Related quotes: Fishing in a lake full...

Plent of Fish in the Sea

Fishing in a lake full of rainbow trout,
All that I can catch is the one and only catfish,
After throwing it back with different bait several times,
I devise a plan,

I shall vehemently murder it.

The blood spills across the deep blue lake,
Guts dispersed like clouds immersed in an apocalyptic sunrise,
Splashing the water,
the image won't disappear.

Bad before,
Worse than before.

My attempt to forget has failed.
Now, the murder has been branded inside my mind.
Forever, I will see the painful image.

poem by Steven Rowe
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Related quotes

The Reflection of God

Thoughts are like ripples,
gently flowing over
the surface of the mind.

Deep inside us
we bear the image of God,
the ripples of thought break that image
into fragments.

It is as if you are looking in
a lake full of ripples-
It is a full moon night,
and the lake is reflecting
the beautiful moon.

But the lake is full of ripples
You cannot gather the moon together;
the moon goes on splitting
into a thousand fragments.
The whole lake seems to be
spread over by the moon-
the silvery beauty, softly broken apart;
many a fragments is seen floating-
all around.

Then the wind stops,
the ripples disappear:
those fragments start falling into one moon.
The silver that was spread
all over the lake,
now becomes more concentrated
into one place - into one moon.

When the lake
is completely without ripples,
the moon is reflected perfectly.
God is reflected perfectly
when there is no ripple in you.

poem by Nazmul Haque
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Knife

Slit and
Slither knife
Penetrate in phallic push
To perforate the pulse of tissues in the flesh
Slice a vein to drain the unsuspecting victim
E’er they bleed and plea
Their scream
Of death

murder
murder murder
murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder murder murder murder murder
murder murder
murder murder
murder

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Premeditation

Oh blade you'll warm tonight!
Awash in crimson-purple flows,
Your sheen will dull with aching flesh:
Palpating anatomic mounds
Caressing, dancing, writhing round
Your metal form-
Whetted ‘gainst a lonely bone,
Then to probe the pounding, begging heart.

And all the while the prey will howl
Before they crumple; greet the mud-
A taut and unbelieving jowl
Will open out for giving blood-
A vent from down below,
Once a brutal show
Of metal in the man.

poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Qinghai Lake

Qinghai, Qinghai Lake,
Largest salt lake in China

Blue colour water
Blue clear skies.

Birds fly near the Birds island
During spring times.

Stand high and tall at 3,600 m
Weather according to season

Sunrise at dawn
Sunset at dusk near Qinghai Lake

beautiful colourful lake
seen from hill top

Many cattle of yaks and sheep at the hills top
with the nomadic Tibetans and their tent

The lake full of beauty and colour
beyond compare

Qinghai Hu,
Many fishes and plants.

poem by Lawrence Hiung
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The Price Of Water

The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.

When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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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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Across the Lake Unto the Sky

Across the lake
Unto the sky
There bloomed a rainbow
To feast my eye
That late afternoon
After a brief spell of rain

When my heart was still
Entangled with the lake's heart
There the sun rushed in
Leaving the lake half-thirsty
The archer hiding deep under the lake
Aimed and shot an arrow
At the unruly sun and left
His bow across the sky
As if telling the sun 'beware! '

Lo, vanished the sun in fright
The lake had its fill!
Do you hear the clouds applaud?

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Across The Lake Unto The Sky

Across the lake
Unto the sky
There bloomed a rainbow
To feast my eye

That late afternoon
After a brief spell of rain

Lo, vanished the sun in fright
The lake had its fill!
Do you hear the clouds applaud?

poem by Indira Babbellapati
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December 24th Eve

This tiredness,
Sickness,
A draining away,
Such as a tide might
Suck at a bay.

There is evil in there soul
A blackness where nothing,
only wither, can grow.

Murder is murder
A thug on a street
A soldier with a gun
A President's decree,
Declaration,
And dead is dead.

Are we made in the image of God?
God's flood drowned all
A pillar of fire destroyed all
An image of a murder

Has not God created sin?
All sin?

Why does the Sheperd leave the flock to
Seek the lost one? Maybe because once the
Sheperd was lost and someone came and found
Him and welcomed him back home again.

poem by Midnights Voice
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Sonnet. The lake and star

The mountain lake, o'ershadowed by the hills,
May still gaze heavenward on the evening star,
Whose distant light its dark recesses fills,
Though boundless distance must divide them far;
Still may the lake the star's bright image bear,
Still may the star, from its blue ether dome,
Shower down its silver beams across the gloom,
And light the wave that wanders darkly there.
Star of my life! thus do I turn to thee
Amid the shadows that above me roll;
Thus from thy distant sphere thou shinest on me;
Thus does thine image float upon my soul,
Through the wide space that must our lives dissever
Far as the lake and star, ah me! forever.

poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Fishing For Something

Fishing for something, On a lake out west,
But; the only thing biting, Mossies are a pest;
I really came to catch a dozen or so trout,
But had to stop, There's a storm come about.

Fishing for something off their pier,
Up at ballarat. On wendouree weir;
Hope to catch some trevally for tea,
But all I caught was an old shoe, silly me.

Fishing for something, I'll need a net,
Try to catch lobster, if I don't I'll be upset,
So I let out the net, and to my surprise today,
5 lobsters, and 1 cheeky dolphin trying to play.

Fishing for something, a minister will do,
As he preaches to the people, the message so true;
About. Love, and kindness, and helping each other,
And telling them too, to help witness to a brother.

Fishing for something, is what we can do,
Help so many, find a way, and not be in a stew;
Don't judge others, and don't start to fight,
But be caring and sharing, lead them to the light.

poem by Margaret Haig
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Pulicate Lake (Chennai)

A rollicking trip on a boat
we had through the Pulicate Lake.
The nests cast all along the creek
warn the boat-men take care.

Men, women and children
dip in and come up the water,
with pulsating trout in their palms
and dropp into the slinging bags and creels.

The weak and the old in loin-cloths
are holding the fishing-rods,
and peering at the wood pulp with eager
to lug up the unwary dab.

Some dogs are emerging out in knee-deep water,
with struggling dace between the teeth.
We looked at the scene with pity
though we had fried fish to crunch at lunch.

Oh dear! They're stone statues not birds
waiting to pick up the misled fish!
The scent of coastal stuff from my friends
drove away the shrimps from our way.

Ah! Some baskets and towels too swirl around
to catch the lusty wealth of the sea.
Never these fish roaming in the lake
could go back to the estuary.

poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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It Was My Uncle Soul Sifting

it was my uncle soul
sifting in a leaned back
all the way chair down
by the old family lake
taking trout we spent
all day chasing through
reeds and lilies, dodging
loons and other birds
trying to outmaneuver
them in their own home
it was my uncle soul
sifting, lifting trout
entrails, rinsing off
blood and fish and dirt
in the cold lake water
telling me it used to
be a game of his, how
many fish he could trick
before the sun set.
it was my uncle soul
sifting, telling me his
favorite night was years
ago and how he had
only caught one lone
rainbow and was
sitting there, gutting
the heart out listening
to the radio the night
Roy Eldridge died.
it was my uncle soul
sifting, saying he forgot
how many fish he caught
just sat there listening
to old dead Roy play
while the fish cooked
over his burnt coal fire
it was the only way he
knew how to say
goodbye he said, and
tonight it’s me out
there soul sifting, lifting
bits of crumbled dirt and
dust, feeling a part of me
is out there still, the
big blue welling up
inside you, the hole
gone and filled up
with sky.

poem by Ben Paynter
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Oh ever present to my view

Oh ever present to my view
my warring, wafted spirit is with you
and soothes your budding fears
Which other conceive as gestures of leers
I see you all oppressed with perplex gloom
Wrap in dark shades of hollow room
Oh me see you all in sighs
The invisible trace of tears upon your check dry

Sometimes you are like a deep blue lake
I throw stones to its bottom with no response and no wake
other times I can not tell
the lake is full or it is but a phantom, a fairy tale
yet by its bank I still stand and my head shock
watching a jealous Narcissus craving its image in the watery nook

copy rights 2010

poem by Isaac Ziv
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The Lake

The lake so grand, boats afloat
all sizes and shapes
pontoons, yachts, sails and fishing boat
people from all over and all ages
every wave so beautiful as the they stroll ashore
from white caps to rolling wave. the flow so endless
the boats flowing so gentling across the water
the fish swimming so free under the water
teasing the fishermen, steal the bait
the lake is the place to be on this fine day
God creation for all to enjoy
take the moment and view the lake
It so grand and so free

poem by Michael Peterson
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Murder The Government

I wanna see the constitution burn
Wanna watch the white hourse overturn
Wanna witness some blue blood bleed red
I wanna tar and lynch the kkk
I wanna pull and shoot the nra
I wanna pay the lobbyists to kill themselves
I wanna dose the dea
I wanna join the cia (not really)
Murder the government, murder the government
Murder the government, and then do it again.. yeah
Murder the government, murder the government
Murder the government, and then
Murder the government

song performed by by NOFX
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Part 4 of Trout Fishing in America

THE AUTOPSY OF

TROUT FISHING IN AMERICA

This is the autopsy of Trout Fishing in America as if Trout

Fishing in America had been Lord Byron and had died in

Missolonghi, Greece, and afterward never saw the shores

of Idaho again, never saw Carrie Creek, Worsewick Hot

Springs, Paradise Creek, Salt Creek and Duck Lake again.

The Autopsy of Trout Fishing in America:

"The body was in excellent state and appeared as one that

had died suddenly of asphyxiation. The bony cranial vault

was opened and the bones of the cranium were found very

hard without any traces of the sutures like the bones of a

person 80 years, so much so that one would have said that

the cranium was formed by one solitary bone. . . . The

meninges were attached to the internal walls of the cranium

so firmly that while sawing the bone around the interior to

detach the bone from the dura the strength of two robust men

was not sufficient. . . . The cerebrum with cerebellum

weighed about six medical pounds. The kidneys were very

large but healthy and the urinary bladder was relatively

small. "

On May 2, 1824, the body of Trout Fishing in America

left Missolonghi by ship destined to arrive in England on the

evening of June 29, 1824.

Trout Fishing in America's body was preserved in a cask

holding one hundred-eighty gallons of spirits: 0, a long way

from Idaho, a long way from Stanley Basin, Little Redfish

Lake, the Big Lost River and from Lake Josephus and the

Big Wood River.

poem by Richard Brautigan
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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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Big Sky Fishing

Listen very closely and hear that distant splash
Maybe just a big catfish moving out of his nest
When the golden rays of a sunrise hit the water
Time to pull one in because it's fishing at its best

Memories of big sky fishing come flooding back
When I think on my historical family traditions
For this brings to me inner peace and much joy
Big Sky Fishing happens without any conditions

poem by John McCornack
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Blue Bayou

I feel so bad Ive got a worried mind
Im so lonesome all the time
Since I left my baby behind on blue bayou
Saving nickels, saving dimes, working till the sun dont shine
Looking forward to happier times on blue bayou
Im going back some day come what may to blue bayou
Where you sleep all day and the catfish play on blue bayou
All those fishing boats with their sails afloat if I could only see
That familiar sunrise through sleepy eyes, how happy Id be
Go to see my baby again
And to be with some of my friends
Maybe Id be happy then on blue bayou
Im going back some day, gonna stay on blue bayou
Where the folks are fine and the world is mine on blue bayou
Oh, that girl of mine by my side the silver moon and the evening tide
Oh, some sweet day gonna take away this hurtin inside
Ill never be blue, my dreams come true on blue bayou

song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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