Long Fishing net Poems
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I have many times before,
Tried to walk away from this poetry of mine,
But as usual ended up in a state of deplore.
Alas, this life of abhor has grown into an addicted entwine.
My life as a poet is all cold sweat,
I guess is now my curse.
It is now trapped on a piece of paper like a laden fishing net,
My moments are trapped within its verse.
As I live my moments……`
My life is now but a dream,
And the dream is now my life.
I have no longer the need to scream,
these written words are a silent whisper akin a surgeon’s knife.
All my life I have had to be a fighter,
And my pen gave me my voice,
Now I know why I am a writer
who has won his fights without a noise.
My past is spiked and laced with mistakes,
I don’t have, any remorse or regret,
my mind and its temple have borne the bruises and aches,
Am smug about it and would like to relive it without being upset.
My devious past fuels my emotionally charged words and text,
And fires from within me the unchained rage,
Am never about it vexed or even perplexed,
As in this ink lies my sweat, blood & tears, stained & burnt but easy to gauge.
My verses are my memories of the bygone,
The paper on which I write on is my stage,
My tainted pen nib is my microphone,
And my life is perched on what was once a blank page.
For quite some time now this pen is my teacher,
And my mind controls these words I write,
These verses guide me out of darkness and make me richer,
And become the beacon, my guiding light.
I have spent so much time alone,
That I needed someone to say hi
My life was stuck in silence and blown,
I pick up this pen when feelings low have to glide by.
As I scribble my dreams,
The ink replaces my tears,
The verses consume my life with screams,
and I sculpt within them all my fears.
I have tried to walk away from this poetry,
But my life is snared up in a verse,
My life is trapped on a piece of paper,
My poetic life is now my curse.
Is it really my curse!!!!!!!!
Or a reflection of my thoughts to the happenings averse….
Into my poetry I must myself immerse
And sharpen my thoughts to make them diverse…….
And my life joyfully traverse
So now
I do not need to walk away from my poetry of mine
Align and live my life filled with mirth and sunshine.
From the rising sun in the east
To casted shadows after dark in the west,
Our tribal marked faces show,
A timeless story, aglow.
Seasons come and go,
Hiding shades and dimmed sparks.
Beneath the sprawling swamps,
Cornering meandered mangroves,
Our roots run deep,
Anchored in attires of legacy.
Our heads see without light,
Guided by old wisdom unspoken.
Truth and strength wrap us,
Like leaves hiding the stem,
This binding keeps us to mother earth,
Fatherland, and to each other.
The river Nun whispers
Future tales of our past,
Her ebb and flow carry songs of joy,
Of resilience, of hope.
Wells oiled to bustle with life,
Echoing voices of a southern people united,
Crafting stories with each fishing net,
With each catch and harvest,
With each chant that shakes the air.
We stand with one another,
As trees in a forest,
Strong and steadfast,
Each branch reaching,
Each leaf singing,
Together in harmony,
Brothers and sisters fit to guide,
The new call of the river Nun.
A rose named Brighton
For your funeral flowers
A stunning golden yellow hue
The place you were born Son
But now sadly gone Son
This yellow rose so perfect
I pray my Son you see it too
A year has gone by
Your family and I
here to celebrate your life
your son ~ your daughter ~ your mum ~ your wife
We take a short walk
to the Bandstand
looking to the sea beyond
For our gift to you
is the Brighton rose
A symbol of our love
But oh my Son
you had other ideas
Was it you ~ were you having some fun
For the rose kept returning
Despite the tide turning
And kept ending up on the beach in the sun
Several times
your dear son
threw it back in the sea
but each time it returned
did you send it back for me
With love in our hearts we shed a few tears
When all of a sudden a small child appears
Clutched in her hand a pink fishing net
Wondering what she would catch
And before we could stop her
your rose she doth net
As we sensed her excitement
skipping over the stones
our mouths were wide open ~ our eyes they met
She was showing her mother your rose in her net
Your wife at this point
She dashed to retrieve
saying …
‘The rose was for my husband
we had put it in the sea
So I would be very grateful
if you return the rose to me’
Her mother she was mortified
and handed back your rose
and once again your yellow rose
floated in a wintery sea
though still returned again and again
and that is when you spoke to me
‘Mum please don't you see
I am cold
I am wet
take me home I plea
Do not leave me in the sea’
~~~~~ ~~~~~ ~~~~~
The yellow rose I dried
and tears of joy I cried
now in a vase
here next to me
your Brighton Rose
now here forever
just for me
to see…
Written 17th November 2020
Contest ALL YOURS (JAN 24)
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A
I saw....
Two black crystal balls
Rimmed with white
Reflecting an indefinable emotion
Glowing with some intense passion
Riveting,
Entrancing!
Two eyes of oceanic depths
Relaying the most intimate message
What did they commune?
PERHAPS- they said silently- "I love you" (?)
So piercing were those eyes
That I couldn't stand their electric glare
From those eyes, rose the Promethean fire
Glistening like molten gold,
At once sending out,
The light of a hundred galaxies.
In the fire bursting through those eyes,
My body was turned into a conflagration
And my soul rippled like fermented wine.
Why didn’t I respond instantly
PERHAPS, I was so stunned,
That my body couldn’t follow the sense’s urging
An ocean was stirring within
Whose whirls could never again be tamed
In those flooding pools,
Let me cast my fishing net.
What catch, can I expect?
PERHAPS, the boon and bliss of a lifetime!
Every morning and everyday
With a little hope and play
The fisherman wakes up early morning
When it shines or storming
He makes hooks for the start of day
He takes a nap and that’s okay
The nights he watches and sees
The sunset over the seas
He throws the fishing net
He hopes and prays the trap is set
He counts his counts in time
He then pulls and catches fish sublime
Through the night he does this
This is his work and he is in bliss
The day starts again, sunrise
He comes home with a catch for surprise
He catches different type of fish
The catch makes it on his dish
The extra fish will be sold
He needs the profit not fish that is old
Then the day begins again
As his life continues to make hooks began
Each and every morning with twist and bends
A jolly fisherman who takes naps and the day ends
A Jolly Fisherman
Date: 9/4/2022
Julia Ward
So unbelievably alive
A man puts out his fishing net
Without even a slight breeze or breath
while he waits … on the wriggling fish
Fluctuations in the sound of seagulls
A universe for the silent man
listening, longing and living
Exquisitely flight in all the right places
how could they knows
no harm from the sharp edges
They will hunt again tomorrow
In a sky blue horizon
and a crystal clear hymn from the ocean
All develop over time, with humility
Like the waves consume along the coast
19/02/2021
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Internet, internet, internet
It is neither a fishing net
Nor a mosquito net
But it caught everyone in its net.
When the internet was invented
New ways to connect were created.
It changed the world very fast
As it influenced people a lot.
The handwritten letters vanished
And mails became diminished.
Emails became the norm
With everyone looking at the cam.
Living very far wasn't bad
As you could instantly talk to your dad.
But some thing bad started happening
As people’s doors started closing.
Face-to-face talk decreased
As online messaging increased.
Everyone started typing
And alongside came down writing.
Although everyone seemed connected
They became socially disconnected.
But I am of the opinion
That we will all have a reunion.
We will all connect together
To make our world better.
Internet, internet, internet
It is neither a fishing net
Nor a mosquito net
But it is what connected our planet.
Downtown moody boulevard chaos with
geometric grid shaped layout and contrasting
zones some fashionable clapperboard happy
comfy with creepin Bougainvillea outer walls
and others dark and lonely dog dirt proud – San
Francisco with its great fishing net big catch clam
mix of Chinese, Mexican, Red Indian stock, the down
and dowdy, the rich and radiant the haves and want
to haves and the opium red eyed living dead – they’ve
been heading out this way for years seeking their
fortune from the early gold rush days and Barbary
coast dwellers, the out of town chancers, all looking
for a free piece of pie, everyone wants the deal, everyone
wants to win on the dollar wheel – walking downtown
along Fisherman’s Wharf with it crab steam pots and
chowder sit easy squats and the huge swaying mass of
touristy camera clicking lot, walking down Obese Pacific
Highway thinking about America land of make it, use it,
chuck it, heaps of expendable disposable commodities –
visited City Lights bookstore shrine where Ferlinghetti
printed Ginsberg’s Howl and the whole Beat Generation
kicked off with the free flow thinkers so new and daring
think Pollack in words so brave and loose now faded with
ghosts of Kerouac and Burroughs in every shadowy bar –
big visit to Frisco Museum of Modern Art and introduction
to Sam Taylor Wood and Ralston Crawford keeping the
flame alive. Yosemite was a silent mountain contrast
hiking 5000 ft to elevated waterfalls on the trail of the
lonesome pine – then along the coast of grow anything
Santa Barbara, Santa Maria, Santa Monica and sacks of
Santa Claus goodies. Looking forward to Big Sur and
more Kerouac dream connections. Not looking forward
to flying home, could stay her, would stay here, if I was
rich or carefree with time, or daring and loose.
Off the bridge it goes into cold water
Carried down the angry river which raged away
One argyle sock looks like the other
Separated from the mate by accident
Despair turned into a missing pair
No more washer dryer cycles of life
Agitation tumbles forth
Takes a turn for the worst
Spills into ocean waves to foreign lands
Where a large bass or whale would swallow it
A fate that made no matter to the sock
It ended up in China in a fishing net
Where every part of a fish is eaten
Anything that moves is food
A mother put the sock before her son
In a soup it looks delicious
When the boy took a bite he cried
This tastes disgusting! It is too tough!
He tried some salt and pepper as dad suggested
Mom screamed, put a sock in it and eat it!
People are starving in countries other than our own
There is a place where the land bows down to kiss the misty tide,
Where rolling waves bring memories of the place my heart resides.
There among the old fishing shacks that stretch along the shore,
I find the thing I’m longing for, in your sweet embrace once more.
We sit together on a weathered log I carve my initials on,
And as you mend the fishing net, I sing your favorite song,
“Oh Danny Boy”, falls on the wind and floats across the bay,
As you smile at me and melt my heart, with words you do not say.
Beneath a golden sun with the fish and the smell of wild flowers,
A little girl and her Grandpa, sit happily and while away the hours,
And when the sun dips in the bay, we put the mended nets away,
And hand-in-hand walk home again, to the end of a perfect day.
~~~~~~
Author: Elaine George
(In loving memory of Theodore Evans - My Grandfather)