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
Lobster and dab
Our fishing ground
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
Tricks us slight
This beautiful day
As patience allows
We hear a shout
From the starboard bow
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
A wing of skate
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
I'd love to live a sea life,
there's just so much to do.
It would never ever be boring,
in the deep deep ocean blue.
I could juggle with clownfish,
sunbathe with the rays,
take off with the pilot whales,
and go blading with skates
Blow balloons with the pufferfish,
play pool with a shark
go hunting with sea lions,
teach a dogfish to bark
I could strum with guitarfish,
play piano with tunas,
make jazz with a bass,
then go solo with groupers
And we'd all have sea-cucumber sandwiches for lunch,
and jellyfish for desert.
Copyright © Michael Todd | Year Posted 2015
Over lips and through da gums
Hooked minno is going down some
Depth by depth there she sinks
Hooked a dam dogfish oh how that stinks
Pulled anchor and now drowning in rum
Tribute To Fishing
Also Entry For
Sea Tale Limericks
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2010
I like to wake up in the morning at the lake,
I sleep out on the porch, on account of I hate snoring,
so I can hear the tremelo of the daddy loon calling to the babies,
and sometimes I just sit there and listen,
to the kingfisher back in the channel,
and the wet flop of the dogfish early on.
If I listen closely, I can hear a woodpecker on the opposite shore,
hammering away with its rock-hard beak.
Then when I open my eyes,
it's like looking at a fantasy painting,
with pillars of steam rising from the lake,
like fog from a Jurassic swamp in ancient times,
with dragonflies zooming about in the mist,
hunting the doodlebugs and damsonflies
that hover obliviously over the glasslike water.
The sun rises on the Eastern side,
casting glories of light on the lake in its stillness.
There are no boats out yet,
it is far too still and placid.
I can barely see from my place on the couch
the mouth of the wide channel,
and if I'm lucky I see the family of swans that lurk down there.
I see a white dot drifting away,
and smile when I know I at least saw one.
Behind the island, which when I was little I called "City Crap",
the remains of a bonfire are just damp piles of ashes,
the remnants of a party someone threw the night before.
I look back up to the sky, which has already turned purple and pink,
and swing my legs out of the bed, and stretch,
awaiting the minute I could slip into that clear, cool water.
Copyright © Sharon Downer | Year Posted 2006
HIS WISH TO STOP ZEBRAS FISHING
Zebras you, Xavier, want very urgently to sit real quiet,
Pound over numberless marine liquid kilometers just in haste,
Going for every dogfish casually basking around.
(Reverse ABC )
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
How to stop them
Is the problem
So let's start to think . . .
Where are these zebras going
In such haste
Hours and hours
Till the sun dips
Over the hill and
They need fish
Or else their hunger
Pains will exceed those of any
Buffalo or dog,
Roaring with pains
All through their
Stomachs : so
For God’s sake
In the name of mealtimes
Suffer the little zebras,
However striped and horse-like,
In their passion for dogfish.
No doubt Xavier's - like the zebra’s -
Gotta eat too.
( Acrostic reads “HIS WISH - TO STOP ZEBRAS FISHING” )
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
ALL XAVIER’S ANIMALS HAVE THEIR ROLES
Zebras zoom zestfully - zombies zipping,
But - basking between big broad
Dogfish doing dances, diving, dripping -
Shy shellfish stop, sitting serenely still, so several survive,
Casually caring, clearly cooperating,
And always active and artfully alive.
My male mallard merry makes -
Quickly quacking, quietly quiescent -
Loving long-lasting little liquid lakes.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Entry for Debbie Guzzi's Contest "Aye, Aye, and A Mistress"
Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2011
Trending the nude prints,
life had been dismissive,
plucking the gray hairs from brows.
Manipulating the dopamine
the body’s odour
wafted through the cluttering limbs.
Charcoal underlines the
need of a wounded dove.
What else one needs from grain and water.
The tears will sew the lids
one day. I don’t want
to *******he sea again.
The dogfish comes on the
shores for a rebuttal.
It had never led a dog’s life.
Copyright © Satish Verma | Year Posted 2013
Where land meets sea will always be a special place for me,
Born by the coast, my early memories often seem to be,
Of happy hours beach-combing, adventure mixed with leisure,
As I searched the beach and tideline, for a host of hidden treasure.
Sea glass sparkles in the sun in shades of green and blue,
The mystery of a “Mermaid’s Purse”, which in my childish view,
Was more than just a Dogfish egg-case, cast upon the strand,
But fashioned for the use of some strange, Sea-siren’s hand.
The shaped bone from a Cuttlefish, so white and light in weight,
A crab-shell now vacated, which was Nature’s armour plate.
A pebble of Carnelian, semi-precious in its beauty,
All added to the total of my growing, childish booty.
And even common seaweed was a source of fascination,
As I popped the Bladder Wrack, in simple admiration,
Of Nature’s innovation, and its infinite design,
Even in the plants which grew in seas of salty brine.
Driftwood scoured by the sands, in shapes so strange and twisted,
Thoughts of distant shores from where those works of art have drifted.
Shells of different shapes and sizes, many pastel hues,
To add to my collection, which later I would use,
On bottles and on boxes as attractive decoration,
Presents for my family, from my shoreline exploration.
The ever-present hope that the magic of the Moon,
Would drive the next high tide to bring a Spanish gold doubloon,
And leave it gleaming high and dry as I patrolled the beach,
A precious piece of history, within my childish reach.
Of course that never happened, but still today for me,
There’s so much that I treasure, from my days beside the sea..
Copyright © Michael McCarthy | Year Posted 2018
Is the logic of a lioness the same as a dogfish? Or a display in a shop window of pretty pink kittens? Very definite is a definition of derived detail. Oh look over there. Quickly. The window in the furniture store has become quite alive. The chair is moving away from the table and the table leg is attempting to snare the chair but it isn't working. Oh such commentary of the wall clock. Standing proudly on the street. Admiring the sun clad people in shirts skirts and shorts. Ready for a little time in the waves. But waves are not wiry nor weaves. And a polish arriving is a main line attempt to break into a glamorous mermaid glass. And so it has a day in the country air to dash up and down. Chasing sticks. Sticks sticking salivating salty sprat of spray. But not in a yawn is a yard and no harsh hound is a hateful hasty hairbrush. But hairbreadth is said to be useful for a comb to attempt keep fit and therefore remain toned. Ha the undertones of an untamed unfathomable unicorn. Ha a beak of a silver cup chatting. Xxxx intoxication z z z z at nineteen peeled grape slices to zero ground driving drips. Z z z z z
Copyright © Taoi Chanan | Year Posted 2017