At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
Categories:
tiddlers, fishing,
Form: Rhyme
I set my snares in sea of dreams
to catch my share of dreams in common.
I'm waiting,
killing time playing cards
with the trawler men,
who are much better
at cards than me.
I wait to see the dreams wiggle
in the nets,
like bats, birds and fishes.
Which one will come to me?
How many will I get?
Will I throw the tiddlers back?
Or will I keep them hidden,
lest the other dream fishers
dob me in, to the trawler men
for nabbing daydream naps.
I'm all at sea,
in sea of dreams
waiting for the catch.
Categories:
tiddlers, dream,
Form: Free verse
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.
Categories:
tiddlers, boy, mother,
Form: Rhyme
Putting the brushes into a jar
I view the picture from afar
See how interesting the shapes become,
Trees saying, hey come,
Come dance with me have some fun
Hug me, lean back and see the sun
As it rises in the branches it will show
the flowers of the fruit that will grow.
The sun in the blue sky is a hot tool
Just a whisper of a cloud to keep it cool
Look at the stream as it trickles to nought
The minnows and tiddlers ready to be caught
No children in the picture as yet,
Busy getting their jamjars and nets
This dream in a picture is for real
life as it should be not surreal
Life of hope no longer pain
Dreaming of the time when I am me again
I look at my hands covered in colours galore
Paint I can wash away, dreams I store.
May 9 . 2013.
Dream contest
Categories:
tiddlers, art, dream,
Form: Rhyme