Long Anglers Poems
Long Anglers Poems. Below are the most popular long Anglers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Anglers poems by poem length and keyword.
Some people think knots are for boy scouts and sailors
Cowboys, hangmen,Anglers and whalers
But knots have many jobs to do
To make this point I'll name a few
turning two heavy ropes into one?
The Carrick bend will get that done.
Do you need a loop at your rope's end?
On the figure eight you can depend.
Are you scaling walls of the steepest pitch?
You'ld be wise to perfect your Munter hitch.
Are you fishing one line, but wishing for two?
The Bimini twist can make that come true.
Please judge your knots by function and form
For if you tie them wrong
Your fish could be lost, Your boat could get tossed
Or your plummet could be mighty long
Here comes the judge contest
"Piscator non solum piscatur"
("There is more to fishing than fish.)"
______________________________
Brown trout anglers catch few fishes
and almost always let them go
barbless hooks make more for wishes
then creels full to dazzle
children’s eyes.
Brown trout anglers tell tales distilled
of truth, of rises that didn’t take and
fish as long as your arm that always
get away.
They reminisce over glimpses of otters,
mink, beavers, muskrat and deer.
pileated woodpeckers, wild turkey
snapping turtles, frogs and snakes
orchids, iris and skunk cabbage
mosquitoes, blackflies and nettles.
And if you define a river by its banks
and not its water, then it remains the
same waiting for next year.
__________________________________
If truth has its own thesis
That hardly needs emphasis.
If untruth's antithesis,
Post-truth's perhaps synthesis—
Untruth’s sis, and a miss so famous,
Year twenty sixteen’s pet amorphous!
If unstressed syllable is thesis,
The stressed one's known as arsis,
I need no stress, said thesis,
Untruth's usurped all the emphasis,
Her sis, the miss is much-crowned,
Post-truth pouts a visage frowned.
If truth a fulsome fact is,
And untruth though fictitious,
Still lives in relative ease,
And post-truth, a smarter miss,
And anglers' much prized a fish,
That might one day be a cherished dish.
We know, truth oft silent is
Faced with dogged emphasis
Of lie, who an ace sprinter is,
Faster anywhere reaches,
Where post-truth ready to greet,
Welcomes it in ways discreet.
Post truth may enjoy long lease
In this New Year in sure bliss,
It’d live a life of effort-less ease
Judging from how the mood is.
It fits the times like fine rhyme,
I’d say: post-truth be the mood of time.
The only hope for truth if hope there's:
A proven marathoner it is.
__________________________________________________
Post-truth was the pet word of 2016. If truth is multi-dimensional as Jain philosophy believes, post truth is even more dynamic as this piece says.
___________________________________________________
Happenings | 08.01.17 |
Trees bending overhead, shadows fully employed
Fish resting 'neath the surface, their camouflage enjoyed
Abundant insects frolicking, diving and skimming the stream
Predators hungrily watching, nature's bountiful cuisine
Anglers stealthily wading, with implements designed
Perilous imposters, dancing on a line
Imitation insects, alluring and derailing
The angler flicks his wrist, often times prevailing
With skill and precision he tosses the bait
Dancing through shadows the imposter skates
Fish exploding in total captivation
Writhing about in lustful aggravation
Recoiling he jerks, prepares for the fight
Adrenaline rushes, as his trophy takes flight
Netting his prize from the crystal clear stream
Reliving a memory of a wintry dream.
an original poem by Daniel Turner
I was twenty when I was hired by the state
to watch out for fires that could devastate,
since the cost of flights was becoming too great,
up to the tower I go.
Now North Pennsylvania is a wild place,
to see it all burn would be a true disgrace,
and it’s an easy way to make my pay,
so to the tower I go.
Rumpled rows of ridges rolling to the south,
low, eroded hillsides of small mining towns,
and chittering squirrels, good lord they are loud,
when to the tower I go.
A carpet of trees, a scattering of fields,
a copse of white birches whose bark likes to peal,
anglers in a river, the long poles they yield,
high in the tower I go.
Most days I’m up here I do not have a care,
every half-hour I scan the hills and stare,
looking for stray smoke-lines or fire’s red glare,
why to this tower I go.
I’ve caught a few small ones, mostly lightning-strike,
helped find one started by a kid’s motorbike,
with three-sixty views they’ll not escape my sight,
when to this tower I go.
But mostly it’s hikers that I see up here,
uoung families with kids who play like pioneers,
and some of them will not come up out of fear,
but to the tower most go.
They ask me of mountains after their long climb,
what peak’s over there? Am I here all the time?
they’re so happy that I do not really mind,
within the tower they go.
The fathers all think there’s some value in this,
here in the clean air, no phones and no office,
and no whiny customers constantly pissed,
they have no tower to go.
But it’s no like the old days in small cabins cold,
come dusk I walk down and then drive to my home,
and I’ll get my work-out tomorrow, I know,
back to the tower I’ll go.
Careful Little One
Swim away little one
Do not stop and look
That thing hanging on the line
Is Shorty’s fishing hook
I know it looks inviting
But baby you will learn
That you would rather skip a meal
Then bite down on that worm
He is the greatest fisherman
That comes here to the lake
and if you try to tempt him
He’ll just throw in some new bait
He has circle hooks and anglers
Treble hooks with points of three
He has colored hooks and metal hooks
Even hooks that look like me
He doesn’t come here to relax
No napping in the sun
He comes here for the catch
Never leaving with just one
So stay away from those hanging things
Don’t you dare forget
Cause if he lets you slip away
He’ll catch you in his net
04/07/2021
Written for my friend Shorty, the greatest Fisherman I ever knew
Refuge
Whither the river flows and finds its way
Life surges and ebbs by hunter and prey,
There, beside wooded paths alert anglers fish
By slow waters where cool willows sway.
Painted boats glide on the bright wavelet’s crest,
Below shaded bridges, fish feed or rest
And gather in close clumps of reed or sedge,
A Grey Heron sits upon its open nest.
Passing tall grassed meadows where cattle graze,
Under oaks, horses retreat from heat filled haze
Nervous rabbits run to bank side burrows
And field mice escape the lone raptor’s gaze,
The silent hunter waits and finds his mark.
Inside a moored boat’s cabin, a dog’s bark
As fox and cubs sleep in their hidden lair,
While others find refuge in the watchful dark.
Barry Stebbings
July 2023
Written: July 04, 2023
______________________________________________________________
A respected river, your holiness sublime.
Purifies within if we let your essence seep.
From the powerful mountains, you climb
Pious and deep, it cures thirst spirits, creep
We all joined in a loud wave of ovation.
Farmers and anglers exploit it commonly.
Before you slowly dyke into the ocean.
Your pristine oceans are just heavenly.
Favoring even those who have sinned.
I've begun to write a tale of keen people.
Your purity is lovely, a river so revered.
You arose from the depths of a steeple.
Quenching the thirst of souls, from the abyss.
Peasants and boatmen, united in bliss,
Your presence is a source of joy and peace.
As we gather along your banks, we find release.
But as you journey toward the endless sea,
Our hearts ache, as we agnize you must leave.
Yet your holiness remains, forever to foresee
Waters, so pure, cleanse our souls, we believe.
The rapids slow churning, struggling
Cling to the sharp-edged stones
Dart through cracks and crevices
To no avail
For water has no conscience
Winter ice may give it hope
Clinging to frosted stones
Seal its tormentor beneath
The grimace of an icy blanket
Mute the moan of its raging fury
Spring’s whispers taunt its deep silence
Dance upon its awakening ice flow
Entice still shivering buds to bloom
Trout await the first fly hatch
Anglers await the trout
Wide rivers ease the water’s rage
Old earthen dams again hold fast
Divert its ire to brook and stream
Long fingers reaching to the sea
To meet on tides its destiny
Angrily, rain enfolds the insular rise of lawn undulating.
Anglers dream, envious fishermen, inside looking out urging
apostles, who elope within imaginary onslaughts, hooked unburdening's.
Aloft, thunder encounters lightening's insistent taunt, oracles fearsome uttering's.
And still, each fisherman's innermost summoning orchestrates this untoward
atmospheric downfall, each drop induced, prayerful, outpouring is underscored.
Admittedly many envious housebound inmates seek oceans, lakes, unexplored
although, the earthly torrent interferes pitiless, onerous, rainfall unleashed.
Absent the energizing rays introduced by ordinary sun, undone
are these enigmatic men in rooms, oar less, ship-less, landlubbers unconsoled.
Another day encases them indoors mooning over fish uncontrolled.
A trophy earned, stuffed, indisputably shows offerings untold.
Ah, fishtails energetically rise incensed by objections never unabridged
absent their earnest wives, imagination rolls on winds un-curtailed.