Safe Harbour
As the light starts to fade, at the end of the day,
And the last rays of sunset cascade on the bay.
The fishing boats set sail, their little lamps a glow,
Off to deeper waters and the school of fish below.
Along the granite, harbor wall, the lime washed cottage stands,
The little wind swept coastal path to the causeway and sands.
At the point a lighthouse giving out its light,
Protecting the wayward mariner as he sails on through the night.
For generations have come and gone, it’s always been that way,
As tide rolls in with the fishing boats that signals break of day.
poem by Nicholas Windle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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song - Crammag Light
The winter winds are blowin in from Ireland ‘cross the sea
I’m waiting on the pierhead here just watching seagulls wheel
The light is going down now and I’m thinking of the night
When you sailed out from this harbour wall down past Crammag light
The years have passed so slowly since I watched you sail away
I wonder if you’re on the waves still fishing night and day
The tourists have all gone now and I’m by the fireside
In the flames I see you sailing off down past Crammag light
(chorus)
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
The harbour bell is silent now but seabirds on the wing
Are calling out to everywhere, above the breaking waves
But the only song that I can hear is the song the winter sings
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
Remember when we stood upon the cliff at logan head
The sea was like a mill pond and the sun was setting red
The herring boats were drifting southwards on the flooding tide
In the distance we could see the moon over Crammag light
The waves are running high towards the fishpond cottage wall
And all the sea is empty now as darkness starts to fall
The Sanderlings are crying for another day that’s gone
To the south of Laggantulloch, Crammag’s light has just come on
(chorus)
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
The harbour bell is silent now but seabirds on the wing
Are calling out to everywhere, above the breaking waves
But the only song that I can hear is the song the winter sings
Oh Johnny are you never coming back to Logan Bay
I’ve heard the talk about the ghost that haunts the waters here
They say that when the sun goes down his fishing boat appears
In winter’s gales and breaking waves, or so the legends say,
In the sweeping light from Crammag, heading north for Logan Bay
Beside Love Men Need Fishing & Faith
Besides love men need fishing
And for both, most are wishing
Catching trophies chosen best
To be envied by the rest.
Fishing is a game of sport
Loved by all, both tall and short.
We must fool the fish's eye
If we plan to stir and fry.
Some use boats while others wade
As they fish the sun or shade.
Ice-cold drinks help pass the day
While life's troubles fade away.
Most men feel they've everything
With their rod, hook, cork and string.
Be it river, pond or lake
We all pray our line won't break.
FAITH
So perfect is nature, though not by man
It's the brush of our Master that paints the land.
The sun comes up and sun goes down
As in every direction God's wonders are found.
The tide comes in and the tide goes out
Our faith in eternalness is what life is about.
Contentment depends on which path we walk
By daylight or darkness; our faith is our rock.
Our confidence and trust in a higher power
Helps guide us through every moment and hour.
Fidelity to one's promise and observance of law
Lets our Lord know we heed His call.
Sunrise Along Shore
Athwart the harbor lingers yet
The ashen gleam of breaking day,
And where the guardian cliffs are set
The noiseless shadows steal away;
But all the winnowed eastern sky
Is flushed with many a tender hue,
And spears of light are smiting through
The ranks where huddled sea-mists fly.
Across the ocean, wan and gray,
Gay fleets of golden ripples come,
For at the birth-hour of the day
The roistering, wayward winds are dumb.
The rocks that stretch to meet the tide
Are smitten with a ruddy glow,
And faint reflections come and go
Where fishing boats at anchor ride.
All life leaps out to greet the light --
The shining sea-gulls dive and soar,
The swallows whirl in dizzy flight,
And sandpeeps flit along the shore.
From every purple landward hill
The banners of the morning fly,
But on the headlands, dim and high,
The fishing hamlets slumber still.
One boat alone beyond the bar
Is sailing outward blithe and free,
To carry sturdy hearts afar
Across those wastes of sparkling sea;
Staunchly to seek what may be won
From out the treasures of the deep,
To toil for those at home who sleep
And be the first to greet the sun.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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Fishing boats
In the late afternoon
fishing boats come out of the waves
and like ministers
tiller men stand behind white pulpits.
Boats jump
over the last waves to the quay
and are drawn with cables
onto trailers,
before pickups and cars
drive into the parking lot
pulling motorboats.
There are red roman, snook
and cod
and fresh fish are everywhere in the boats.
poem by Gert Strydom
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When the Fishing Boats Go Out
When the lucent skies of morning flush with dawning rose once more,
And waves of golden glory break adown the sunrise shore,
And o'er the arch of heaven pied films of vapor float.
There's joyance and there's freedom when the fishing boats go out.
The wind is blowing freshly up from far, uncharted caves,
And sending sparkling kisses o'er the brows of virgin waves,
While routed dawn-mists shiveroh, far and fast they flee,
Pierced by the shafts of sunrise athwart the merry sea!
Behind us, fair, light-smitten hills in dappled splendor lie,
Before us the wide ocean runs to meet the limpid sky
Our hearts are full of poignant life, and care has fled afar
As sweeps the white-winged fishing fleet across the harbor bar.
[Page 35]
The sea is calling to us in a blithesome voice and free,
There's keenest rapture on its breast and boundless liberty!
Each man is master of his craft, its gleaming sails out-blown,
And far behind him on the shore a home he calls his own.
Salt is the breath of ocean slopes and fresher blows the breeze,
And swifter still each bounding keel cuts through the combing seas,
Athwart our masts the shadows of the dipping sea-gulls float,
And all the water-world's alive when the fishing boats go out.
poem by Lucy Maud Montgomery
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The Fishing Village From Across The Bay
The quiet solitude
of brown fishing boats,
anchors weighed,
riding gently, the soft
movement of the calm waters.
Silent slapping. As the waves
kiss the sides of the boats,
their masts tall and strung
with spiderweb riggings.
Loose canvas flaps idly with
the passing of a breeze,
tugging against the anchor.
Tiredly, the sun continues
its slow journey home, reaching
honey-gold fingers of warmth
through the blanket of clouds.
The orb of power-filled
light-giving energy gives one last
defiant flash as it breaks momentarily
through the clouds.
A dog barks from across the bay
and white puffs of smoke
rise slowly, lazily to meet
the clouds. The sleepy village
readies itself for the sleep
that will bring the new day,
and the sun, rested
from its duties of the day before.
The waves continue to lap
gently against the fishing boats,
Silhouetted gently against the
golden stretch of water from across the bay.
Silence sets in and prayers are
said before bed, and good night
kisses are exchanged and
then the lights are extinguished,
from across the bay.
poem by Kevin Parkin
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The Fisher's Widow
The boats go out and the boats come in
Under the wintry sky;
And the rain and foam are white in the wind,
And the white gulls cry.
She sees the sea when the wind is wild
Swept by a windy rain;
And her heart's a-weary of sea and land
As the long days wane.
She sees the torn sails fly in the foam,
Broad on the sky-line gray;
And the boats go out and the boats come in,
But there's one away.
poem by Arthur Symons
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031510c All I Want Is Other Side
i could break out my fishing reel now
prop myself by bridge's wall and fish
while i watch you, you guys in despair
i could even take out my cooler and chair
this difficulty could be ease with mono rail
but so many hands, minds on the trail
oh! my! what's that ambulance doing here
not this early morning, please oh! my dear
no i'm not counting the fishing boats bobbing
i wonder though what kind of fish they're catching
blue crabs, sea bass, blues, spot, maybe flounder
that's a rough life, awake all night waiting for biter
those seagulls teasing bipeds again or begging
i remember they have to control their population
because of their unsightly droppings on your cars
there must be a group of smart person to figure
without offsetting the environmental coexistance
i'm not too concern, i just want to go to the other side
poem by Manonton Dalan
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Storms, Fishermen and Boats
[Son! Do not sail mischievously, boat goes to Dragon's mouth and very few knows about truth.] -Mahagama Sekara- (A Sri Lankan celebrated poet)
Fathomless Ocean
Struggling fishermen
Unexpected storms
And tossing boats.
Fishing Harbor mourns
And wait for the friends
Old ruined Lighthouse search their whereabouts.
In the breezy night
Ocean hides the top secret
And the waves hug the weeping beach as usual.
* My deepest sympathy to Senator Edward Kennedy and may his precious soul rest in peace!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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At Lambert's Bay The Fishing Trawlers Sail Out
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
where clouds of smoke hang over the boats
while the rain pours down in buckets.
The waves hit, the sea foams and bubble,
it looks as if a storm is rising
and 'my girlfriend has a fine fellow, '
one sings in darkness before he starts whistling
where clouds of smoke hang over the boats.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
seeking snoek, cod and sea-trout
and the boat turns to get out fishing gear,
it looks as if a storm is rising
and the men wait on the sea's first gifts
with rain like only God's hosepipe brings
while the rain pours down in buckets.
'Look at that shining bodies, tons of trout, they are running free, '
the song continues and something falls down
and the boat turns to get out fishing gear,
with engines roaring loudly
every fisherman is caught for a moment.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
'my girlfriend has a fine fellow and he is a wild goat, '
one sings against the wind with more joining voices,
the song continues and something falls down
and the tiller-man wonders about the sudden rain
but the fishermen are catching
while the rain pours down in buckets
they are standing ready but half-blinded
'Where are we going on the wide, wide sea'
one sings against the wind with more joining voices,
gigantic waves hits and pulls the boat
and some fishermen are scared.
At Lambert's Bay the fishing trawlers sail out
while the rain pours down in buckets
while the fishermen sing their song:
'The waves hit, the sea foams and bubble, '
'where are we going on the wide, wide sea'
and 'my girlfriend has a fine fellow.'
[Reference: Barracouta is known in South-Africa as 'snoek.']
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fishing
They dropped the sails of their boats
near the shore of the Sea of Galilee
at early morning-light
and were heavy-eyed and tired
having worked in vain
all night long
and washed the nets
while the sun rose hot
in the blue cloudless sky.
From the distance a crowd
came nearer following
a holy man and listening to him
and he climbed into one of the boats,
asked Simon to sail
a little bit off shore
and sat teaching the people
from the boat.
The fishermen stopped working
and started listening
to the beautiful things that he said
and yet there he was still
just a man to them
and maybe a great prophet.
He instructed Simon
to sail into deep water
and to set the nets
for a catch.
Shaking his head
Simon explained that they
had worked all night long
without catching anything
but something about this holy man
made them obey.
When they brought the nets up
there were too many fish
for the nets to hold
and they beckoned their partners
in the other boat to help
and filled both boats
past their capacity
and suddenly Simon knew
that the Son of God
was sailing with him
and fell on his knees crying out:
'Go away from me, Lord;
I am a sinful man! '
And the fishermen were astounded
at the large catch that they had taken
and Jesus said that henceforth
they would be catching men
and they shored their boats,
leaving everything
to follow Him.
[Reference: Luke 5: 1-11.]
poem by Gert Strydom
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World’s Fisheries In Deep Crisis
April 2009 stocks
we already knew
world’s fisheries
were in deep crisis
do math shocking
more fishing boats
chase last shrinking
smaller fish stocks
half this world’s
fish caught fishing
we are throwing
back dead or is sales
sold no regard paid
to whether net fish
stock is endangered
or a species bycatch
38 million tonnes
of marine life taken
every year from seas
is not catch intended
target of fishing
vessels numbers
of most popular
species fall rapid
poem by Terence George Craddock
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My First Fishing Trip
Went with dad to Port Isabel to learn to fish,
‘Cause to catch a fish I told him that I did wish.
So to Purdy’s Court fishing pier,
We went with all our fishing-gear.
Yes, that fishing trip with dad I’ll always cherish!
There we were, him giving me casting instruction,
Then he baited my hook with a live crustacean,
I cast out high in the sky.
To catch a big fish to fry,
But instead, caught a sea gull - as consolation!
poem by Bobby Beddoe
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Fishing Boats
Weathered boards on the old dock
Sun trying to peak thru
The water like a sublime dream
Seagulls circle the boats
You were there with your humor
With your easy going smile
You loved to take people fishing
Soon I will go into memory
The waters will always laugh
Lakes, rivers and sea
Poetry of the tides
Campfires and moonlight
Old man and the sea
Get the net I gotta big one!
Your fishing boat in the dusk
poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Burning The Boats
The government have announced
That london bridge is to be closed
Under the full moon of may the third
All the light houses and seaside roads
No I never heard I never read in the news
Come on tell me, whos this for ?
Lighting the questions and
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats one by one by
Tap, tap, tap, birds that sing,
Telephone calls that do not ring,
One, two, three, whats the time ?
Whos that hanging off my line ?
I know that nothing lasts for ever
And Im just waiting for the sun to set
Blowing dust from my loud hailer, on the roof.
Come on tell me, whos this for ?
Lighting the questions and
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats one by one by
The ministry of co-operation
Are washed and hanging on the line
Theres a million burning questions
To set the thames alight
Now Ive joined an exclusive club
Just by being more than poor
I saw the deputy chairman, on the floor.
Come on tell me, whos this for ?
Lighting the questions and
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats one by one by
Burning the boats one by one
Burning the boats.
song performed by by Madness
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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.
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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It Comes - Part 2
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1 first)
August 1979
Seven fishing boats set sail
into the evening on the South China Sea.
Before the midnight chimed
all seven boats vanished without trace,
no wreckage, debris or survivors were ever found,
it was if the fishing boats had sailed
into oblivion on a calm moonlit sea.
Countries around the world wondered
when the next tragedy would strike
as their navies and fishing fleets sailed the seas.
The seas at night were becoming
more dangerous than normal
especially south of the equator.
Top scientists and marine biologist
gathered for an urgent meeting in Mexico
to see if they could figure out
what was happening to the ships.
Their only clue was the last words
of the survivor of the Sulu Spray.
They discussed patterns to any of the disappearances,
only one seemed prevalent in that all
the ships disappeared at night.
No strange sightings were reported
in the areas during the days or nights
before or after the disappearances.
As the meeting went on into the night
the Grafton Bay reported a blue light
moving at speed beneath the water to local coast guard
before it too vanished
and like the rest left now wreckage, debris or survivors.
At the meeting, many theories were being forwarded
of a deep-sea creature of unknown origin.
They were scoffed at as being too fantastic to be true.
If they were true why hadn’t there been
any reported any sightings of such a creature.
The creature if it existed had to be
as big as or bigger than any ocean going tanker
to enable it to sink large ships.
Then there was the question of wreckage,
there has been none.
From any ship, there is always debris,
but there has been nothing.
Just as the meeting was about to close
news came in about another ship lost.
A ship two miles away reported seeing
what they described as long waving arms
and a blue light just prior the ships disappearance
from their radar screen.
26 September 2009
To be continued
poem by David Harris
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By The Seaside : The Lighthouse
The rocky ledge runs far into the sea,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The Lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,
A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.
Even at this distance I can see the tides,
Upheaving, break unheard along its base,
A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides
In the white lip and tremor of the face.
And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright,
Through the deep purple of the twilight air,
Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light
With strange, unearthly splendor in the glare!
Not one alone; from each projecting cape
And perilous reef along the ocean's verge,
Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape,
Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge.
Like the great giant Christopher it stands
Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.
And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,
They wave their silent welcomes and farewells.
They come forth from the darkness, and their sails
Gleam for a moment only in the blaze,
And eager faces, as the light unveils,
Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze.
The mariner remembers when a child,
On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink;
And when, returning from adventures wild,
He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink.
Steadfast, serene, immovable, the same
Year after year, through all the silent night
Burns on forevermore that quenchless flame,
Shines on that inextinguishable light!
It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.
The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form
Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.
The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.
A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,
Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.
'Sail on!' it says, 'sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!'
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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I Like That Idea
i like the idea of what boats are meant for
i told you once
boats are meant to sail
far to the sea
and dissolve in the horizon
till they are gone
till they sink
to the bottom of the sea
and kiss its floor
and become the
permanent ornaments
of the corrals and sands
but i like your idea too
of boats
like mine sailing to the farthest sea
of boats like yours
that come back and embrace again
the welcoming arms
of the ports and the shores
and hear the sounds
of men and women
and children
all rejoicing
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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