~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bobber, heavy with promise, dips,
while the writer’s pen lingers~
both waiting for the pull below,
the sudden tension of something alive.
The fisherman watches the water’s skin,
its ripples like unread pages,
while the writer stares at the blankness,
a lake of white where shadows move.
Sometimes the line goes slack.
Sometimes the words won’t bite.
You reel in emptiness
or crumple the page,
but you cast again.
Because beneath the stillness,
in the deep where light doesn’t reach,
something shifts~
a flicker, a flash~
and you know it’s there,
even if you never land it.
*If you enjoyed this poem, you may be interested in its companion memoir vignette posted in Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/fishing_for_words_13581
On the banks of a river, with a rod in my hand.
With the sun on my face, whilst i'm feeling suntanned.
I sit by the river and let my worries fade.
With dreams of a big one, whilst looking for shade.
With my line in the water, a bobber afloat.
Just watching those ripples, thats caused by a boat.
With the soft calming sound of the breeze in the trees.
Being lost in the moment, whilst feeling at ease.
As your bobber goes under, a fish takes your bait.
This feels like a good one, raising your heart rate.
Theres nothing quite like this, its not down to luck.
Its such a good feeling to have a fish on your hook.
With a tug of the line, and the shine of its scales.
Every pull on the rod, as i see it's fishtail.
With the sun shining brightly, i relish the fight.
Whilst playing this fish, trying to do everything right.
When all of a sudden, my line it goes slack.
I've lost the fish off my hook, Oh what a setback.
It was the thrill of the fight on this warm summers day.
As we dream of the fish, the one that got away.
water ripples near
bobber bounces in water
still no stinkin fish
I contemplate the bobber on the water.
It is as still as a friend’s prayer at meeting.
Connected to this moment by monofilament
I sit as if I were asleep.
A gust of north wind roils the surface
into ridges. In the furrow
the bobber dances, dances,
dropping its seed into the darkness
perhaps to lure forth one more wish,
one more harvest from the mystery
before I lose the day’s last light.
As suddenly as the wind came upon me
it dies. Placidity prevails, a perfect crust
of ice on new fallen snow at dawn
untouched by even an insect’s wing.
The bobber is still again
as still as prayer again
Retrieve. . . retrieve . . . a small voice
urges me, unfed need dueling with sense,
to cast again, to cast again.
but I am wearier than I thought
and it is accident time, accident time.
The uncast line is better, much better.
There is something hungry in the water.
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
THE 15 PRIORITIES OF FISHING
1) doing something
together
2) watching the bobber
go under
3) feeling that tug/tension
on the line
4) what you catch
5) size of what you catch
6) was number 5 BS?
7) was number 6 BS?
8) what bait/lure you use
9) save/eat or catch/release?
10) how “buggy” it is
11) did you bring effective
bug spray?
12) how many red-and-
white ornaments did
you hang on the
trees?
13) are you absolutely,
positively, honest-to-
god-may-you-never-
catch-another-fish-
SURE about your
answer to number
5?!?
14) adding a “Mulligan” of
(at least) one inch to
number 5 is a given,
(to everyone BUT the
game warden)
15) did you disregard ALL
the other priorities for
the sake of a negative
answer to number 11?
* A bit of fun - for my two fishing buddies, Brandon & Travis *
( Painting by Tommy Kinnerup )
A soft bed, a good book, a big brother
Listening to stories that sweeten dreams
Expressively read to us by Mother
A fishing pole, bobber, and muddy streams
Catching grasshoppers and earthworms for bait
Walking with Father by lantern light beams
A cousin, a friend, a fun playtime date
Catching horny toads for spending money
Buying balloons – a few coppers bought eight
A peanut farm, a beehive, sweet honey
Eggs fresh from the nest, chicken off the block
Life much simpler then, it all seems sunny
Today I slow down, reminisce, take stock
How sweet my childhood, how fast-paced the clock
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.
with doser in hand
walking the land
scape waiting
for a sign
that my
rod may tug
like a fishing
line letting
the bobber
sign
what i've tried
to find i've
found
under
this
mound that
is damp to
touch and
smells of
musk
surely the
search of
what i
came
to
find is now
within my
grasp or
at least
a lick
fluid flowing
as my tongue
digs deeper
into what
this is
i simply
end with
a french
kiss
there's only one way
straight down is all you control
so use a bobber
line through a swivel
with sinkers and lucks good bait
play out line and wait
tick tick heavy weight
a slow to reel in quick see
that breaks line and leaves
stan sand
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.
that is the biggest fish
i ever caught on a cast and a wish
bobber dipped out of sight
fish put up quite a fight
but still ended up on my dish
The bobber winced
Then dipped,
Then winced again!
Did I see that right?
Cause I sure been wishin!
Now another dip,
Now a traveling ball,
Now it disappears
And my tip begins to fall!
Is that a tug?
What? Now it's a real pull!
The line is taut and running
And my imagination is full!
I see this monster fellow
As he grapples with the bait
His massive form twists and turns
Struggling to escape.
He has to be at least 4 pounds
Maybe even more.
My tackle sings as I reel him in,
Guiding him towards the shore.
At last, I see that colored flash
Then snap! Like that he's gone!
And now that trout becomes a tale
For me to expand upon.
The bobber dips,
The fishing pole whips,
The fish jerks,
The man works,
The thin line,
Carefully this time.
The fish splashes,
The man thrashes,
The fish flies,
The man sighs,
The line breaks,
And an exit the fish makes.
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
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