Long Anglers Poems
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An English Life
It is midnight the Milk train pulls into darnall station
No ordinary passengers here
Steelworkers with their families
Loaded with fishing tackle, sandwiches and maggots
The Fossdyke in Lincolnshire, their destination
The fare Half a crown for happiness
The long walk in the dark,
A stairway to heaven in my memory
Dawn on the Foss and a cup of tea,
Fever in the blood, the first eel of the day
Our cane rods lovingly handed down from father to son.
I remember, Pheasants looking for mates
Shrieking their songs of love
Swans begging for scraps
Their majestic white necks, nodding,
A greeting into their kingdom
The mist off the water revealing families,
being together, laughing, enjoying what was free.
For tomorrow the grime returns.
A conversation with a stranger then out of a bag,
The rabbits, sometimes hare, sometimes pheasant.
Onions and carrots, shortly follow
The smell, forever linked with summer
The scent of my childhood
Summers were hotter then;
At times I drank the Foss, for I was nature’s child
Being clean was never a priority,
Catching fish was, never killed always returned,
Our Covenant with Nature.
For it is the sport that we honour.
And with age comes reflection,
Poor I may have been, my education neglected
But I have a Doctorate in nature, for I have seen the dawn
Away from the factories, where the pheasant runs free
And where the swan reins king, I was part of them.
It was here I learned what family was,
To share, my last drink of pop with my neighbour,
A simple life, maybe, but what a life
For I have seen what Constable painted
Lived every word that Wordsworth wrote
Understood the Fragrance of the Flowers
And revelled in the poets dream.
I loved every colour, every sound, every scent,
And every fish I ever caught.
Father and mother are gone now,
Never complained about their Station in life,
For they found paradise on the Foss.
They left me the seeds to their heaven
And the key to my happiness
A key forged in a mans worth
To open up my soul to the beauty
That surrounds us all.
Dawn on the Foss, was my church
My soul was cleansed here
And my heart was shaped here
My memories kept safe here
And the Foss fever still resides here
I will die on some bank side, one day
Rod in hand, and I will be content,
So Tight lines my fellow Anglers.
I hear their idle chatter and wish that sound was optional.
A box checked in a menu, a simple click and forget.
The rapid dilation of my pupils brings me back.
Back to hypnotic aisles of temptation and necessity. A selection of the finest they say.
Right there see, on the cardboard, next to charts and columns of calories and strange
numbers I’d sooner forget.
But buy one get one free still gets me every time.
I stare intently at the dancing numbers until the man with the tie moves away.
Glossy pages shine brighter than the fruit racks they mirror,
Competing for importance in my wallet and my life
The magpie wins and the bananas will wait.
Half the magazines hawk five a day in rounded sans serif, bold against the background of a
chef’s haircut.
Maxims of bizarre cosmopolitan playboys and hustlers marked up at 3.99. Landscapes of
polished flesh glow beneath the loving airbrush of the paycheck. Competing for nuts at the
zoo.
A vanity fair for the hollow, shining in the fading light of a red top sunset.
Paraphrased blogs and condensed morsels of crude celebrity nudes for the I-Generation and
the remnants of New Labour and Thatcher’s Britain.
Anglers, caravans and 50 cent, half the demographic, half the price. Count me out.
I finger a few and find no real desire. The Internet offers this bilge up for free.
They’d all be nude and crapping on each other.
The great silicon toilet of humanity
Past freezers of long dead prisoners, pulped to perfection. Pigs in tubes and flat cow
concoctions.
Pancakes of vomit and fish dishes I won’t ever try. No time for it.
Frankenstein's monster behind glass slides.
Packets of sugar in various disguises. Cereal and chocolate, soft drinks and sauce dips.
Lattes and ladles, loofahs and loaves. The prattle returns through the shelving
I turn around the curries and there is the tie. Talking sport and hard drinking, women and
the weather. Looks me in the eye.
I turn before any interaction and feign interest in something, a scouring pad. Intricately
woven metal coils waste major concentration and he’s gone. Box checked, minimize and move on.
Everything shines in this weird three-quarter light, hypnotic. Confusing. Conscious of the
bottles ahead that I can’t ever touch. Seedy and appealing, puerile and appalling.
Something for everyone.
And nothing for me.
There was a time
Transcending times
Yesterday
Remembering a time
In a town like yours
A life like mine
In a world for all
It seemed so simple
then
Mother Earth
Larger than life
green fragrant
medows
azur sky's
Rivers running
trout
Anglers hoping
oceans bellowing
laughter
Everything was
Bigger
than life
Your love
Our family
Our friendship
A time of plenty
So it seemed
Has the world
changed
Maybe we have
Perhaps is just a
cycle
Or is
it......
All rights reserved
A camacho jr.
1996-2015
(Bracketed words are not to be included in poem for they are only meant to bring home the phrase or word used)
From the eternal cake of her mother
There lies the eternal seed among mud;
Heaven born, a one mud cradled pamper.
Without love, light and care, how would you lug?
And to chase that you are a heaven born,
To tell beauty is chaste as was just sworn.
Her mud milk and cold water make her strong.
Dim infancy casts her spirit to light;
Must reach ken of patience as day's night's long.
Amongst dark, cold ,drown childhood her root's white.
And to straight this vile stage to once Eden,
To cue all that peace roofs each dreamt heaven
The anglers and fishes play hide and seek.
The gloom bait bathes in charm and fishes hunt.
All at once are they when she is in meek.
The joy they (fishes) had is what anglers must fond.
And so states untimely jolly is all worst,
To chirp midnight ends not the night to last.
She is soft, but not for breezy water
To make her quiver at a little breeze.
But for joy-zealers (fishes ,water), they ripple ever.
Only they settle when rude vase decrees
'Tis not you that stir but grow above them
And that love (love spirit of light ) make not live in mayhem.
And when morn steals the hearts, you wait your time.
Whilst bees jump for wine, you sleep for your morn.
You are a green pendant for clear sky to chime
That bell of dusty soil for rain or storm.
When convulsed gleaming crests lure your virgin,
You ball calm in air and tell what they mean.
Morning kisses sky when you kiss heaven.
With you, cloud, rain or mire boy is pageant.
Pious silk veils haze your diadem of golden,
Hides a wise pearl in your sea of delight
Divine smell of you - as you scented mud!
And charm with dust without any 'but'.
And when it is time for your loyal girls;
To seed this vile dust the voice you lived on,
At once you throw off your diadem and veils.
Without tears you face sky when they are gone
For you wot that dark mud made your Eden
And breeze could ne'er bear the base of heaven.
(A different perspective of HERO)
For the contest HERO dated : 20 Nov 2017
A back flipping coconut is very very amusing at a ball but ball pits are moving around so one must surely wear wellingtons or a pair of anglers' waders when jumping across such multicoloured curves. Harp no more sang to a lute at a castle. For harp was too busy restringing and replacing for often strands should be sitting in a neat formation so never whirl around whilst sewing, knitting or braiding a horse's tail. Especially not in a typhoon for a typhoon is often a tycoon and tycoons are really toucans in very smart hats. Now audiences singing to nova scotia are often in great voice. But voicemail from a silky seagull is neither rushed, accented or delivered at the correct time. Drink no cup of mildewed coffee omitting from the horns of a bull. Horns of bull should only be shown on humpback whale variety shows. But not in showers of rain. Trains taking turns tinkling tantrums. And a wide variety of beaks, snouts, and hooves meet with many paws but not in a zoo or a circus for these places are now closed due to a booooom from a book. State no stench and stick no stink. It is the mass availability of a wire that moves the grid into a pineapple formation. Wow. Legs arms and torsos make fairytales in a large luxury room but the rhombic pentameter is waiting in the wings in the theatre to perform a dance. 656 eagles plus 800, 000, 000, bison arriving with a horse, a rhinoceros and a little pickled gherkin in a suit. Fascia fashions fantastic fake frogs. But a pill on a hill is not a pillow nor a pillowcase nor is it a ten thousand kilometre pillar. Rather great to watch the auras of apples spinning over the grass being chased by the caterpillars and huge crowd of pigs. Erogenous earwigs eating everything. Haha pile the plates and dance. Haha silicon tango opera. Hahaha left wing tight wing flap flap flap. Cluck. And a click in a clock is a clock tower chatting. Xxxxx institutionalism Z Z Z Z
Form:
Go and play golf with a melon ball. Go on. It's great. No don't cut it into segments. How on earth are you going to hit it with the club if you do that? Right, now that is understood line up the melon with the hole and swoop your club. Hold your breath. Wow look at it hurtling through the air! And landing perfectly next to the hole. What a score you have now! Well done. How clever. It is a tee in a tepee and a par for a partridge that swoops a birdie's glance. So now that it is known that melons make marvellous moving mobiles on golf courses it would be quite fitting to retire under a canopy and eat a canapé with the semi clad geese ladies whose cackles can radiate much heat to soar into the atmosphere. Double back slams are background backsliding backwards backlinks breaking and no bullet points today on a page of print means disappointing a whole heap of text that wanted to be put in an organised flow of steeled correctness. So now everyone it is time to play tennis with hard boiled eggs, badminton with aubergine rackets and pears, ski using the peels of potatoes, play baseball with a butternut squash bat and a pea ball, and all while wearing eleven jumpers, ten pairs of sparkly trousers, and a pair of anglers' chest waders. It does get rather warm though so do ensure that a spare change of clothes and a towel are brought along to any of those activities at any time and at any given moment. Placed adjournment can rise from cracks in pavements shouting "salllacrisalla"- It is not noted to be a p f or an a h q format though others might be more philosophical and portray the patterns like a passing palaver of positioned plastercine. Prancing. Ha to all of that and tommorow please enter the sponge contest. The clothes won last year. Most annoying. Z arithmeticians Z at thirty seven noises in a bag of shopping to nineteen numerical nothings. Z
Form:
Moosehead, mother of Maine’s many lakes
fed by Moose River’s flowing tears.
Overlooked by Kineo’s cliffs,
with Kennebec you share your gifts.
Sebago Lake, your bowels deep
with waters fresh, quench Portland’s thirst.
Headwater for Presumpscot’s course
which for many towns was a life source.
Chesuncook Lake, you are the source
of hydropower’s natural force
and from your bounteous water store
you serve when drought’s call demands more.
Flagstaff, you are the burial place
of towns along Dead River’s banks.
You are fed by Dead River’s tears
and in turn with her, your water shares.
Spednic, your mesotrophic state
spawns plants beneath your waters clear.
Two nations claim you as their own
and a joint commission controls your flow.
Mooselookmeguntic Lake, your name
has a sophisticated flare.
Your scenic views and twin islands
are featured in “Magic Thinks Big.”
East Grand Lake, your clear, pristine waters,
cause many types of fish to flourish,
and like a fairy tale godmother
you yield your fish, like gifts to anglers.
Graham Lake, your waters produce power
as it turns the giant turbines.
Like the wind, men your force harness,
to power their many machines.
Like a mirage in a desert
Umbagog sits in a wilderness.
Her shallow waters, pristine and clean
make her among Mains’s lakes a queen.
Rangeley, your beauty captured me
the first time I laid my eyes on thee.
The charm of your eponymous town
enfolded me like a goose-down gown.
The sunsets over Rangeley Lake
create such scenes of sheer delight.
Your designated landing zone
makes seaplane tours a prize you own.
These Lakes of Maine, and six thousand more
all assure you; they will not bore.
The lakes of Maine, they beckon you
and when you come, your heart they’ll woo.
Fabel Sixteen
PART ONE
Fabel Sixteen
CharlaX Fables
Famous Charles'
Historic “Charles”
WE now explore the the Charles of HIStory or HiSTORY LOLZX.
The History of Charles County
________________________________________
Where can you find great seafood, enough history to fill several books, top-flight
golf, first-class fishing and acres and acres of some of the most beautiful forest
land on the East Coast?? The answer can be found just eighteen miles south of
Washington, DC, in Charles County, Maryland -- an area that has become a
Mecca for heaters and anglers, and a magnet for history buffs and seafood-
lovers .ed.note. This is a love poem of some propulsion to see iff she is looking
closely at the mee.
Saint Charles Inn
The Inn, formerly known as the St. Charles Hotel, was built in 1913 by Mr. and
Mrs. Charles Barthle. It was widely known for its' hospitality to commuters on the
Orange Belt Railroad, which came through San Antonio. Many visitors came and
stayed for the winter season. Word soon spread about the family atmosphere
and delicious meals prepared from their garden lover. She is so faithful and so
blessed and gives my heart a rest she loves me best.
Charles Demuth (1883-1935)
"Deem" as some of his friends called him, was born in a Lancaster house on
North Lime Street. At age 7, he and his family moved to the King Street home
where he spent most of his lifetime. Demuth's health was frail; from an early age
he suffered from lameness and as an adult from severe diabetes. He graduated
from Franklin and Marshall Academy and studied at Drexel Institute and the
Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts in Philadelpia.P.A. Lover. She travels hard
and she has to work too much she needs to rest.
H
MY SECRET RIVER
~~~~~~~~~~
Its source some distance from its end, highlands.
A little trickle meanders a mile.
Pure, full of many forms of life, no fish!
Now babbles over rocky ground, the brook,
widening, now with banks, sticklebacks, the fish.
Water still pure, a stream has formed, o joy.
Its banks not high, festooned with flowers, joy.
Now some miles from its source in the highlands.
A sunny summers day, the stream with fish,
high banks, kingfishers nesting every mile.
Faintly, on calm days, hark the babbling brook.
Approaching river size, otters swim with fish.
Still growing, flowing fast, the herons fish.
Through wonderland, glades and glens, total joy!
From a trickle to sticklebacks, a brook.
The stream now some ten miles from the highlands,
river now formed, splendour, mile after mile!
Rapids, mini falls, salmon, what a fish!
Aquatic life amazing, birds and fish.
Anglers banned, this river no strife for fish!
A wildlife sanctuary, a smile a mile,
how I wish wildlife could smile their joy.
Walked its length, the sweet call of the highlands.
Several miles upstream, distant is the brook.
Its source a memory, likewise the brook.
The stickleback such a dainty, cute fish,
must move downstream, cold the winter highlands.
All memories for me, the birds and the fish!
Fishing with just a worm, much childhood joy.
Frail now, lucky if I can walk a mile.
Collect smiles in my camera, mile on mile.
My favourite smile, the babbling tiny brook,
gurgling, rapping, o so full of joy.
Then I remember, salmon, what a fish,
its leaping rapids, such power in a fish.
Tonight again I'll dream the highlands.
The highlands, many secret trickle mile,
some fish were found in the cool babbling brook.
The fish found downstream o what pure joy
On the TV
Talent getting paid a salary fee
In control of distributing information
Monitoring backstage scripted decisions
Dude was inland
Miles from the ocean sand
Reading a line not as a joke
Instead a journalistic quote
“Rough Seas”
Translates to “Surfer Cheese”
Through the darken sight
Waves chop interpreted by some as 'all right!'
Quiet on the beach
Only flying birds are in reach
Peaceful sounds
Crash down
While salty air
Seasons the shore with a crispy flair
Energizing the setting saying ‘I care’
Then settling in for a challenging natural stare
Standing there board at their side
Looking into the water’s curly eyes
It is a gamble one must take
Enticed by the gigantic wake
It is now time the dice should be thrown
Feeling warm after a gust is blown
Wearing armor wet and tight
Having more courage than a knight
Ready to swim head first into a fight
As a ripple starts a climb
A surfer who has time
Chooses the exact moment to unwind
Sliding to catch the pitch
Knowing how and when to bail out with a ditch
Balancing on the wooden device
Wondering if God’s creation is going to be nice
Picturesque picture soon is captured
At any second it could be a disaster
In the end
Calm waters do descend
And that is when
The surfer finishes the glide
With a kind gesture, ‘good bye’
Only to return back to the tide
Needing another good ride
Surf was up on this day
Despite the skies being grey
Sun worshippers stayed at home
While surfer diplomacy made peace all alone
Loosening an angry heavenly grip
After listening to humans on a simple long dog ship
Returning to a placid look
Making friends luring the anglers’ bait and hook