The pond is thick with summer sleep,
Where secrets hide and water’s deep.
Three shadows on the muddy bank,
Their dangled legs and toy rock tank.
They do not speak, they do not stir,
Just watchers of the speechless burr
Of bobbers dancing, red and white,
In golden shades of fading light.
A jar of worms, a broken rod,
Boys barefoot peace, their quiet god.
The air is heavy, humming, still,
As time suspends beneath the hill.
They do not hunt for a big prize,
But stare with narrow, amber eyes,
Just waiting for the line to jerk,
To catch the magic, not the work.
When fireflies blink their green-lit code,
They walk the dusty country road.
Empty pails, but their spirits light,
Having to catch the edge of night.
The water settles, black as ink,
On the edge of dreams, on the brink.
Dip 'em in caramelized honey or gummies
Without it, they taste kinda funny and runny
A Carnivale only for bobblehead gods
A barrel of laughs for the rest of us clods
That are blubbering bobbling bobbers bobbing
For corn-on-the-cob
Perusing the tea, what it brings, vitality, refreshing, or tranquility.
tea’s altruistic -
the elixir gives itself
to succor ailments
I warm leaves up when my hands and feet are icy cold. The boil arouses my expectations. The raucous kettle poured over a roomy sachet.
the tea bag’s floating -
my bobbers are on its craft
as the scent surges
My hands rejoice as they gently wrap around the cup and rebound. When the minuet knells, the unfurled dose is tossed and what remains is to be enjoyed in a calm and comfortable setting, ideally with pretty things and perhaps a nibble of treats.
lift from lace doily -
a sip of essential oils
and crumpet or two
What’s better than to sit across from special friends. The setting of a magnolia tea house or with one’s teddy bears.
little ones practice -
imagination infused
with love’s sugar cubes
Perusing the tea, what it brings, essence to our lives.
Once almost a little village
Within the city’s bounds,
Huddled around the fish dock
With its own smells and sounds,
Streets of rows of terraces
All well kept and neat,
Pride shining through
Every worker Street.
Deckies, Filleters, Bobbers
All closely living there,
The Skippers and Mates
Breathing more refined air.
Overalled fish house workers
Mingle with and meet
Segged clogged bobbers
In the early morning street.
Then they pulled down terraces
Replaced with industrial estates
Rehoused to the city’s fringes
Splitting up families and mates.
And the fishing industry died
Trawlers tied up in the dock
And old Hessle Road trembled
Nearly died from the shock.
No more deckies, filleters, bobbers
All the fish houses long gone
As this once vibrant area
Learned to adapt and move on.
The once thronged Hessle Road
Seems near deserted these days
As the population slowly adapts
To the area’s very different ways.
Rayners, the fisherman’s pub,
Struggling to survive,
Has mementos of the fleet
To help keep its memory alive.
In an ironical gesture,
Sadly surveying it all,
There’s a mural of a trawlerman
Painted on a gable end wall.
I caught a giant bass today
Except I really didn't
So large it was it broke my line
You really should have seen it
But as far as telling stories goes
It's the best outcome of all
Escape'd bass are always large
And landed ones quite small
Yet fishermen are not constrained,
By the evidence of fish,
When telling charming stories,
Of the fish that they did wish
Had landed in their boat or net,
This prize they now have taken
Our confidence in their truthfulness,
Would less easily be shaken
By unbounded ‘stravagance,
Of monsters from the deep,
And lines that snapped, and bobbers lost,
And fish they did not keep.
Yet tales they tell unceasingly,
The products of the outing,
More so than fish it sometimes seems,
These stories they keep spouting.
And larger do these fish thus grow
Upon each sacred telling
And eventually they’ll far outgrow
The wall space in their dwelling
Yet I digress from fish me thinks,
And the one that got away,
But yet I’ve proven mightily,
Their stories’ power to stay!
I come from a family of fishermen.
Mitchel 300 open-faced reels
Size 6 hooks, 10 lb monofilament line
Colorful bobbers and spinners.
Dreaming of bigmouth bass
and golden-sided muskie.
We cast over a thousand lakes and streams
I even had a subscription to a fishing magazine.
Now in this lost year of 2020,
The year of the Chinese rat -the mask-
police brutality and uncivil disobedience.
Not to mention the crazies released from prison.
Rioting, looting, and defunding (the peace)
My attention has shifted toward
38 specials-9mm Glocks and A.D.T
I have a subscription for a more serious type of magazine.
There's a path I always take
down to the river where the woods
are dressed down open
The light of the sky
doesn't shine in your eyes
but leads the way to redemption
I like to stand there for a moment
on the shortcut created by troubled feet
woven with wilderness bliss
and cigarettes butts
It's a path that never sleeps
I see the same semi-blind vision
of the river every time
I hear baby boat horns blaring in the distance
and floating out of view
I walk to the rhythm of the trees
the faint sound of Wild Thing
playing in the car
I carry a bent black rod
with a tangled neon line
and a mud-covered box of rusty hooks
and flaming red bobbers
I wear my T-Shirt that says Iron City Beer
that's cut off at the belly
or sometimes my other one
that says Just Do It
with shredded denim shorts
that ride my buttocks
After a few seconds of inhaling
and exhaling an indecision
I do what most fishermen do
with only my thoughts to keep me company
I find a clean rock
and cast with desperation
The woods close
Opalescent rainbow bass, slippery catfish large,
green banks of rivers, beyond the rich man's barge.
Guppies gallows, fishmonger agleam,
going fishing, Saturday. Catch me downstream.
Opalescent rainbow bass, slippery catfish large.
bring those bobbers, and peanut butter jars.
Hitherwards we traipse, little boy, while it’s still dark.
fishing with a determined grandpa is not just a lark.
It is four o’clock, time to hit the riverbanks.
Let us coax and coddle those catfish tanks.
They like to hide in a concealed shady spot.
if we don’t hurry, catch a fish, we will not.
the pools of your eyes are calm
my fishing pole sticks out straight
something nibbles my bobbers
Ducks line up behind Mommy
swimming all in a perfect row
Kids build sand castles
precariously balanced, just so
Red-and-white bobbers bob up and down
to the rhythm of fishermen's strings
Bronzed bodies gaze upwards, supine
sun-worshiping, midst other things...
Another endless, lazy summer's day
for a privileged nation, whose idle play
While in distant lands, far away
ghastly towers of war and famine sway...
My girl Ellie came from Philly
She loves chili from the deli
Such a Silly Sally
Saw her dilly-dally
For a million hours
Smelling gillyflowers
Under hilly towers.
My pop Billy Banker
Was a willy wanker
He was really bonkers
With his deely-bobbers
He loved jelly
Marie Corelli
His cat Milly
And!
Watching telly
With a lily
On his belly.
Silent River Run
Research fun gear, on-line or stocked.
Preparation: mixing, matching, dots.
Please, try not to harm the catches we snare;
Eat less of animal flesh;
And, plant lives matter, too....
Date and location decided -- she may or may not attend.
Checking bait and treble hooks, egg sinkers and split shots;
Swivels, bobbers, beads, jig heads and, perhaps, a friend.
Minnows or night-crawlers -- my mind is set on snell knots.
Catfish unknown seek
Rubenesque waters of the
Silent River Run.....
Other cats spout boilerplate
And form-letters to the drowned.
August 15, 2016
It Takes Four - Poetry Contest
Childhood Friends (Boys)
Fishing lines and fishing poles
sinkers, hooks and bobbers.
Maybe someday we will go
when we're not playing cops and robbers.
Cowboy hats and balls and bats
my horse an old broom stick.
Can you see? Come look at me!
I learned a magic trick.
Spit balls shot but I got caught
Tommy points and grins.
You did it too I could tell on you.
I miss my childhood friends.
Make no mistakes we're catching snakes
to play with in the yard.
I didn't cry it ain't no lie
when I got spanked real hard.
Racing trains and playing games
this ain't no place for girls.
Summer sun and carnival fun
we wanna ride the Tilt-a-Whirls.
Our first late night but we're alright
see how the scary movie ends.
Creepy crawlers crept our secrets kept
I miss my childhood friends.
Edwin C Hofert
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.
Cool breeze Payne’s grey sky
Night lit by a harvest moon
Two red bobbers bounce
By: Robb A. Kopp
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.