Summer Time
THIS morning we go
fishing in the river
got this hook, line and sinker
nothing much for logic
rhythm and rhyme
just this worm as pawn
and the fading moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hook, Line And Sinker
I have always wondered what it means
when someone using oral means
says something so colloquial
that it is understood by all
except us foreigners of course
yes language, it is such a force!
A lady fishing from the bridge
her husband though had climbed a ridge
they were in heated competition
and liked the thought of going fishing.
A tug was felt along her line
at first she felt she should recline
and pull until the fish came out
it probably would be a trout.
It did not work and hubby yelled
about the way his sweetheart held
the fishing pole, she called him 'stinker'
then she fell in, hook, line and sinker.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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When I Go Fishing
when i go fishing
i am always reminded
of the fish in the pond
and the hook, line
and sinker
the bait is this worm
this shrimp
and objective is always
the fish
in there
one drinks so much silence
by the pond
i see the ripples
i see the shadows of fins
i drink so much silence
i fathom so much depth
i might have missed the elusive fish
losing my worm and my shrimp
what i bring home is this inner peace
and so i never mind the shadows of the fins
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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In Constant Struggle
there is this hook, line and
sinker
someone is a fish and he
is caught
the urchins and clams
and octopuses watch helplessly
the fish is this philosophy of
being caught and wanting to be free
you are inside this ocean and
you are this fish
and then you wish to become a man
all your life you feel the fish in there
hook, line and sinker
the fish in you and the man within
in constant struggle
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Battle of the Herrings
A fishing action
North of France
1429 took place
Cause of battle
French vs. English
Anticipation/baited breath
River – flat plain
Set up strategy
Hook/line/sinker
British attacked first
French were slow
English bombarded fish
French did not
want to get
their shoes wet
Were most certain
outflanked by British
French counter attacked
Used Brie instead
of slippery worms
Won the fishing
competition – yelled Viva’
la fishermen French
“What was that”?
asked the English
“What’s the matter
with you cockneys
Hard of Herring? ”
'2008'
poem by Robert Sheridan
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Fishing With Daddy
One day I walked with Daddy
Down by a little brook.
There he placed a big red worm
Upon my fishing hook.
We sat together 'neath a tree
And did some fishing there.
Daddy told me wondrous stories
Of hunting elk and bear.
He talked of when he was a boy -
Of roads and tunnels he would build.
How he would dream his day away
As he worked in the cotton field.
He spoke of foreign lands he'd seen -
How big ships come and go.
Of giant derricks, gushing oil,
And making angels in the snow.
He talked of Mom, his only love; How proud he was of me.
Of our country - as it was -so rich and wild and free.
When the sun was setting across the little brook,
We started homeward, hand in hand, with a worm still on my hook.
poem by Gloria H. Koplin
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I love To Go Fishing
I love to go fishing everyday,
To the river or the lake.
Up in the morning without delay,
I go fishing soon as I wake.
Down to the water to wet my line,
My float bobbing up and down.
Fishing in the morning, is just so fine,
Your face will never sport a frown.
A big ole catfish, or a little bluegill,
I just don't give a hoot.
I love the way fishing makes me feel,
To me it's like forbidden fruit.
If I get lucky and get a bite,
Then the day is made.
I'll stick around till early night,
Just snoozing in the shade.
1/20/11 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
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Down On The River
Down on the river it's an easy kind of life
Everybody here's feeling fine
No need to worry or get in a hurry
Nothing to spend but time
Light up a smoke and tell a few jokes
And pass the old jug around
We're gonna get right on a Saturday night
When the sun goes down
(CHORUS)
Down on the river
Down on the river
Just some old boys making a lot of noise
Down on the river
Down on the river
Down on the river
If anyone calls, tell them we're all
Down on the river
We'll go fishing by the light of the moon
And bait them hooks by hand
And early in the morning we'll take them off the line
Fry 'em all up in a pan
We gotta get home while we still got a job
or we'll have to answer to the man
And everybody knows though we gotta go
We'll be back again
(REPEAT CHORUS)
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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First Do No Harm
As she impaled the worm on the
hook she said fishing gave her peace
... as she ripped out their eyes
throats and gills.. without surcease
Why not fish without a hook
without a net
with no intention to harm
poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Fishing in the Wei River
In waters still as a burnished mirror's face,
In the depths of Wei, carp and grayling swim.
Idly I come with my bamboo fishing-rod
And hang my hook by the banks of Wei stream.
A gentle wind blows on my fishing-gear
Softly shaking my ten feet of line.
Though my body sits waiting for fish to come,
My heart has wandered to the Land of Nothingness.
Long ago a white-headed man
Also fished at the same river's side;
A hooker of men, not a hooker of fish,
At seventy years, he caught Wen Wang.
But I, when I come to cast my hook in the stream,
Have no thought either of fish or men.
Lacking the skill to capture either prey,
I can only bask in the autumn water's light.
When I tire of this, my fishing also stops;
I go to my home and drink my cup of wine.
In His Fishing Expedition
in his fishing expedition
his bait is this bluff
and with gullibility
you take the bait,
swallow the hook, line and sinker
i say
baby you have not yet learned the intricate art of the spies
those who are still not captured by the enemies
in the middle of their yards
take the bait
and put it back to the sea
you must learn how to fish too
in this expedition of lies and deception
take the shape of the mythical mermaid
swim like a slimy fish but sing like a beautiful woman.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Worm Food
Dad once took me fishing
When I was a happy boy
And taught me how to hook a worm
plunge my fingers into a gooey cup
Where the little things squirmed
In dirt and pluck out a juicy one,
Hold its length toward the hook
And just, go ahead, push,
like putting my arm
Through a coat sleeve.
We all die one day, he said.
Don’t you worry.
poem by John W. McEwers
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When I Was A Child
when i was a child
i used to fish in the nearby river
there was silence
i can hear the songs of the reeds
and the whispering sighs of the nipa palms
i sat and waited
until a fish swallows my hook, line and sinker
and the with one pull i got the fish
off the water and into the soil
it grapples for death
for taking my bait.
now, i have become a man
and i have nothing to do with the fishes anymore
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Misty River
This morning
Me in this Misty River
All the happiness
I am feeling inside myself
Misty River
The mist is coming
From this Misty River
There are clouds
In the sky
And the mist
Is caused by the condensation
Of the heat mixed in the cold water
Misty River
I am in a fishing boat
That boat is moving slowly in this
Misty river
It is early in the morning
I am eating my breakfast in the fishing boat in the middle of this
Misty River
I hear the birds singing early in the morning
In this Misty River
There must be trees because the sound of the birds is coming from the Branches
Misty River
So peaceful
It looks so different with the mist
No one is around but me
With my fishing boat
And the beautiful sound of the birds
It is so nice
To have a place to come to
Where I can
Hear the sound of the birds
And be left alone
With no one disturbing me
Misty River
This is my special place
And by afternoon
No clouds I will see
The birds are beautiful
Their song is just beautiful like mother nature intended it to be
If nobody else appreciates this Misty River
I do
Misty River
I will die for you
Misty River
I will shed my tears for you
I have been coming here for so long now
Misty River
poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Poem Does Not Have to Rhyme
There are those who think in order for a poem to have rhythm it must rhyme, but a poem does not have to rhyme to have rhythm.
The rhythm comes for the poet’s soul not the rhyming of words.
The rhythm is in emotions that the poet’s poem evokes.
From a soulful cry to feeling of love and from the passion of hate to the awakening of understanding this is the beat, the rhythm of a poem. Now don’t get me wrong if a poem rhyme and has soul it is cool too, but I just wanted everyone to know that a poem does not have to rhyme.
Swimming With The River's Rage
when the meaning of water
ceases to be fluid
one fish swims with the rage of the river
looking for sharp stones
to tear off its fins
looking for a crazy fisherman
to catch it
hook, like and sinker
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Town's Buffoon
The Town’s Buffoon
He sat fishing in the town’s small lake, too much
kindness and stale breadcrumbs had polluted
the water and fish had chocked to death; mind,
ducks looked happy as did rotund rats lurking in
the undergrowth by its bank. Someone felt sorry
for the fool, put two trout in his basket and said:
“I say, my man you have caught two fine fishes! ”
The clown arose, reeled in line, hook and sinker,
walked home; where he fried his catch, listened
to tomorrows weather forecast on the radio,
diced carrots and peeled potatoes- fed his fat cat-
and chuckled to himself for no reason at all.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Broremann The Fisherman
Broremann the Angler
On the pier where fishing vessels were tied up my brother
sat fishing all the while seagulls kept swooping and shrieking,
he blissfully ignored them. He had no hook at the end of his
line and when asked why he said, I don´t like to hurt the fish.
But crafty little Broremann was not as innocent as you may
think, he didn´t like fish, all those horrible tiny bones,
his mother had sent him down to the pier to try catch some
fish for lunch. He liked sausages with mashed potatoes and
stewed peas, now he could go home tell his mother fish didn´t
bite today, but made sure to put the hook on the line so his
mother could see he was really trying. An old fisherman gave
him two sardines wrapped in a newspaper, but wouldn´t you
know it the pair of sardines somehow slipped out of the paper
and made their way back to the sea.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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What I Project
what i project in all those years
is what you get and you swallow
me hook, line and sinker
and you get so nosy with all
your questions leading you
to all your self-framed answers.
what i am inside me
you must know is what i am
just between my body and my soul
my left hand does not even
know what my right hand is holding.
the shadows in that cave and
the real body that you may touch
bathing in the river
you must have known by now
are two different kinds of
illusions. What i have in my
hand is the real one: it is
alive and it is jumping
and flying and i am chasing
it now, so please, excuse
me, i got to go, i still have
many things to do, so many
questions to make so many
answer to fabricate, so many
quests, i do not even have
to take my rest.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Remember When My Mouth Was Full
and i too remember when my mouth was full
i still wanted to talk
to you, there was this thought that keeps on bugging me
and it was for you,
that time, when my mouth was full, i wish i could talk
intelligibly, but how could i? when what i had was everything
kept within the four corners of my mouth,
sealed by the fence of my teeth, and the lock is in my tongue,
and my lips, they keep closing, keeping what palatable food was there.
i vomited. no, i did not.
i swallowed them all, Hook
line and sinker. i forgot that i am human.
i thought i was a fish. there were bubbles.
there was that river that swallowed me.
and it too did not talk,
now, i am talking to you. and you are listening.
then what? i have nothing to say.
i am empty.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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5. Gone Fishing
Fishermen cast out their nets
We all in turn go fishing
Some will use a rod and line
While others fish by wishing
Some wish for so many things
Like numbers in a line
If the line is lacking some
Next time they say that’s fine
Others fish for gossip
So they can tell to others
No escape for anyone
Not even someone’s brothers
Fishing for a missing sock
The washer won’t release
Hiding out behind the drum
With fluff and bits of fleece
You see we all go fishing
Not always using bait
Just cast a line for what you want
Then settle down and wait
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
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