You didn’t hand me boxes wrapped in bows,
Or silver trinkets bought upon a whim.
Instead, you took me where the river flows,
And taught me wealth is found in catching bream.
You gave the gift of a persistent mind—
To cast the line again, to watch, to wait.
To look beneath the surface and to find
That patience is its own rewarding state.
I became a treasure hunter of the human heart,
You taught me the value of a quiet space.
You taught me how to pull the world apart,
And to find the gold in every simple place.
The rush of water, and a bending reed,
The stillness of a humid afternoon—
You showed me that the only things we need
Are found beneath the sun and silver moon.
So I will let the others keep their fragile things,
Their fleeting goods that tarnish on the shelf.
I have the wealth that only nature brings,
And all the truths you taught me of myself.
With grandpa on the Thames to fish,
Our boat sailed north like a Croc,
Meandering brackish waters,
Waiting for a feast of catfish.
Pike, perch, and zander were grandpa's wish;
Barbel, carp, chub, and bream his catch.
Halibut and cod were my desire,
Their flavours always buttering my palate.
The fun was full,
Until a Croc rose for our catch,
Its eyes fixed on my shiny leg,
As if one bite could sate its hunger.
I trembled at its timid stare,
Unaware it was hypnotizing me.
I tapped grandpa and whispered, "See a Croc…"
His fearful shout sent it fleeing.
Then I realized how poor grandpa’s eyes were;
My youthful sight saved us from the Croc—
Grandpa might have filled its appetite,
While I became its appetizer instead.
I threw my fishing rod into murky waters
And, as you might have guessed, caught a lousy nothing.
But true as that may be, my bait worm was ate
Now I know there is something to catch.
So, I feed the waters to check for action
As I prepare my hook to fetch in the motion.
Now that I've seen, I am keen
To send the hook as I lean,
To go and fetch the good bream.
Just a little tyke
When on the hearth~strike
Then blaze
Warmth flowed throughout like
Happiness 'pon trike
Young days
When you were godlike
I'd feel dreamlike
A phase
Let me paraphrase
It's not hollandaise
Just dreams
Down by waterways
Where God I could praise
Fish teem
As 'pon stream I gaze
Large bream dreams always
Sea bream
No_ hatchlings that gleam
And bring forth moonbeams
That strike
'Pon the eyes_pipe dreams
Whipped and fluffed upstream
A seiche
Dreams come true it seems
Strike brought fire agleam
In Pike
Written: 03/17/2023
Contest: Write Me A Virelai
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Pike..A county in Georgia in which we once lived.
Strike: Daddy would strike the match on the hearth to start a fire. Some fish when they bite do what is called a strike.
Seiche: a disturbance of the water caused usually by atmospheric pressure change.
Apparently, there are sea bream as well as freshwater bream. I am sure the sea bream are much bigger but those tiny bait fish I was catching looked like sea bream to me at my young age.
Checked with how many syllables
The river
still finds its brown way
through the city's glass
and concrete canyons
until finally reaching
the bay. Its tidal breath
has become my own.
I live near its mouth.
I was not born here
but have spent more
than half my life
a citizen of its urban sprawl.
The roots I've sunk
hang off a sense of home.
There is an ease
in living here where the old
and the new, the familiar
and strange exist
in counterpoint and house
the needs of the gregarious
and the chafed nerves
of the recluse. Cafes
serve good coffee.
In the shadows
of apartment towers,
old men can shuffle easily
down the gentle slope
of asphalt paths,
carrying words or a rod
and sit quietly
at the water's edge
with their thoughts,
fishing for bream or God.
Grey clouds dispersing above the Lough,
Grey geese skeining to winter fields for from arctic chill,
Rainbow colours reflected in water still and deep,
Chill and cold in the depths along with bream and Roach,
Amongst the weed and silt lie Pike waiting patiently,
For some small unassuming stickleback or baggie
To fill its ever hungry belly.
Arching rainbow across the hills leading to a pot,
But the gold is in the town and its deep cold lough.
Do Kelpies run off the hills finding refuge and rest,
Down the burns they skelter unseen ,unknown,
Only by frothy white water bubble and hear their ,
Unearthly whinnie amongst the crannies of ancient hill.
On dark nights when water is high will you hear the Kelpies cry.
I am waiting
For the colonists’ offspring
To see.
See what’s already there.
Been there decades,
hundreds and thousands of years.
Brewarrina. Birrngi-Bream.
Condah. Tuupuurn-Galaxis.
Bolac. Smoked eels.
Curly Mitchell Grass.
Nodding Greenhoods.
Yam Daisy-Murnong.
Budj Bim.
World Heritage.
Right here!
Dark Emu.
Read it.
Grasp the future.
Don’t wait.
Act.
Thrive.
[Foreword: spring in the UK is delightful
But it isn’t all sunshine and roses!]
***
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
The crocus enlivens the woodland way
’twas not to be seen only yesterday
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
Weeping the willow tickles the ripples
The angler most keen swigging Scots tipples
For frost isn’t distant there on the bank
Yet Bream ’neath the branches dance flank to flank
A tail on a golf ball, this is the wren
As an old friend, good to see him again
Venture in sweater to fend sneeze and cough
Yet should the breeze drop, the sweater is off
’tis a word, oft heard, for March, April, May
Spring is the word that the birds sing today
***
11 March 2021
Contest: Breath of Spring
Sponsor: Regina McIntosh
There's plastic in the ocean
Plastic in the sea
There's plastic in the boatyard
Plastic in the bay
There's plastic in the gut of a turtle
Plastic in a mantaray
There's plastic in a gilt-head bream
Plastic in it's prey
There's plastic in a Landfill
Plastic in a seagull
There's plastic in the foodchain
Plastic in our DNA
There was I in my early twenties
sitting bored on a Sunday afternoon
mu mum suggested, get a hobby
but being a loner was well out of tune
My mind was blank till mum said
learn guitar, my son, well maybe
so I bought an acoustic guitar
then got lessons to learn my key
As I started learning some real tunes
it seemed I should've begun while a teen
but some progress I was actually making
after a year thought what might have been
So gave it up, wonder why?
probably not dedicated far enough
but now really appreciate class
guitarists playing real splendid stuff
My experiences make one appreciate
the skilful play of these in master class
like Bream, Williams, Romero and the like
inspiration they do bring, pray not to pass
(I recall here my early 20s and making effort to learn guitar which was not to be but learn to appreciate those who could especially in the classical field.)
Come here you little Tinca
Come here towards my net
Come here you little Tinca
You're a new PB I bet.
Ive fed you worms and maggots
Caught Roach and Bream its true
But as nice as it is to catch them
I came here to try and catch you.
My rod is near bent double
The line it sings with stretch
You pull towards the Lillies
To snap me off I bet?
So come here you great big Tinca
Don't drag me in the Reeds
My heart it wont stop pounding
Your weight I'm sure exceeds
The target that I set for you
Visions flashing through my mind.
13 pound 7 ounce female specimen
Please pass it oh be so kind.
Come here you Massive Tinca
My rods begun to creak
My arms are oh so tired
They ache and feel so weak
Come here you enormous Tinca
My net is now not far
Oh damn where is my camera
Aarrgh I left it in the Car!
Come here you behemoth Monster!
I cant see you in this dark
The Net it slides beneath you!
Ohhh Damn its a flippin CARP!
Hehh Hehh
Written and composed by Mark Longson (c) 2018
The Meandering Brook
*******************
the brook meanders across the moorland,
dividing heather and bracken with banks
adorned with wetland flora, looking grand.
sandy patches, fauna can fill their tanks.
birds of many feathers' quench their thirst, bathe.
water shrew, get lucky, a chance to gaze.
a dipper where the bank widens; washed rock.
the brook earns its reputation, don't knock!
it gurgles, babbles, the midges raving,
mosquitoes, mayflies, themselves on display,
searching for a mate, only have one day.
water scorpions, be wary, nippers!
babbling brook now meanders on, a stream,
then a river full of shoals of bronze bream!
Lawn furniture flavored ice cream
served in moxa cups
Candied eyes of freshwater bream
pickled bushdog pups.
Pig pizzle wrapped around a stick
grilled upon the deck
Woven rope with cat head and brick
hung about your neck.
Marzipan violin bowed by a stoat
badminton played widdershins
A toast of poison without antidote
barefoot on needles and pins.
My mind to arms to hands to oars to lake
I cleave the sunrise glass-like surface, still
With just my lonely friend, a mallard drake
Thus set adrift, my thoughts, upon the wake
So buoyed by the breath of morning's chill ...
Oh, how I long to know the somber deep
To let my weary soul sink with the bream
But I have many vows that I must keep
My web-toed friend and I have loves to reap
And many lochs to row before we dream ...
Yes, many lochs to row ... before we dream.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Standard Contest Number 135 Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 2nd Place ~ in the "Rhyme Time II" Poetry Contest, Laura Loo, Sponsor.
DIET OF POETRY
A Limerick man who ate jam with his ham
And his oats soaked in Irish goat’s milk,
Who had cream with his bream
And drank ale with his quail,
Went vegan, with beans and greens of that ilk.
Sub Categories
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