Long Fishing gear Poems
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CONTINUES FROM : Just A Farmer 1
NOTE: Type of Music Video I had in mind is one that starts out with the son driving home but arrives too late and his Dad has died. After the funeral the son drives to the cemetery, gets out of the car and walks toward his Dad's headstone. The son removes his cowboy hat and begins to talk to his Dad's spirit....
I'm remembering our favourite fishing hole...Do you remember when you near lost your lure studded hat . When you and old Misery begin the routine combat. You fell in the river and old Misery got away...again ! I laughed myself to tears as you thundered home soaking wet . (silent pause as son reflects) miss you pops (deep breath exhales and sighs) Mama sent your trophy hat with you . perhaps old Misery followed knowing you ..would be fishing in a crystal river way beyond the blue...(The son turns away from the headstone and is astonished at the ghost-like figure of his Dad. The Dad is wearing the lure decorated fishing hat and dressed in fishing gear, a fishing rod is leaning against a tree. the Dad smiles & waves as the son stands speechless. The Dad reaches for his fishing rod, rests it on his shoulder. The son comes out of his trance and waves back just in time. The Dad turns and begins to whistle as his ghostly figure slowly evaporates. The son now filled with peace and joy replaces his cowboy hat on his head and walks to his car. He opens the drivers door to find lying on the passenger seat is his Dad's lure studded fishing hat)
(ALTERNATIVE Part in MUSIC VIDEO) the son could ride his horse to the cemetery and upon returning to the horse find his Dad's lure decorated hat slung over the saddle horn)
I used to fish from the banks of a lake next to our farm
many many years ago. My fishing gear consisted
of a thin branch cut from a willow tree. For a hook
I used a needle my mom gave me. I would use pliers
and hold it over a fire.
Then I would bend it to form a hook. For a line, I would
use white sewing thread. For bait, I would use mom’s
cookie doe and shaped small balls and place them on my home-made hook.
I remember the blue green water of the lake where one
could drink without fear of contaminants. I would
use a match stick for a bobber and caught numerous perch and crappy. Mom would clean them and cook them in lard she made herself.
Life was simple then. Dad and Mom were always together and would often held hands as they walked to the grocery store. The air was so clean and pure that breathing was like inhaling nature. I would listen to the silence and my thoughts
were so clear and simple. I knew who I was and where I came from.
Oh, how I miss those carefree days.
Gone fishing.
We decided to go fishing,
Granddad Dad and I .
We booked a Bed and Breakfast
up in the Isle of Skye.
We set off Friday morning
with lots of fishing gear,
and Granddad even managed
to sneak aboard some beers.
Up the road we went,
arriving late at night,
and in the early morning
my goodness what a sight.
The mountains stood so purple
and on the Loch a haar.
We were quickly down for breakfast
and then back to the car.
We drove down to the Loch
and hired a lovely boat.
The weather was quite nippy
so we buttoned up our coats.
We settled down to fish.
It was a brilliant day,
and Granddad told me stories
of the ones that got away.
We rowed back to the quay
and unloaded all our fish.
The day was quite successful,
even more than we could wish.
I tied the boat up tight
and walked back to the car.
When someone drew attention,
by shouting from a far.
A man was standing pointing,
back towards the quay,
and there we saw the boat
floating out to sea!
Grandad looked at Father,
then Father looked at me.
"I thought it was secure,
how can this possibly be".
"When it comes to tying rope,
the skills i have not got,
you thought i was a Sailor,
I am a frayed knot"!
Another sunny day out for me
Fishing is where I will be
I load up my car with my fishing gear
And I will go and see if the lake is all clear
I add a worm to my fishing pole
Catching a big fish is my goal
Last year the fishing wasn't so great
But if I don't catch one today I will hate
Maybe if I go back to my favorite spot
I will still have a real shot
I throw my line way out into the lake
All I'm asking is for a break
The next thing I knew I got a nibble
My fishing line kept on wiggling
The fish gave me a big fight
But the fish was still not in my sight
I started to reel in my fishing line
All I can think of is this fish is mine
I got my fishing line back on land
But I don't understand
Well that fish was gone, but it gave me a lot of fun
All I wanted to do was just catch one
So for fishing today I'm all done
You pack up all your fishing gear
On the night before
Then you wake up very early
And you head on out the door
You drive when it's still dark outside
And mist is in the air
Sandy-eyed and wide awake
Because you'll soon be there
As you approach the river
And the sun begins to rise
You step into the water
With your fishing pole and flies
Quietly you cast your line
And let the flies drift free
You let it flow into a spot
Where you think the trout might be
Patience is the remedy
And patience does prevail
You may just hook the fish you want
To bring home for a meal
I prefer to catch a trout
And then to set him free
I may keep one or two all year
And that's okay with me
When I do release a trout
It's a feeling I can't explain
I like to see him swagger off
And leave him in no pain
It's always nice to fight a trout
And it's fun to reel one in
But just to be out on the river
Will always make me grin
So if you see me fishing
Or if you see me out
Rest assure I'll be fishing for
That big old rainbow trout
THE OLD FISHERMEN BY THE SEA
They meet there every morning…every day of every year.
At the end of the pier they gather…with all their fishing gear.
Sometimes they greet each other by first names
Sometimes they smile instead….
Sometimes it’s a simple gesture…
a wave or a nod of the head.
As they bait their hooks and cast their lines
they chatter endlessly
about their lives, their families and sometimes fishing…
these old fishermen by the sea.
If you ask them, will they ever miss a day of fishing
they quickly say… “We won’t.”
And they are happy if they catch a fish
but just as happy if they don’t.
For though it was fishing that brought them together
now, it seems to me,
it’s about so much more than fishing
for these old fishermen by the sea.
The boys sat on the bridge, dangled legs above the water,
a tractor crossing that lifts and rattles, loosely laid with sleepers,
rut tracks between the marshy fields as rough wheels slowly pass,
crossed with bankside bullrushed dikes and scattered lonely sheep,
dagged bottoms up, all black heads down,white teeth to wetted grass.
Fifty’s cotton printed frock skirts mother’s seated lap.
Her hair is tightly bunched and tied in cotton farm scarf wrap.
Her arms enfold and hold me there, as I am quietly sat.
The boys are pulling tiddlers, quick flashing in the sun.
Excited shrieks and sudden shouts drift down the weedy dike.
I see their makeshift rods and lines pull fish up one by one.
I hold my cane with cotton thread and watch my bobbing cork,
and wonder why the boys have fish, and why this boy has none.
Uncle made the fishing gear, made safe for one so young.
Uncle made the fishing gear and thought it would be fun,
so hook and bait were missing, for safety, there was none.
Two friends go out fishing,
it was a lovely day.
You cannot beat this pastime
to dwindle time away.
They park beside a bridge
get on their fishing gear.
Feeling really good
they even have some beer.
Further down the road
coming from afar,
three cars are approaching
one is a Funeral car.
As the front car passes
one man stands and bows his head,
clearly showing respect
to the bereaved and to the dead.
He lingers for a moment
then puts back on his cap.
His friend looks on in awe,
thinks what a decent chap.
"That was very nice of you,
to stop, respect a life."
"To take onboard the pain involved
for a husband or a wife."
"It was the least that i could do,
in fact i feel some tears."
"After all she was my wife
for nearly twenty years!"
In the wind, hear a plaintive, mournful wail.
It is more than a wolf caught in a trap.
It's more than fishing gear catching a whale
and rainforests being wiped from the map.
It is a voice that cannot speak in words.
Across the ages, you discern the moan
of vanishing prairies, buffalo herds,
that's carried by plowed up topsoil, windblown.
Earth's untamed ecosystems we hold dear
are crying softly, asking for our help,
grimly warning that they will disappear.
Like a badly injured dog's dying yelp,
hear the wilderness's last gasping breath,
"Save me from the clench of languishing death".