Lost Bait
I lost my bait
Where did I bait the last time?
My loss determined I don't prevail
I'd better go back to kids' playing
Instead of fishing on shore
Calm down I know what you want
But you just lost your wording chance
And the chance to fish a whale
Sitting there worried, anguished
Maybe feared so much
But you're so strong
And I'd better be retired
I lost my bait and I don't have fishing in my mind
Leaving the young one to be worried to death
poem by Yihuai Ying
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Related quotes
The fishing
Lust is the bait given by the God
To get the fish which are children.
We don’t catch fish with the bait
And instead eat the bait and forget fishing.
17.02.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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050510J trying not to work
i happened to talk to a gentleman
retired from government last month
he is taking his time without a plan
fishing the wharf at morning sunshine
got his fishing hooks all tangled up
he told me, last he just threw in a box
on his first cast he yelled 'come on bite'
in my mind how could they without bait
snug 'em that won't be very pretty sight
i guess he saw me with a grin; respond
'oh! yes, i never put bait on first launch'
'i noticed, you must be clearing the rust'
poem by Manonton Dalan
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The Fisherman's Boat
I am tied to a pole
In me came and sat a fisherman with a big mole
He had a fishing rod and a net
With a bucket and bait so wet
He untied me and rowed me
Into the deep sea
And with rod, net and bait
He caught fish till late
He went home with a big fish
To prepare and eat a tasty dish
Tomorrow again he’ll come wearing his overcoat
To untie me, his little fishing boat.
poem by Niharika Singh
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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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The Fish Hook
My father
holding fish-hook
hooking bait
throwing of it to sea
in that bridge
its angle line is moving quickly
big fish eating bait
in its fish-hook
or only crab
making a fool of bait
in its fish-hook
or chance
which is making a fool
of him'self
poem by Prasetya Utama
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Say It Bait It And Run
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it and berate it.
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it,
Leave and run.
How we slid to the bottom from the top.
Say it bait it and run.
Who did what to start this problem.
Say it bait it and run.
Corruption done under dirty rugs.
Say it bait it and run.
What thugs brought this to fisticuffs.
Say it bait it and run.
What party pooped their rule.
Say it bait it and run.
Who's too cool and cuckoo too!
Say it bait it and run.
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it and berate it.
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it,
Leave and run.
Who's too cool and cuckoo too!
Say it bait it and run.
Who's too cuckoo and too cool.
Say it bait it and run.
Who's too cool and cuckoo too!
Say it bait it and run.
Who's too cuckoo and too cool.
Say it bait it and run.
But that cool cuckoo's no fool.
To cause what has been done!
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it and berate it.
You can say it and run.
Say it and run.
About what's been done.
You can say it,
Leave it and run.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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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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When the bait is more than the fish, 'tis time to stop fishing.
African American proverbs
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When the bait's worth more than the fish, it's time to stop fishing.
Last Chance Lost
Last chance lost--
In the tyranny of a long good-bye
Last chance lost--
We talk of us with deadly earnest eyes
Last chance lost--
We talk of love in terms of sacrifice and compromise
Last chance--
Last chance lost
Last chance lost--
The hero cannot make the change
Last chance lost--
The shrew will not be tamed
Last chance lost--
They bicker on the rifle range
Blame takes aim
Last chance--
Last chance lost
song performed by by Joni Mitchell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm fishing for men with a certain kind of bait, and the bait that I am offering is not a candy; it's a very specific thing that I'm offering, which is a deep gospel and a deep conversion.
quote by Larry Norman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Young Man And The Sea
One day I sailed,
my ship out to sea,
I went for the want,
to fish and be free.
And I baited my line,
with a shriveled old thing,
my heart was the bait,
I hoped soon it would sing.
And on that very day,
I'd gotten my wish,
for teasing my heart,
was the most beautiful fish.
But it only nibbled,
and I loved that fish,
until my heart fell,
and was lost to the abyss.
The fish lost it's interest,
and then swam away,
I lost love for all else,
on that fateful day.
I still love the thing,
with this hole in my chest,
for in all of the sea,
that fish was the best.
And I still look for the fish,
or the heart that it drowned,
but I know what was lost,
cannot be found.
And so there my heart lies,
on the floor of the sea,
lost to the waves,
of my agony.
poem by Enrico Orbita
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The Fishing Trip
The Fishing Trip
By
Ross Dix-Peek
Oh, How I remember those fishing trips with my Dad
Ah, They made me so very, very glad
Up at three in the morn
Long before the coming of the dawn
My father assembling all his fishing tackle
So very gleeful, a laugh and a cackle
“Have you got the bait boy, ready to go? ”
“Yes, Dad”, and away we would go, all in tow
In our dear old “Landie” the rugged road was ne’er a problem
As we traversed the winding dirt tracks, and some
Ah, the window down and the wind in my hair
The smell of fresh bait a waft in the air
Rugged Africa all about, myriad of sounds ringing out
My dear old Dad gaily whistling, as we headed south
A cigarette forever dangling from his smiling mouth
And all the while the great African sun beats down
And then to the river waters we would come
Excitement in the air and then some
Dad would sit and the waters study
A swig of Coca-Cola, and then we were ready
The fishing gear debouched
Us along the river bank crouched
Rods dangling in the silver stream
Waiting for our first catch, possibly bream
Ah, those days, those days were so fine
The scorching sun upon my spine
Sitting next to my beloved Dad
Ah, but those days be gone now, really quite sad!
Anyway, with our great bundle of fish in tow
We would finally onward to home go,
But now years later my dear old Dad is dead
Only those wonderful memories do remain in my head
So, if you with your Dad fishing do go
And the seeds of bonding do sow
Don’t the time wish away
For there will come a day
When your dear old Dad no longer is there,
And wasted time together is too awful a cross to bear!
poem by Ross DixPeek
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Watching the hours pass by
Johnny sits waiting all day
For fish to arrive
He wonders whether they have died
For hours and hours he waits for the fish to take it’s bait
A ripple in the lake
Sends his fishing rod a warning
The worm has been spiced up for the fish
Its fragrance was aroused in the lake
The fish tasted the hot spices in the cool lake
“Steady old girl” says Johnny with a smile
“ Soon you will be mine”
Ripples overlap
The fish rod numbs with pain
The fish battles with the rod
Johnny pulls harder
He will not let go
Its weight surpasses that of a stone
The fish hooks himself loose
The ripple disappears
Johnny sits waiting at the end of the lake
Waiting for another to taste his spicy bait
poem by Lee John Siebritz
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He went Fishing
Fishing tackle in tow
Hoping for a big catch
Jack headed towards
The cool clear waters
The sea was calm and
The sun shone brightly
It was the perfect day
He readied his gear
Fixed the bait with care
And lowered his tackle
Into the water at the edge
Dangling his rod he broke
Into song - a fishing ditty
That sounded nice and witty
But he was awakened soon
From his quiet reverie
By a huge mass that got
Entangled with his gear
The rod seemed to bend
Under the heavy weight
Then he lowered himself
To see what it could be
And wasn’t he surprised
To find an extraordinary
Jelly fish looking creature
Stuck to his rod which was
Stationary, while his bait floated
He shook the rod violently
To rid it of the jelly like intruder
But he could not extricate it, left
With no choice, he hauled it up
Only to find that it was not a fish
But something heavy and strange
Packed in reams of bubble paper
Deciding not to take a chance
He called up the local police
They too seemed reluctant
To unravel the parcel and
Display the contents since
There was a distinct stench
That worsened as they undid
Each sheet of the wet packing
Finally what was revealed was
A complete shock for everyone
A dead little baby tied to a stone
And drowned in the sea apparently
To wipe out any trace of her - this
Brought tears to everyone's eyes -
How could anyone ever murder
A defenceless child and drown her! !
Fortunately a hospital name tag
still dangled from the decaying wrist
Jack hoped that the perpetrators
would be quickly tracked down and
Punished for the heinous crime
He never went fishing again..........
poem by Sandra Martyres
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Going Fishing
Going fishing for some poems
I haven’t caught before
Sailing in the ocean
Far from the sandy shore
Going to take the works of Shakespeare
Use his words as living bait
Going to cast them far and wide
And in the moonlight wait
I may catch a slippery conger
I’ve heard they send out shocks
Best I wear some gloves
And a pair of rubber socks
It may be the whale who saved Jonah from the deep
I’ll thank him for his mercy and let his life him keep
I’ll tell him to read the Tempest where forgiveness rules the sea
Then I’ll row home in happiness and ever more shall be.
But what if I catch a shark who tears bodies limb from limb
I’ll say go seek the whale and find forgiveness there within
I’ll fish right through the darkness till the western skies are bright
I’ll throw back the empty poems and just keep the one’s with light
You may think I'm cuckoo crazy fishing for poems in the sea
But where on earth do they come from? it’s not inside of me
I’ve looked inside my ears and deep down inside my throat
They seem to come from somewhere, and it’s not inside my coat.
poem by Wojja Fink
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If I...
Lost my sight
still I have the chance
through my faith God I see
Lost my speech
still I have the chance
through my wisdom God I praise
Lost my hearing
still I have the chance
through silence God I hear
Lost everything in me
still I have the chance
in God life I posses
Lost my breath
and death finds me
still I have the chance
in God I live again
poem by Jordan Legaspi
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Fishing on a small lake
You had just left me
and I had relocated from Bellville
near Cape Town
to Centurion at Pretoria
and had travelled by airplane
and there was storm damage
to the roads
and I was still waiting
on my removal to arrive
and apart from going to work
I had a lot of time on my hands
and thoughts in my mind,
since I have lost
the only fish that really mattered
and I didn’t really know how.
My rods and reels and fishing tackle
from when I was a boy
was at my mother’s
where I now lived,
and the lake on the other side
of Centurion mall
caught my eye,
while I drove
over the bridge.
On the weekend
loneliness really caught up with me
and my mother
helped me prepare the bait
like she did
when I was a child.
It was nothing fancy,
just custard powder, baking meal
and honey
or baking meal and curry
or a fresh white bread and honey
that I used that summer.
At the lake some black kids
were selling tins with earthworms
to anglers,
but I wasn’t interested
as catfish goes for earthworms as well
and I wanted to catch blue kurper
or carp or maybe yellow-fish.
It was at about eleven o’clock
and some of the other anglers
had already being fishing
since six
and didn’t have luck,
but assured me
that the lake had
big kurper, carp and catfish.
They were very well equipped
with radio controlled bait boats
to take their lines in
and all kinds of modern gizmos.
I settled under a tree
next to the small red hanging bridge
with which visitors crossed the lake
and used two rods
and equipped two hooks on each line.
alternating between the custard
and the curry baits
and thought that I would have
some time to reflect on live,
but I didn’t even get time to wait.
Almost as soon as the sinker
struck the water
I had a bite,
and were catching two fish
at a time.
The biggest kurpers
that I have ever caught
were filling the keep net,
along with some rather large carp.
I came for solitude
and got everything but it
and was too busy
enjoying the experience
to notice
the three or four families
with children
who gathered on the bridge
to watch me.
Some of the other anglers
came over for a chat,
all of them believing
that I was using
some special secret
kind of bait.
I had brought more than enough bait
and gave them some
and that day all of them caught fish
and a little while later
to my astonishment
one even caught a huge catfish.
It wasn’t long before
I had friends right round that lake,
anglers brought me cider,
beer and whiskey,
and an angler
and his beautiful daughter
moved their lines
to right next to mine
and they roasted
chops and sausage
on a Cadac gas frying pan
and I got chops, sausage
and putu porridge
and many more bites
than I had bargained for.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Satan's Lures
Satan loves the sport of fishing.
His tackle box filled with bait,
he goes out to the lake of life
to cast his line, and wait.
The devil knows us, every one
and knows which lures to use.
In accordance with our weaknesses
he determines which to choose.
Dishonesty, pornography,
pride, selfishness and hate.
False witness, greed, the list goes on.
The sin becomes the bait.
Many bite and are deceived.
And in a snap they're hooked.
They learn too late that Satan's bait
is not as it had looked.
It's important that we choose the right
for this life is our test;
and when we choose to do what's right
we truly will be blessed.
So feed on Heavenly Fathers words.
Great blessings will be yours,
as you watch and pray, and stay away
from Satan and his lures.
poem by Ron Tranmer
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Man defies God
Orgasm is the bait; mating is fishing.
Birth is the catch; it’s the God’s wish.
Orgasm is the bait; orgasm is the catch.
Birth is outcast; it’s man’s crush.
25.08.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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