Tasty morsels may swim by
I’ll just duck down and check it out
Instead, a big fish I do spy
Tasty morsels.
Although this looks like a brown trout
Or maybe it is a walleye
They’re far to big I have no doubt.
I’ll take a breath and then retry
If nothing’s there, I’ll go without
I hope I find with my keen eye
Tasty morsels
Image No 3.
Four faces
ten cows
40 people
a river runs through it
Aberdeen Rapid City Sioux Falls
crops of corn soybeans
hog factory ethanol highway interstate
flat plains shadow of Rockies
sparse vast country music cowboy hats
pickups tractors American flag whackos
jacks coyotes
buffalo paddlefish grasshoppers deer crows
vulture walleye pheasants otters cattle grain
green sky derecho buffalo
ghost towns railroad
Homestake mine caves peaks
tribes pioneers reservation farms
million Big Siouxland
crickets chirp
plains old west
motorcycle rally August
blizzard snow hot humid
Westward wanderlust,
Wagon waltzes with Winter wine,
White watercolor walleye, windy-wallop.
Wading where wafers wage war,
Where warmth wanes without warning.
Wary whispers; weather will weather, whatnot.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
It gives me full of pep,
Yellows, walleye, salty,
I will eat hot fries.
Tomorrow I’m eating fries, Marion,
Belgians, sweet flamingos,
Walloon girls, redheaded girls,
Out of the oven, all hot.
Eating fries is not stupid
English, golden, or Norwegian,
The fries it gives a hell of a peach
Tomorrow, Marion, give me the fries.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Ça me donne voyons, une sacrée frite,
Des jaunes, des dorées, des salées,
Je mangerai des frites chaudes, moi.
Demain, je mange des frites, Marion,
Des belges, des flamandes douces,
Des wallonnes, des filles rousses,
Sorties du four, toutes chaudes.
Manger des frites, ce n’est pas bête
Anglaises, dorées, ou norvégiennes,
Les frites ça donne une sacrée pêche
Demain, Marion, tu me donnes la frite.
father cloud pours condensation into the waves of the sea
mother ocean feels his appreciation, and responds accordingly
brother wolf and sister bear begin frolicking in the torrent waves
native sea creatures feel the soul of a brethren lover of the sea
the evening turns into twilight, which is as it should be
salmon, walleye, catfish and marlin travel down in the ocean’s depths
father cloud watches from his catbird seat in the land of no return
All is well, mother ocean assures the gods and goddesses of the night
Uncle Pete agrees to take his great grand-nephew fishing to Lake Mare.
I don’t have a pole, Larry says. No prob, says Pete. We can share.
I’ll make my own rod, the nine-year-old says, and grabs a twig of a stick.
Uncle Pete is decked out in expensive duds; his fishing tackle box is thick.
Look! I caught one! Larry yells! Flinging a giant bass out of the lake.
This startles Pete who thinks “this must have been a little mistake.
But Larry keeps flinging catfish, walleye and groupie out of the water.
His plain inexpensive fishing rod just gets hotter and hotter.
Uncle Pete is sitting on a rock, staring at frogs on rocks.
Thinking he should have worn his lucky crocks!
Larry offers to trade places, so Uncle Pete will have a chance.
But Pete didn’t have luck there either and did the “poor me” dance.
Sometimes late at night, I think of where they all went.
For those left behind, my thoughts are now sent.
Are the streets paved with gold, do they sparkle and shine?
Can you still get a steak dinner, and a nice glass of wine?
Is the music country and western, do they have rock n roll?
Maybe it just depends on each heart and soul.
Will I get to go fishing, for some walleye or maybe trout?
I’m really looking forward to seeing what that life’s all about.
Will everyone just pray in white robes where they stand?
Maybe there’ll be a piano, and a good old jazz band.
Since we’re made in his image, I wonder if heaven will be fun.
I guess we’ll find out when it’s all said and done.
For now, I’ll be thankful, for each and every breath.
I’ll enjoy every sunset, right up to my own death.
I will do my very best to honor God and be a good gent.
Sometimes late at night, I think of where they all went.
Husband, Did You Bring My Flies?
By Miracle Man
3/2/2021 2:30 AM
Floating down an Arkansas stream
to catch walleye or trout.
The flies she thought she’d brought along,
she found husband had left without.
It really didn’t matter though,
that she could do no fishing.
It’s better to have gone and watched,
than sat at home just wishing.
Now the moral of this birthday story is,
don’t sit at home and wish.
Never trust another to load your flies,
if expecting to catch some fish.
Painted dragon
walleye graphics
Crushing traffic
Plasma flagon
Paisley flower
Common hours
11/6/20
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr © 2020
We weave webbed words while welcoming wisdom.
Whiny William Walleye Was Witnessed Wandering Westwardly While Wailing Wildly. We Were Warily Watching Will Wobbly Walk When We Winced Worriedly.
Why, We Wondered, Would Will Wear What Was Winter Ware When Warm Weather Was Weldingly Wounding.
Will Was Washed-out, Worse, We Watched Will Wither, Wide-eyed, Without Whispering Warning.
Why Were We Waiting When We Wished Will Well?
Waving, We Went Were Will Was With Water. Will Wouldn't Willingly Waste Well Willed Welcoming Water, Would Will? Will Weakly Wheezed While Wolfing What Will Wanted, Which Was Wonderful Well-Water.
FISH FRY
Flip and Flo and Nick and Buck
went down the road to try their luck
afishin' in their fav'rite spot,
with wiggle worms that Buck had bought.
Nick was quick to hook his worm,
Flip got sick to see them squirm,
Flo was giggling so bad
Flip and Buck got really mad.
Nick was first to have some luck
astonishing Flo, Flip and Buck,
a yellow perch the size to fry,
who lost his luck while swimming by.
Flo got stuck with her own hook,
Flip took it out, she couldn't look;
and then they all got their own wish,
Flo, Flip, and Buck all caught a fish.
Buck swore a bass as big as Nick
looked at his worm but stole it quick!
Flo took their last and only worm
and hooked it just to see it squirm.
And so it was the time to go,
Nick carried poles and so did Flo,
on Buck and Flip, the stringers hung
on which the following were strung;
A dozen perch, and six walleye,
and forty punkin' seeds to fry,
for Flip and Flo and Buck and Nick
there's quite enough to make 'em sick.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Kingfish sat tall in the boat.
His baited hook trolled behind,
To entice lurking humanoids,
He would fillet before he dined.
The ocean had schools of bait,
Swimming humanoids could not resist—
Drumsticks, hams, and candied yams.
Ham on hook seldom missed.
Zingo! The reel screamed sweet music!
Smiling, Kingfish braced his fin.
The blue-bellied biped put up a fight,
As the hook held fast to pull it in.
He yelled to his friend, Catfish,
“This one feels real big!
I may need some help.
Better grab the gig!”
But Kingfish and his buddy,
Failed to get him in the boat.
So they towed him to shore,
Tied tight with a rope.
Perch and minnows ran beside them,
As they hauled their catch up ramp.
“This one has class,” said Bass,
As he viewed him in camp.
Fish family friends looked on.
Happy Herring watched amazed.
For either fried or broiled,
Humanoids were the craze.
“We will never weigh him,”
Wise Walleye wails.
“In the old days we could,
But now we’ve lost our scales.”
Tisn't Fittin'
(Children's song music & lyrics by Joan Donnelly Ellis 1992)
Tisn't fittin for a kitten to wear a mitten
Tisn't fitten for a spider to terrify
Tisn't fittin for a doggy to wear cowboy boots
But it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Tisn't fittin for a turtle to use chop sticks
No sir, not even if he is Chinese, still tisn't fittin
Tisn't fittin for a worm to hook a walleye
Tisn't fittin for a bull frog to moo like a cow
But it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Tisn't fittin for grasshopper to play leap frog
Tisn't fittin for a pirate to shanghai
Tisn't fittin for a bunny to play hopscotch
No sir, not even if she's a champion hopper, still tisn't fittin
But it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Tisn't fittin for giraffe to tetter-totter
Tisn't fittin to lasso a butterfly
Tisn't fittin for a Stallion to play horseshoes
But it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Yes, it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Yes, it's OK for a Daddy to cry
Not sure what it is
about this land
that grabs you
but I was grabbed
long ago.
Trip ends today,
last night I stayed up late,
sipping remaining whisky
as the red sun set
neath hill's dark shoulders.
Crisp morning
up before six
lake like glass
rustle up the fire
and make coffee.
Rest of camp
sound asleep
so I solo
cast the back bay
release a hammer handle
then troll the north shore
into a freshening wind
nothing.
Move out
to deeper water
perhaps a morning walleye
but the wind’s up,
and the sparkling sun
puts fish down
still nothing.
End of lake
head back
cast the shoreline
snag a bush
retrieve the lure
test line – it snaps.
Retie, change lures,
Tom got a good fish
in these narrows
but today
nothing.
Ignore my watch,
change to a deeper lure
last point, a satisfying tug
good pike – strong fish
open water, use net
she’s mine.
Paddle back to camp
with fresh fillets for home
and memories
of when the lake
and I were one.
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