Long Fisherman Poems
Long Fisherman Poems. Below are the most popular long Fisherman by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Fisherman poems by poem length and keyword.
A fisherman just yanked his catch,
Still squirming, from the river.
I never thought those waves contained
Such bounty to deliver.
I asked what kind of fish it was;
The catcher didn’t know.
He cut the hook and wrapped it,
His free meal from down below.
We gaze out at the surface
And we hardly ever wonder
‘Bout the teeming life existing
Out of sight, in realms down under.
And humankind, just like the sea,
Has depths we cannot plumb;
For sticking to the surface
Has become the rule of thumb.
We cross the paths of people
Yet it’s rare to make the leap
From their obvious appearance
To what lurks beneath the deep.
The father was a fisherman…the weekend could never come too soon.
He loved to drive up to the lake and fish under the moon.
The son was not interested in catching fish…
still…his weekend could never come too soon
when he accompanied his father up to the lake
he couldn’t wait to catch the moon.
The father often wished a fisherman his son would one day make
but the son seemed much more interested in catching the moon reflected in the lake.
One day instead of handing his son a fishing pole on a quiet moment afloat…
the father filled a bucket with water and set it in the boat.
“Keep your eyes on the water in the bucket.” The father said.
“I’ll row around and soon…
let me know the exact moment when you have caught the moon.”
The son was so excited having captured the moon…as it shimmered in his palm…
He smiled as he asked…”Dad, can we take it home to Mom?”
“The moon is not meant to be captured for long.” His father was quick to say.
“But do not fret, when we get home…I’ll show you another way.”
When they returned home from the lake…they shared with Mom the good news
And then…
the father refilled the bucket and said, “Let’s all go catch the moon again.”
The father knew a lot of tricks…he’d been teaching his son since he was small
but that night he taught his son, perhaps, the greatest trick of all.
He showed his son a father’s love is something that can never come too soon…
the night they filled their bucket with water…and went fishing for the moon.”
The fisherman sat on the bank
patiently he waits for a bite
but his reel stayed very lank
He wanted to score a good rank
but was having no luck at this site
the fisherman sat on the bank
A few nibbles and his reel sank
his bait gone, words he did incite
but his reel stayed very lank
With a splash his reel it did tank
with a whooping enormous bite
the fisherman sat on the bank
The gods up above he did thank
his luck he believed not quite
but his reel stayed very lank
By now he had got very dank
and shaking off a pesky mite
the fisherman sat on the bank
but his reel stayed very lank
A GUMMY FISHERMAN
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The sheltered bay disguised what was to come
Around the headland we hit it head on
Four to five meter waves and breaking on top
And a wind that was building making lots of spray
A man takes many risks for a crayfish on his plate
For the pots needed to be pulled from the deep reef
Then baited with a fresh lot of stinking fish bait
Hoping to lure the wily crayfish into the pot
With the sea boiling the boat cut through the waves
Sending water and spray every which way
The fisherman holding on to keep their feet on deck
As the motors strain to keep a forward motion
The fishermen search for the buoys in the white water
As the rolling sea tosses them about like a cork in a bottle
The buoys know sighted make ready to haul the pots up
Hoping that they contain a few crayfish for their effort
There is no color in the first three pots, they are baited
Then tossed back into the rough and deep water
The last pot pulled and on the deck contains one small cray
Not a keeper, what a bummer, throw him back to grow bigger
With head down low kneeling on the deck
The rotten bait smells so ghastly get up my nose
Dry reaching, pale and feeling quite sick
I heave it up and let it flow over the side
Boy oh boy did I let the sickness flow
Breakfast, dinner and tea all in one go
I heaved it up my false teeth went with it
Over the side and into the boiling sea
Feeling miserable and quite ill, we headed back
To the bay and much calmer water
I thought about my teeth now in the water
Maybe a Gummy shark ate them up?
So now I fish the bay with a toothless mouth
And I target the Gummy Shark, hoping in vain
That one day whilst fishing, I will be lucky
And catch the Gummy that has a toothy smile
MY TRIALS ARE MY TESTIMONY
My trials are mine
My trials are mine
My trials are my...testimony
My pardon Lord, you are my bearer
Forgiving Lord, ever caring
Your my representative
I give it all to you my sins
My trials are mine
My trials are mine
My trials are my...testimony
I bring it all to you Lord, God
I'm entrusting you will make me stronger Lord
I'm curtain that I'll be encouraged if I continue in your word
When I have a bad day, My trials are my...testimony
Sick and bed ridden, My trials are my...testimony
No food on my table, can't pay my bills
Oh! refuse to be ill, My trials are my...testimony
Oh! my God, my God, My trials are my...testimony
11/09/16
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr.
Arranged music by Apostle Edgar Baker
from the anthology "Common Man a Fisherman"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The bobber, heavy with promise, dips,
while the writer’s pen lingers~
both waiting for the pull below,
the sudden tension of something alive.
The fisherman watches the water’s skin,
its ripples like unread pages,
while the writer stares at the blankness,
a lake of white where shadows move.
Sometimes the line goes slack.
Sometimes the words won’t bite.
You reel in emptiness
or crumple the page,
but you cast again.
Because beneath the stillness,
in the deep where light doesn’t reach,
something shifts~
a flicker, a flash~
and you know it’s there,
even if you never land it.
*If you enjoyed this poem, you may be interested in its companion memoir vignette posted in Poetry Soup: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/fishing_for_words_13581
A path I never towed
Has no trace of my foot print
Only those that destiny bid me
I have walked and paid my fee.
It is only destiny
That can lift a man
Towards that path he dreads
And circumstances push him
Towards it for his daily bread.
The path I now tow
Is a path I never thought
Just as a farmer dreads the sea
And as the fisherman dreads the flea
While both ended opposite directions
Doing that they dread to perfection.
A Cobbler
Tomorrow may become a Mason,
A Teacher
Tomorrow may become a Spokesperson
And a Servant
Tomorrow may take the place of his master.
A path I never towed
Out of fear and ignorance
And out of what opportunities it beholds
May someday spread its heart before me
Hoping that I am prepared to hold its key.
© Ayinla, Muyideen Adeleke 2019
I watch you this morning,
bathed in cold October dew,
wrapped in wisps of mist, just awakened.
You long to welcome the first rays of the sun,
while my brisk steps
— professionally hardened hammer blows
from the nearby construction site
— and the heavy, hoarse coughing
of hardened smokers echo around you.
I know, my old one.
No, you’re not old…
it’s just how I say it,
the way they used to call you fondly.
The fervor and warmth of the greats’
expression, and of many familiar and unfamiliar bohemians,
dreamers,
warriors,
sufferers,
and builders.
What you
— Hey, handsome— do you hear?
They put your shine into the gilt colors of the palette,
— not to prolong you,
but because they honor you
with their soul and heart.
My dear Dobrica,
I know everything.
Reading this morning all your messages
left in the leaves of long rows of trees,
in the graceful walk and the ringing echo of your doves’ heels.
In gentle whisperings through the parks,
and the loud peals of church bells
into the throat of a long, blue night…
You love them all.
And they love you.
They know it:
the little ducks,
the gulls…
the white swans…
fishermen
and lazy downstream tugboats
woven into the emotions of the river’s verse,
diving deep into your soul,
merging in the mist of
Splavarska Street with the horizon of your eternity.
To Jules Verne
A man feeling drowse at the top of the mountain, fell asleep.
He dreamed dreams
emanating from floods of seas.
In remote droughts,
he gave his fruit of smoke
on a simple altar.
Curd quartz opened
solidifying thousands of stamens,
they glowed
like the warm reflection of the stars on the sand,
the man kept close watch of the r.e.m. hour.
life is the strife of one baptized
in the depths of all his memories,
yet he forgets before awakening.
Founding himself face to face
with another man holding a frozen fish
and a bucket,
they begun the climb down,
What do you fish when you fish,
he asked,
for a bolt of fire, said the man
as he released the fish into the ground
and rubbed his hands,
cryogenics?
no, fisherman.
Maid arise;
In a village house;
A maiden laid out to rest;
Presumed dead by the family;
But alas...
Even with witness;
She shall arise;
Maid arise;
But alas...
Her eyes closed;
Death clothes worn;
Family scorn;
Villagers and friend and family know!!
A maiden laid out to rest;
Presumed dead by the family;
Maid arise;
But alas...
The parents heard Jesus spoke;
"Fear not, believe only, she shall be whole" this He spoke so.
Those doubters,
He took her by the hand and called out
"Maid arise",
Come open thine eyes
ARISE
Spirit come again into me
ARISE
straightway come
Allow my heart to feel again
Lord, My God help me breathe again
Give me meat for my physical needs
Give me manna for my spiritual needs
Arise Oh! daughter Rise
Yes was in this village house;
A maiden laid out to rest;
Presumed dead by the family;
But alas... before our eyes
Maid arise;
1/7/18
WRITTEN BY James Edward Lee Sr.
A dedication to my Fisherman Friend One of God's Daughters
"AKKINA DOWNING"