Allure is a fisherman
dangling her bait
As the worm turns
~ so be its fate
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I drift off to sleep, casting my nets into the dark,
where thoughts dart silver, quick and wild~
a phosphorescent bloom of sharks,
the glint of something half-defiled.
They rise like soup, these shapeless things,
half-snail, half-song, half-broken wheel,
with moth-wing sighs and piano strings
that hum the tunes I cannot feel.
The catch tonight? A tooth, a key,
a lost lover’s face dissolved to mist,
the weightless thrum of what might be
entwined tight with what does not exist.
I reel them in—my surreal prize~
all writhing light with fevered ink,
then wake to find them in my eyes,
still sinking, soft, and blurred at brink.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Net cast in silence,
ripples swallow silver stars—
the lake holds its breath.
Darkness hums with hooked trembling,
a glint of scales in his palm.
*some years ago I wrote a memoir vignette that matches this poem. You may read it at poetrysoup.com/short_stories/gone_fishin_13594
Fisherman serene by the lake.
Sunday in December.
Others sit grid locked going shopping
He sets out to the river before the sun rises,
He asks the spirits to guide him before leaving his house,
Standing at the edge of the river,
He looks up at the sky praying for the blessings of the Divine.
He casts his net into the river waiting patiently,
Sometimes he sings songs of folklore,
A large catch will bring good sales,
Allowing him to support his family.
The sun pours on him,
He calls it a blessing,
He tugs on the net,
He smiles when it has done its bidding,
He pulls up the net summoning the help of the spirits.
Sometimes he goes home with a few catches,
To his chagrin,
He sits alone in front of his house,
Worried about the upkeep of his family,
Bothered about his children not being sent away from school,
He committed to paying a certain amount biweekly until their fees are cleared.
Sometimes when he’s lost in thought,
He hears his mother’s voice,
She reminds him that water is an unending gift of nature,
So also are the resources that inhabit its depth,
Today may not bring much,
But hope in tomorrow will bring abundance,
He smiles with teary eyes.
November 4, 2025.
Philologus of Sinope
Holy Emissary of the Chrestos
One of the seventy stars
Lit by the heavenly Son of the Good
Shining over the Black Sea
A babe was raised by that star for the Church
Rays of great enlightenment
Raised the boy’s soul to the heavenly Good
The star’s love for the Logos
Tore away the man’s tight shackles of death
A fisherman blessed the star
The shipmaster carried the head of Paul
The star was Philologus
His son’s name was Marcion of Sinope
THE FISHERMAN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in the peace and quiet
where the tall Texas pines grow,
there is Dad standing alone
casting his line
time after time
not in search of fish
just a way to unwind.
as the water swirls up to his waist
with each cast
his worries disappear
washed by the water~
he reels in one last time
and though his hook is empty
he finds peace on his line
To catch from a net
Is the biggest life to offer
Mouth fed, belly full.
Sunrise all the world
But sunrise over the sea
Brings unique surprise.
they gather in groups
casting their lines out at once
waiting for big one
The Lonely Fisherman
He sat on a rowing boat in the fjord
he wore a yellow
raincoat and a southwestern cap matching his coat
was like seeing a French movie, an intellectual one
I couldn’t stand by the window all-day
reading sat on the sofa reading a novel
a book too long, a mind-numbing love story.
I read several pages, then gave up and looked out of the window
the boat was there,
and his cap was floating like a life raft for
I held my breath had he drowned, then the man got
up he had fallen in his boat, perhaps slipped on a dead fish,
but other ways looked fine
He began rowing to shore and tied the boat to the small pier
walking up the track to my cabin, he carried fish in a plastic bag
I dived behind the sofa when he knocked on my door, in case he was selling fish.
polite if he was of the talkative kind
bore me with
endless fishing tales.
Back on the boat, he untied the rope turned gave me the finger.
As I gaze long, far
The Sun leans into the sea
Sets water on fire
A lone fisherman
Paddles through the angry waves
Few fish in the can
Has nought to take home
To his wife, hungry children
Hoping for food, some
The man sees not far
In the glistening waters
A floating buoy
On which a goldfish
Lay lifeless beckoning him
The tired man picks fish
Unknowing to all
Only to find a treasure
That’s kind of not small
Inside are gold coin
Life is changing, knows he will
Never fish again.
mbfarookh
Close your eyes and take my hand I will lead you
To a wonderland.
With tree's so tall and grass so green I will show you
Things you have never seen.
To walk with me would be so nice and spend your
Days in paradise
So pick up your nets and bring your rod and
Become a fisherman of God.
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
Wading water, my foot falters
This freezing feeling is seeping, stealing
Healthy heat from foolish feet
Now sliding, slipping and trip, tipping
Swimming swift so legs lift
Scared stiff in the water wishing
That fish found this folly fitting.
May 28th, 2023
Alliterisen Poetry Contest, sponsored by Joseph May
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