilting light its dimming depths where the edge of rustic rural meets the ridge of conifers crooked twisted and back-bent from gales of salt-sprayed sorcery bold bluster - leading the charge of a cold sapphire crest - is bedeviled by the raw tongue-lashing spin of a brooding onshore flow twirling a brewing brawl whirling in slate pearlescent space s w i r l i n g with the dusky feistiness of stormy petrels - mobs of darkening fog fatten on summer’s fainty surrender ...leftover tints of tender cornflower and hints of dainty dove.. there’s a sparkle in the eye of the storm - as his mischievous black gaze mirrors the harsh harbinger of commotion clash and change - his piercing ‘jay-jays’ jab at the maddening mayhem of menacing air with the emerald-needled sharpness of wind-weary pitch pines anchoring the beige of coastal dunes - - where his refractive blues take cover in colorful contrast ahead of the bruising October nor’easter Susan Ashley November 2, 2018 _________________________ Poem Of The Day November 4, 2018


Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2018


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The Narwhal Song

~The Narwhal Beckons Before Dawn~

   If I could sing a song,
   It wouldn't be just any song.
   I would sing a song about a fish
   A fish who is not a fish, but a whale
   Not just any whale, A Narwhal

This night I'll sing a short song of a whale
Dancing under the moonlight dusk
Swimming with ivory tusk, underwater musk
Rising to the morning glory in the sky
Communicating with the waves
Squealing around, 
Trilling and clicking supersonic sounds

   If I could tell you a tale
   It wouldn't be just any tale
   I would tell you a tale of a fish
   A fish who is not a fish, but a whale
   Not just any whale, A Narwhal

Grayish brown, 
White freckled belly crown
Elusive and mysterious
Without the Arctic water, I'll get delirious
A rare whale, with a tooth for a hoot
Enjoying shrimp, squid, and fish food
Taking care of the young, 
I swim in pods all day long
I' stay away from what consumes my cod
Polar bears, orca whales and native spear
My greatest fear and nightmares.

   If I could share some words
   It wouldn't be just any words.
   I would share some words about a fish
   A fish who is not a fish, but a whale
   Not just any whale, A Narwhal

Deep, down the ocean odyssey
My beliefs and skin peel easily 
With a tear, I drown
When called "The Underwater Unicorn"
My words are naught more than a sad song I sing
A tale of a whale not just any whale, A Narwhal
The next time you go out to sea
Looking for blubber and ivory
Please don't look at me!
For I am just a Narwhal 
And, I belong to the sea

~*~
09/15/2015
Contest: Any Poem You Ever Wrote NOT For A Contest
Sponsor: Broken Wings


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2015


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THEY DON'T BITE LIKE THEY USED TO

He sat there in his fav'rite chair, a blanket 'cross his lap 
And covering his snow white hair was his old fishing cap. 
I knew he could not talk to me since suffering the stroke, 
But still I sensed he could relate to ev'ry word I spoke. 
"I went and wet a line today ... down where you caught that cod. 
The biggest one you'd landed yet and though it was my rod 
I reckon he was yours all right ... but cod are far and few.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"The algae's building up again and stuffing up the creeks, 
Though at long last we had a fresh, the first in flam’in weeks. 
Pulled twenty stinking euros in, along with one old dew, 
But they had sores all over them, though still that's nothing new. 
The cotton farmers cry, "Absurd!  It can’t be from our spray." 
Perhaps the fish have just got aids from turning flam'in gay. 
Its getting pretty sad all right, but what can one bloke do.   
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
"McDonalds seems to be the go and good old KFC 
And eating yellow-belly is a flam'in rarity.   
Your grandson won't go fishing as he says it's just for nerds 
And when I take the missus we just end up having words. 
I really miss our fishing trips, your company was swell 
And by the mist there in your eyes you miss them dad as well. 
I heard you sold your tinny mate, your outboard motor too.  
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 
 
They're introducing fingerlings and giving that a shot, 
But duckweed takes the oxygen which kills the flam'in lot. 
The droughts have had their toll as well and one thing that's for sure; 
I can't see in the future dad a remedy or cure. 
So mum's ducked down to Salty's mate and I would dare a punt 
She'll come back with a feed of fish before you say Rex Hunt. 
I guess we'll have to wash it down with some of your home brew. 
They don't bite like they used to dad.  They don't bite like they used to." 



Copyright © Merv Webster | Year Posted 2005


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Wonderful worthing Promenade part 2

Candy floss, seaside rock, smoothies, and flags sporting
Union Jacks
Replace the old traditions of striped deckchairs 
And Kiss-Me-Quick hats.
Chipwicks for our salt and vinegar fries
And their pole-and-line freshly caught local Cod;
The Vintners Parrot: For thick sizzling steaks,
Cabernet Sauvignon, roasted hams cut high off the hog.

Grandads wearing knotted handkerchiefs, their pleated trousers
Rolled up to their knees,
Splashing with squealing little children 
Who squabble and inhale upon the bracing sea breeze.
Linos, gritty blankets, wicker picnic hampers,
Out of reach - forever lost - far bobbing balls;
Whilst over it all: The song of the swelling sea
With its constantly reverberating roars.

Red parboiled fathers of odd shapes and all sizes
Squeezed into ill-fitting string vests;
Lumpy roly-poly mothers in one-piece bathers,
Highly irritated - doing their very vexed best!
For in the absence of pollinating plants, flowering bushes
And budding trees:
A droning procession hovering across your checkered tableclothes -
Swarming across sugared cakes, potted meats and creamed cheese.

Little George thrashes away with his crabbing net;
Maisy, beside herself, aboard the plodding donkeys slow, agitated gait;
Great aunty Mabel daintly glowers, and then -
Demands the absolute necessity of reclining prostrate!
Punch swings his cruel bat at Judy;
Fat old uncle Phil gives a loud gluttonous snore;
His long past-caring wife of forty years turns her back to him...
Reopening her paperback romance on page twenty four.

Lashings of mountainous vanilla Cornish heaped onto a crisp
Yellow cone;
The decorated sandcastle competitions: Adorned strange starfish, seaweed hung, 
Complete with available cutlery brought from the home.
Just evocative memories are jolly August-Bank-Holidays once played out 
Over this tremulous sounding stage...
Now: only the anglers, the joggers and cycling keep-fitters...
Marking-time throughout electronic clicks from loudly brazen, flashing arcades.

Half-oval shaped Lido cafe for morning coffee:
Bring the fidgeting kiddies - bring the dog.
Beech house fronted terrace for live nightly music -
Excellent southern brewed ales of cold frothy amber grog.
And if in your ambles your appetite has been well whetted 
By the smells from a flotilla of mouth watering fares:
Coast Cafe De Artistes just east of splashpoint -
Seaside bistro of the most "de la extraordinaire"!

Austere gas lamps flicker to awaken in the groping twilight
As dimming outlines begin to hurriedly fade;
Black asphalt drifts into the distance of your lost horizons -
Thus witness the charming elegance of nightly Parisian masquerade.
The drawing radiators are starting to bang and gurgle;
Chambermaids pull firmly across upon splendid silken cords...
When the stiff colonel tops up with another whisky and soda -
And the Storm petrel over beautiful Worthing promenade twitters and calls!



            (.....Oh how i so very much adore you magnificent old Worthing town!! )



Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2015


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Care of Heaven

Hello dear friend – so – what’s new?
Tell me - How have you been?
There’s so much I want to share with you
But I hardly know where to begin

The news from here’s both good and bad
But life can be like that, I suppose
Most things are going well, though we’re all still sad
When we’ll be through missing you - no one knows

Are you an Angel looking down on me?
Or have you become part of eternity?

This letter will travel very far
By air-mail – on the wings of a dove
She’ll turn left at the Northern Star
Watch for her flying high above
With an envelope addressed “Care of Heaven”
I’ve sent it to you, with my love 

Tell me - do you slumber, do you still dream?
Can you float on clouds all day long?
Have they got more than 31 flavors of ice cream?
Does a harp now accompany you in song?

Have you ever seen the face of God?
Are the streets truly paved with gold?
Do you spend your summers in Cape Cod
Head for Tahiti when the weather turns cold?

I know it’s silly to go on this way 
But I wish you were with me today

This letter will travel very far
By air-mail – on the wings of a dove
She’ll turn left at the Northern Star
Watch for her flying high above
With an envelope addressed “Care of Heaven”
I’ve sent it to you, with my love 

Sometimes, at the end of the day
I think I hear you softly say:
“I’m still here - I haven’t gone away”
Is that my heart playing tricks on me?

Remember that park  - the one with the pine trees?
It’s as beautiful as it was back then
Whenever I visit I have sweet memories 
And pray that we’ll see each other again 

And so, dear friend, you’ll always be missed
I seal this envelope with a kiss 

This letter has traveled very far
By air-mail – on the wings of a dove
I’ll think of you always, wherever you are
And picture you somewhere high above
Happy to be in the Care of Heaven
Enfolded in infinite love



Copyright © Corinne Curcio | Year Posted 2010


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My Little Red Corvette

Sugar drops and colored gumballs,
An open skyline, an open convertible, and a white ragtop!
Black Perrelis, red caps, and spoked mag-frames,
Pacific Coast Highway, and her stairway to heaven!

A thousand charged horses on pure octane!
My deliverance, black rock cod, and pink champagne!
Her deliverance, Pacific Coast Highway, a stairway to heaven, and romance!
A storybook weekend, and my little red Corvette!

A white and pink plumeria flower, above the ear, and a few warm tears!
Matchbox, Hot Wheels, tracks and tracks, and Dad's Road and Track!
Boys and their silly toys, lost quarters, lost dimes, lost rhymes, and lost innocence!
Those magnificent men in their flying machines!

Liquid sunshine, Turtle Wax, Palmolive, and the softest hands!
Kid's glove leather, hands on leather, and zero to sixty in three or more!
Golden Gate Bridge lit at midnight, and Los Angeles rocking to soft jazz!
My little red Corvette, and my Mother's good sense!

An arching rainbow, a hidden valley, a tree house on Kauai!
From Grand Canyon, to Waimea Canyon, to tea with Diane Canyon!
Charley's Angels, Mae West, Some Like It Hot, from Twiggy to Marilyn Monroe!
Hey Joe DiMaggio, hey Mickey Mantle, hey Smoking Joe!

Pacific Coast Highway on any Sunday afternoon, and my choice of fresh fish!
From pink champagne, to Zinfindel, On Her Majesty's Secret Service!
Sean Connery at midnight, Mr. James Bond and a Russian scientist in love!
My little red Corvette, Hans Christian Anderson, and A Christmas Carol!


Copyright © Thomas Hsi | Year Posted 2017


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Pig a billa

Pig a billa Good tucker is ol pig-billa, Porcupine Echidna hey, Favourite food of Aboriginals, Has him own spears anyway, Track him cross the hot red sand, Which way does he go, today, Claws on his back legs are a pointing, Where he come from, there we say, Dead possum hanging oer the water, Maggots falling soon they may, Yellow belly sucks em sorta, Big ol Cod could eat em hey, Marbuk silent as a Gum-tree, Waits with fishing plurry spear, See the flash of yella-belly, see, Him on the coals to sear! Swish of killer boomerang, As the wild ducks leave the water, Pelted as a hundred swam, Got a Shag hook nosed just sorta, Break-em wing as it leaves the water, Bloody tough meat make you chew, Yarraman is a horse you see, Milinbri beast of cattle, be, Crocodile he waits for you, Don’t swim where he will maybe chew, After the death roll kills you, oughta, Fresh meat ol tourist brought ya, To Cape York for interview. Ole Croc can get you too! Sidestep this frenzy slaughter…. Whatever ya bloody do. Ole Johnson the reporter …Don


Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2013


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Gift of the Sea

From Scrabster harbour we set
Sea fishing we go
Off Dunnett Head
Dinghy in tow
 
A few hours we sail
To reach the spot
To hunt our catch
Check my lobster pots
 
This Pentland firth 
Flowing blue and fresh
With our deep sea rods
Various baits, spinning meps
 
Along the way
Some pots we check
Crustacean grab
Lobster and dab
 
Destination reached
Our fishing ground
Sounder on 
Fish are found
 
Leaded up, lines straight
Darrow's aplenty, strengthened trace
Lines down bottom hit
Watch the tip as we drift
 
The waves deceive
We think a bite
Natures water
Tricks us slight
 
This beautiful day
As patience allows
We hear a shout 
From the starboard bow
 
Wow! dad,
Look at the bend on your rod
Is it a dogfish or ling
Or a monster cod
 
Posture right to reel this catch
Has this fisherman met his match
Over an hour this marathon lasts
Fish against man, sporting ask
 
Forearms ache, back strains
I reel it in, it then regains
Is it tiring, or is it me
This awesome creature from the sea
 
Moments later
Surface splash
A wing of skate
Adrenalin blast
 
Fish aboard
Tagged and weighed
Released with care
In its domain we played
 
The day goes on
With various catch
But only the one
Had met his match
 
The evening draws
With the firth so calm
As we watch the sunset
With a golden dram
To Mother Nature we raise our glass
She is indeed, such a wonderful lass
 
 


Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2009


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Awakened Senses

Awakened Senses Aboard my boat on winding river here, with anchor dropped, all seems so calm, serene. I breathe in deep the fragrant river air; the smell of water, breeze, the scent of clean. These river smells stir up a sister sense... the scrumptious, luscious flavors of the sea; The ocean cod, the shrimp and flounder too... The river wakes my senses wondrously. Sandra M. Haight ~3rd Place~ Contest: Poems That Did Not Place and More Sense of Taste ~ New Poem Concept: River Sponsor: Nette Onclaud Judged: 09/14/2015
.


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015


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Saddle old Brownie

Saddle old Brownie

A saddle on me old brown horse,
To ride away into  the sunset,
Light swag on me old pack of course,
Nother horse called my Regret.

Carry flour for damper or tasty fried scones,
Sugar n tea, few spuds n onions,
Carry a stockwhip to flog off the dogs,
Or galahs with the loony some ones.

Camp every night by blazing fire light,
Out where the Coolabahs sway,
Dip water from the river and boil,
Gumleaf smelling tea today.

Seach for mussels at the waters edge,
Put him on the hook today,
Catch em a cod, good tucker by God,
Spit out the bones I may, 
Protein  n calcium hey….
Don Johnson 20-july-11



Copyright © DON JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011


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Big

8/27/18
"Big"



You're a puppy, I'm a big dog
You're a guppy, I'm a big cod
You're a tadpole, I'm a big frog,
You're a piglet, I'm a big hog
You're a shrimp, I'm a big prawn
You're a baby, I am King Kong
You got a twig, I got a big rod

You're a dud, I'm a big bomb

You're in a puddle, I'm in a big pond

You're weak, I'm big and strong

You're a pawn, talking to your king wrong

You're too unsteady, I'm ready for anything this life brings on

You're still unemployed, I'm working at a big job

You're smoking out a little pipe, I'm using big bongs

You're giving up, I continue to dig on

I'm the truth, you're a big fraud

I'm as real as it gets, you hide behind a big facade

I got not a single piece of bling on

I'm part Klingon

You like it diluted, I like my drinks strong

No time to go back and forth like ping pong

You have no idea about what we on

So you best begone

And take off in your Dodge Neon

She asked if I listened to Big Sean

I said barely, soon followed a big yawn

She said, you're not like all these ding dongs

She just really wanted to see if I had big dong

Then said it's big, oh my god!


By: Dalton Ogletree


Copyright © Dalton Ogletree | Year Posted 2018


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Snoring Battle Rap

Now don't you be complaining that I snore
when you be the one sounding like a chainsaw
cause of you I toss and turn every night
pull the covers up outta sheer fright

While you be sleeping like a loud log
I feel like stuffing yo mouth with a cod
but you'd probably just spit it out
get back to making weird noises with yo mouth

One night I thought I was dreaming
remember when I woke up hysterical screaming
thought I heard an elephant roar
but it turned out it was just one of yo snores

So how can you complain that I even snore
since you fall asleep soon as my slippers hit the floor
for awhile you be my mister pillow mellow fellow
but few minutes later be hearing a very loud whale like bellow

I got an idea to get me some earplugs
as I can't sweep yo zoo snores under the rug
and if that don't help and I can still hear
then yo be off to the couch way over there!


6-2-18



Copyright © cheryl hoffman | Year Posted 2018


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Herring Run at Cape Cod Canal


I could not paint a better picture,
Than the one in front of me,
Of twists and turns of the canal,
Bordered by endless trees.

A warm day with a slight breeze,
Giving the grass moving shadows of leaves,
Multiple species of birds stop by,
Some on the ground, some in the sky.

Gulls, Terns and Cormorants dive,
For crustaceans and fish of various size,
While sparrows, robins and occasional chickadees,
Grab insects on the fly.

Parades of boats, barges and ships,
Fascinate and entertain our time,
Sitting by the canal is more than a pastime,
It's watching life at its prime.

Fishermen, bicyclists, joggers and tourists,
They enjoy this special place,
Taking it all in; they embrace,
Nature at its purest!


Copyright © judith kerttula | Year Posted 2018


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A Fisherman's Tale

A FISHERMANS TALE
By
Kevin L Fairbrother


Blowering Lake in the Snowy’s is the place to be
To catch a Yellowbelly or Silver Perch
Or if you are lucky a Murry Cod or a trout
They all live beneath the cold waters of the lake

I flog the water with spinning rod and lure
Changing frequently my choice of lure
I try to entice a fish to strike…but no luck
At this rate I would be lucky to catch a cold

Along comes a regular fisherman, introduced himself as Wayne
Having any luck old mate he asks, not me mate I have no luck
No bloody fish here I says to Wayne, He says it’s not luck you need
It’s a worm on a hook and pure skill that will get you a fish

He sets up his rod and baits the hooks with wriggly worms from his garden
He casts the line out into the lake and proceeds to make a cup of tea
No sooner had he poured the tea when he had a strike, he set the hook
I’ve got a nice fish on you grab the net be ready to catch him


You lucky old bugger I says to Wayne, no luck involved just pure skill
A 2kg Yellowbelly as fat as mud he will go down well for tea
Not to be outdone I changed my lure and cast it into the lake
On my third cast I spotted the dark shape of a fish following

A strike I yelled as I set the hook and the fish- well he took off
I played him out till he started to tire, fetch the net old mate
This fish is a whopper; I played him out till he went belly up
Wayne rushed over and gently placed the net under the fish

Wow what a fish Wayne said the bugger is twice as big as mine
You were bloody lucky- I reckon I brought you good luck say’s Wayne
No bloody luck involved I say’s to Wayne, old mate
It’s just my good looks and pure skill   



Copyright © Kevin Fairbrother | Year Posted 2014


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Honest to Cod

The Feeling of Fishing while Floating
Is Graded on Goading, and Gloating

Bystanders oft blindly believe
In salmon the size of my sleeve

Tall Tales at the Time Told True
In Grandeur they Gained and they Grew


But my Rod and Reel won't Remember
Come the Dread and the Din of December

And by the Time I again Tell my Tale
I Will have Wrangled Ahab's White Whale

2/13/11


Copyright © Joe Inka | Year Posted 2011


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Cod

Out of the flow
Behind the log
Big mouth grabs black yabby.


Copyright © Uwe Stroh | Year Posted 2015


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Another Day In Paradox

I look about this merry gloom
Thoughtless, fat and slim.
Remembering but half a tune
I'd lost my will to win.

'Give up thy Eric Idle, son.'
I heard a whisper mutter.
And sitting up inside my head
Knew this was not a stutter.

'Are you the reepher with a grin?'
I asked, which pleased him so.
'The one without a duffel chin
And klinkers to and fro?'

'Indeed I am that very sole
That fishes in the deep.
I've come to Clam you half or whole
And Cod your wife to weep.'

'Ah-ha! You baddie bootleg bloke.
I've seen you as a lad.
You took my Granny up in smoke
For only half a drag.'

'Def Albert and his weeping nose
You took him there as well.
To where God only heaven knows
It's really hard to tell.'

'Perhaps, not now, or yet at least.
At most, not in a bit,
Be gentle, like a gentle beast
And sit a while in sit.'


Copyright © Wayne Riley | Year Posted 2014


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NEWFOUNDLAND

N atural beauty that dazzles the eyes
E nveloped by the Alantic ocean it lies
W inters are long with lots of storms
F og so thick it defies the norms
O ffbeat people who like to have fun 
U nusal named towns, ***** is one
N ewfinese slang, a translator you may require
D angerously high winds can sometimes transpire
L  oads of tiny islands, over 7000  waiting for you to explore
A bundance of sea food, oil, ice burgs and moose to hunt for
N icknamed 'The Rock', breathtaking mountains and hiking trails to ascend 
D are to be 'screeched in' and become an honorary Newf and forever friend

*Screeched in: An initiation ceremony where the person must drink screech rum, kiss a cod and speak some Newfoundland slang.
The participant then becomes on honorary Newfoundlander.

04/30/2014


Copyright © Cecilia Macfarlane | Year Posted 2014


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COD: Call Of Duty

COD
Overrated Game
Ruining perfect relationships
Taking life from teens
Pointless


Copyright © Tyrone Johnston | Year Posted 2010


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Lisa and Herb

This is the story of Lisa & Herb
A young loving pair who lived in the burbs
Fresh cod she did cook
Forgot to take out the hook
Pierced at the lip he said it's superb




Copyright © Tim Smith | Year Posted 2015


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Fish Story

A rainbow trout, who had 
a big snout.With sparkling 
spots all over his side.
While swimming fast, off
in a flash.He headed for
the swimming pool.Takin'
a dip, we'll have a sweet trip.
No cod, no bass, no check
to cash.A lake, a pond, or
even a stream.A place 
where all us fish can screem.
A fishing pole, without a worm.
Now it's time to make you squirm..

Fish Story By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2005,2015..ALL rights reserved..


Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards | Year Posted 2015


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Postcard from Mykonos

Below the Grecian walls and pillared stone
  A great bridge does cross the river's divide:
And the Maroochy water's gentle groan
  Concentrates my mind betwixt moon and tide.
Its untrammelled swelling in bended route
  Can flood its great flanks in uncommon sight,
And pelicans a fisherman's catch loot
  From creekbed weir to mighty ocean bight,
Where cane ash over scorched earth river-north
  Flecks the golden sun till sleep's late curfew:
And me and "Johnnie in a can" gaze forth
  Puffing cigars on Bradman Avenue!
Let the Cod Hole streetlight shimmy across
Shine upon my postcard from Mykonos.


                    --------------

Mykonos was the name of the unit complex
I lived at in Maroochydore, Qld, Australia.
The Cod Hole was a well known local fishing
Spot on the river.


October 1999


Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014


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Granny Tipping

My son is getting older, and he just went back to College, the other day.
But he had enjoyed the summer, by adding a new game to his daily play.
He called it Troll Tipping as daily he targeted another, and wore him out.
By dinner, the Troll would fall asleep, as my son claimed his dessert, so devout.

But wearing out a Troll, is not such an easy thing, so many a night, a Troll got his.
What a shame! But as a resourceful college man, at devising plans he was a whiz.
He offered them a Fun Filled Tip, yes, a way to get others, to do their daily chores.
The cost to each individual Troll, was their sweet dessert, that night, nothing more.

He was doing great, as he ran thru many a Troll, but then our suspicions did unfold.
You see, this bred unrest, as a number of fights started, amongst our beloved Trolls.
Scheming isn’t sharing, so Grandpa Troll had a TALK, life changing, or so it’s told.
But Boys are boys, and desserts were to be had, so he made a new plan, quite bold.

You might say he invented Granny Tipping, yes, now it was MY dessert, on the line.
Now this would be quite simple, for at my age, I can easily, become tiredly inclined.
But the one thing he’d forgot: is how crafty age had made this old one, in her efforts. 
As dinner wound down, I cued Grandpa Troll, to help deliver, those delicious desserts.

I told my son, that they were made to be his favorite, simply in honor, of his behalf.
Then I pretended to fall asleep, and he quickly took my dessert, with a joyous laugh.
Then suddenly his eyes grew big! And I awoke, looking him quite clearly, in the eye.
I lied that, I added laxatives and terrible cod liver oil, to my dessert nightly, yes, so sly. 

Making them easier to swallow, but if he wanted more dessert, he only had to ASK.
He quickly sped away, to wash that terrible taste, out of his mouth, a daunting task!
And we all had our chance to laugh at him… as the joke was finally on him, at last.
I call this, Bad Behavior Tipping, and from that day to this, he asks for more, at last!

The game seemed to lose its luster that day, yes, manners did a BIG, comeback.
The moral is to politely ask… Playing clever little games… is NEVER for the best!


Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013


Details | Cod Poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Climate Of Change

We didn't go abroad this year, we had our summer holiday
Here in the UK where it had rained all summer long.
We scuba dived in the sea but it was dead, devoid of all
Life; we walked the coastal path to where the bungalow
Fell in the sea last year, near to the wreck of the oil tanker
That ran aground in a winter storm.

On the only dry day we had we went for a picnic sitting
In a meadow beneath an oak tree but there were no wild
Flowers, and no bees either; even the Holly Blue's didn't show.
Only the soft noise of fracking in a nearby field. Cows that once
Graced that field now stand farting and eating their lives away
In a shed that's part of a factory farm.

On our last day we sat in the cafe eating cod and
Chips, cod caught in the Irish Sea loaded with
Caesium 137 and strontium 90 that had been seeping
Out of Sellafield nuclear power station over the years.
We could have had the Pacific tuna irradiated from the
Fukushima fall-out but preferred the cod.


Copyright © David Wood | Year Posted 2015


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Enlightenment

Trawlermen haul cod

Glistening scales gleam in the sun

Fleet enlightenment











Copyright © theresa stephens | Year Posted 2014