Long Gone fishing Poems
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I wish my brother
The best of us in a damaged family
Hadn't died
He was my best friend through the years
He kept me level headed and laughing at life
I wish I hadn't gone fishing that day
And missed my brother calling in
It would have been one more time
That I had seen him
Before he left this world
I wish I hadn't hurt
So many innocent people
In my raging youth
I can't go back and apologise
Or fix it
I wish I hadn't let my mouth
Be so loose
Hurting people with careless words
A lot of pointless pain
Could have been avoided
I wish I had been stronger
For my children
When they were young
I could have saved a lot of heartache
For them and for me
I wish I had told my son
That I needed him
Wanted him to come with me
Then he wouldn't have believed
The vicious lies
I wish I could be
The grandma I'd aimed to be
And longed to be
Due to inability to move much
That got lost
I wish I hadn't been so careless
With caring for my body
Through the years
A little bit of caution
And I wouldn't now be crippled
I wish I could
Have my physical health back
But that is no longer an option
Only a miracle
Can change it all
I wish I could find
My old sense of humour
But it's buried too deep
In the physical
And emotional pain
I wish there was a way
To let my mate know
How much I truly love and appreciate him
But no words or gifts
Will ever suffice
I wish there was a way
To stop spiralling down
A little more each day
I don't know how to fight it
Anymore
I wish my time to go
Was here and now
My spirit longs to be freed
But the time
is not mine to choose
papa's gone fishing down to the lake
i peeked in the cupboard
for something sweet to bake
i only had one cup of flour
and enough sugar to count one hour
my grandma's not awake
it's ok because she taught me to bake
i looked in that cupboard for something for savoring
and way in the back was 1tbsp of vanilla flavoring
i reached in as my fingers were at a halt
that's when i waisted a pinch of salt
there was a corner of baking powder
right next to the clam chowder
i remember the eggs softly beaten
i hope she wakes soon before they are all eaten
this recipe in my mind makes my soul shakes
as i remembered the recipe for ma dear's tea cakes
To say the world is an odd place'
is to say it may or may not rain tomorrow
There is the dilemma,
for nothing about the world
between birth and death is understandable
As an example
A young man walked into a store
where I was waiting to check out
hanging from both his ears were massive
ear rings,
the kind wore to only get attention
and attention he got, from me and
a couple of others
the guy behind me said "those have to hurt"
I just nodded
the young man must have heard us
so he spoke with a proud voice " pretty cool ear rings
don't you think"
and I replied as dry as I could " I don't know
if you really wanted to be cool
you would have worn eagle claw fish-hooks
with live worms hanging from them"
"Wow" was his reply..impressed by how out there
that would have been
My thought was how crazy is it that me
a normal guy could be crazier than the guy
wanting to be crazy
then I said " maybe you should go fishing more often"
with that I wanted to tell him there is a fine line between fishing
and sitting on the bank holding on to a piece of string
I afraid this guy is going to go through life
holding on to a piece of string,
never to catch a fish, it's more important to get attention
than to actually catch something
What an upside down world we live in
2/27/17 contest Upside Down World
I knew a man who was raised by a farmer,
who had a very large family; and this man that
I knew was one of 8 boys and 6 girls. This family
farm was located on some of the richest soil
in all the world, and it was surrounded with
great scenery. But unlike his father, he never
became a farmer but worked long and hard for a
company up North that made farming machinery.
An early retirement brought Bill back to the family farm
that was then being leased out by a younger brother to other
farmers. It wasn't long before Bill became a fisherman. Bill
loved to fish, and if anyone ever asked of the whereabouts
of Bill, all they'd have to say was, "Bill's gone fishing".
I was never privileged to go fishing with Bill, but his
sister, my wife, would often speak of the great fisherman
that he was. She'd gone fishing with Bill a time or two, and
would tell me that it seems that the fish knew Bill personally.
Of all the nets cast into the same plot of water, it appears that
the fish raced to Bill's line more than any other in the water.
Bill the fisherman was not in it commercially. It seems that next
to actually catching fish, giving fish away was Bill's greatest joy.
081722PSCtest, A Jolly Fisherman, Julia Ward
I thought lets go fishing
fancying a fish pie
or maybe fish and chips
that would do the trick
I set off, rod and bucket
full of worms in my hands
found a good spot to fish
by the rocks on the beach
Patiently I waited for a bite
then my rod dipped and bucked
soon I had four nice whoppers
flapping around in my bucket
Needing to answer call of nature
I slipped in between the trees
alas when I returned I found
one happy pelican looking full
An empty bucket he'd scoffed the lot
I sighed as I chucked a stone
it missed him by a country mile
no fish for supper I had no more worms
written 06/17/2013
contest Gone Fishing
sponsor Caleb Smith
Despairing seafaring..can be
Lore of days of yore
Glories or gory
Bold stories told
Foreshore folklore
Hemingway’s…Old
Man and the Sea
Smiles..feeling chipper
Like a wee nipper
Reeling in a ripper
Serious delirious skipper
No not a wee kipper
More like stealing Flipper (ah remember Flipper)
Sort of caught
Trials snort beguiles
Rather overwrought
Wiles & guile..fraught
Palaver..how they fought
All went iffy in a jiffy
This grouper.. a storm trooper
All came a cropper
Squiffy party pooper
Proper show stopper
The line snipped…then ripped
Pip gripped but it slipped
Flipper well flipped
Hadn't read the script
Skipped...Pip pipped
Tripped then quipped
Simply ill equipped
Despite his devotion
No delish fish
Dish wish delight
In the commotion..swish..
Dipped back into
The ocean it sipped
Ought to remember what
We’ve been taught
Unless it’s been bought
Down at the port
This is a sort of sport
Where nought could be caught
That’s why fishing
Isn’t just dispatching
Santa’s sea grotto
Matching motto hatching
“It ain’t called bloody Catching!”
This may sound a tad bit strange
But I can promise you it's true
It all took place in the fishing town
Of Pleasant Valley one sunny afternoon
All of the sudden fishing line started popping
Out of the lake onto the shore
Not one or two lines, expect as you might
But lines tossed out by the score
Each and everyone had items attached
Some candy bars while others had cans of beer
There were even a few diamond rings
The kind the ladies love to wear
People in surrounding towns soon heard about
All the hub bub down at Pleasant Valley Lake
They all jumped in their cars and like shooting stars
Shot out across the state
They arrived there in time to each grab a line
And give that line a slight tug
Realizing to late, dragged into the lake
Rub a Dub Dub straight into the tub
Just as quick as this whale of a tale got started
All the fishing lines were drawn away
The only ones left were the few who got tossed back
Because the fish had reached their limit that day
Perhaps the dead have the last laugh over us --
Daughters bitterly weeping in front of Jesus in an old church,
(merciful Jesus, merciful Jesus, merciful Jesus, be there for Daddy)
Unknown poor relations, pond scum grifters, co-workers
(gone fishing and unable to attend the cremation ceremony
at such short notice), well-meaning relatives (I knew she'd take
it hard. Has she managed to eat and sleep at last?
You look like your father so much, it's uncanny), therapists
Bearing tranquilizer prescriptions, numinous yoga teachers, oh sattvic touch,
Oh grief boundless everlasting oceanic.
The living say people things and do people things,
They bristle with a most jarring, annoying, persnickety sort of aliveness;
What of his estate? Why is she crying in church? Must be a war widow.
Well, she's real pretty. We all lost a good man. He was depressed over the divorce.
He was going on a business trip in June.
He loathed this freakish endless winter and looked forward to summer.
He planted two apple trees. He was such an avid gardener.
I do not care for my father's peonies, tulips, clematises --
Elated, I spend days wrapped in his new pearlescent world;
Death is sweetness, soft falling feathers, a joy and lightness of being
Unparalleled, undisturbed, unimaginable;
Happy Birthday, Dad.
The dead boyishly wink at us through a freshly printed pale pinkish
Death certificate with its Mahleresque staccato --
Born in Donetsk, September 23, 1956, died in St Petersburg
May 21, 2026: ewig, ewig, ewig, Ewigkeit -- inky crow feathers again;
The dead are playful with ghostly phone calls beyond the grave,
Strangely found Buddha figurines that have emotional significance to you
And your father alone, the dead are funny, silly, impish, impossible;
The dead know things, the dead take their time as they now
Whisper and now shout in repeating numbers, precognitive dreams, crows
Touching your face after your last phone conversation
(duration: 11 minutes, 33 seconds) months before
They are even dead.
The dead are very much alright and we are not alright at all.
I go downstairs to sit in the yard and chain smoke
And I watch my father morph into a solemn,
Unfathomable Osiris as the night reluctantly falls
In a tremulous never-quite-night-St Petersburg June kind of way.
Their brilliance, their godawful brilliance.
nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall
guys taut, grappling to hold firm
our canvas castle shook and shuddered
flimsy but somehow reassuring respite
as mountain giants prowled through the night
inside, hunched low over his stove
blue flames licking around the pan
Pops whistled a calming retort;
his gourmet dish to warm us up
bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup
we ate and we watched through the half closed flap
as lightning struck nearby -
so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain
(still in coats, with hats on heads)
we stretched out on our blow-up beds
father and son fishing had been the plan
on the shores of the lake that weekend
but different memories, caught by different lines
were shaped and set in that storm
as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm
I’ll hang out here and hope to see
My hungry heart filled to the brim
With one of these little fish, my plea
Is that I’m watching my dinner swim
Carefully spinning, coming back to me
I’ll wait, you see, there may be two
Who would like to become the sacrifice
For a good dinner, I only need a few
Just a bit of tartar sauce will suffice
My only wish, to taste them, to chew
I’ll not hesitate to share my find
With another kitty, someone I like
Who will understand – one of my kind
A purr-fect friend who will strike
With a smile, bringing peace of mind
I must listen to my owner who reveals
The opinion that my hunger could kill
These little fish who would be such good meals
He says that, despite my hunting skill
These fish are pets so their bowl he conceals