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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Related quotes
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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A Mountshannon October Morning
The stranger sat upon the park bench,
and looked across the Lough.
Smoke from his pipe
blended with the cool morning breeze.
The distant mountains patchwork of green
sat under the hand of dawn’s rolling mist.
The white capped dark waters rolled endlessly against the shore,
nudging the sheltering boats against their moorings,
and washed over shoreline rocks
speckled with lichen and moss.
A pair of swans with their signets sheltered
in the calmer waters of the harbour
away from the white capped waves.
The sun edged its way into the sky,
from behind the sleeping mountains,
spreading red and oranged fingers
to touch the retreating night clouds.
The village adopted ginger cat
made his morning patrol
along the harbour’s sleeping boats,
in a search for breakfast.
The autumn coloured tree leaves,
fluttered in the morning breeze
as the wind and waves rolling
over the shore bound rocks disturbing
the dawning silence.
poem by David Harris
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At Hout Bay the fishing trawler sails out
At Hout Bay the fishing trawler sails out
while the rain pours down
like water out of God’s hosepipe
with engines roaring in the ears
and clouds of smoke hang over the boats
with every fisherman for a moment being caught
in a own world while fog whirl about the boats
that rocks up and down to the harbour mouth.
The waves crash, the sea foams and bubbles
and “my girlfriend has a good lover, ”
is sung by one while the trawler sets its course
on the look out for barracouta, cod and sea trout.
“Look at the shining bodies, tons of trout, they are running free, ”
a fisherman shouts against the wind that pulls and pulls on the boat.
“Salmon man, salmon” roars the tiller man back and walls of water
roll past and the boat turns to get fishing gear ready.
“My girlfriend has a good lover and he’s a gelded goat, ”
the tune goes on and something clatters down
drawing the attention of the fishermen and the water shines
and when the boat is full they tell jokes that they guffaw at.
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.
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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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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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Paper Boats
Day by day I float my paper boats one by one down the running
stream.
In bid black letters I write my name on them and the name of
the village where I live.
I hope that someone in some strange land will find them and
know who I am.
I load my little boats with shiuli flower from our garden, and
hope that these blooms of the dawn will be carried safely to land
in the night.
I launch my paper boats and look up into the sky and see the
little clouds setting thee white bulging sails.
I know not what playmate of mine in the sky sends them down
the air to race with my boats!
When night comes I bury my face in my arms and dream that my
paper boats float on and on under the midnight stars.
The fairies of sleep are sailing in them, and the lading ins
their baskets full of dreams.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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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
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Gently on the Stream of Time
Gently on the stream of time,
We are floating day by day,
In life's native boats sublime
We soon anchor in the bay.
We'll soon anchor in the haven,
Where the weary are at rest,
In that blissful port called Heaven,
Where are roaming now the blest.
CHORUS:
Be gentle, time be gentle with us,
While we are on life's troubled stream,
May life's foaming billows o'er us
Break away as day serene.
Gently on the stream of time,
We will swiftly glide along,
Till we reach the realm divine,
Then we'll join the heavenly throng,
Where our friends have gone before us
Waiting on the other shore.
In that home they sing in chorus,
"Welcome home the rich and poor."
Gently on the stream of time,
We shall shortly pass away,
We shall reach the heavenly clime
If God's commands we obey.
Gently on the stream of time
We are going one by one,
Listening to the evening chime
On life's journey going home.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Norwegian seamen's song
Norwegian seamen are
A folk grown strong 'neath sail and spar;
Where boats can find a way,
The best men there are they.
On high seas or at home,
In calm or when the storm-waves comb,
To God their prayer they make,
Their lives they gladly stake.
Incessant is their strife,
They wage with death a war for life,
And dear their souls they sell
In conflicts none can tell.
All that is commonplace
In history seldom leaves its trace,
And often none is there,
The tidings home to bear.
But fishing-boats in need
Have shown so many a daring deed
Of courage fine and skill,
Though unrecorded still.
And many a seaman's head
A wreath of sea-weed wore when dead,
Whose name should shine in gold
Among great heroes bold.
Saint Olaf's Cross's praise
Would on that pilot fitly blaze
Who saved a hundred men,
And hundred once again.
To many a boy so young,
Who riding home to boat's keel clung,
His father set on board,
We honor should accord.
In Norway's mountain-coast
Our land's own mother-breast we boast,
With food for us and tears
For sons whom danger nears.
In it each deed has lot,
And there no brave son is forgot,
From Hafurfjord's great day
To the last castaway.
This each one felt and found
Who homeward came and looked around;
This each one felt who went,
In the last look he sent.
They felt the ocean o'er:
Their ships our country's fortune bore;
Honor and power it sought,-
And these the white sails brought.
Hurrah for them to-day
Who the Norwegian flag display!
Hurrah for pilots true
Who forth to meet them flew!
Hurrah for them who ply
Their fishing-boats 'twixt sea and sky!
Hurrah for all our boast,
Our skerry-skirted coast!
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
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Ah, the Pleasure
Ah, the pleasure to sleep with your lover,
to feel body warmth,
soft gently breath of contented sleep,
comfort in a space shared,
an arm gently over your body,
a movement in sleep which leads to a cuddle or embrace,
perhaps even a sleepy kiss and to sleep again with your lover,
to know so much pleasure in time not concious to the woken mind,
to touch and feel safe,
to gently waken after sleeping with your lover,
Ah, the pleasure to sleep with your lover..............
This was my thoughts after a shared wonderful weekend with my lover.
poem by Linda Dyer
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The Fishers
The chill of late Autumn is in the morning
And before the sun comes out the sky looks gray
And Jack Iversen and Kenny are off fishing
They left quite early at the break of day.
They tow their boat to the ramp at San Remo
But only on a calm and windless day
And within sight of land they dropp their anchor
Where the fish might be schooling on the quiet bay.
For them a pleasant way to spend their morning
To fish with rods and lines from boat for three hours or four
Especially when the hungry fish are biting
A good morning's catch some twenty fish or more.
The gentle waves against the boat keep lapping
And the sun breaks through the clouds just after nine
It must be soothing for the nerves and pleasant
To sit and relax and fish in the sun shine.
The chill of late Autumn is in the morning
And the sun at nine shines through the clouds of gray
And Jack Iversen and Kenny are out fishing
In their boat anchored on San Remo bay
poem by Francis Duggan
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Trains And Boats And Planes
Trains and boats and planes are passing by
They mean a trip to Paris or Rome
To someone else but not for me
The trains and boats and planes
Took you away, away from me
We were so in love, and high above
We had a star to wish upon. Wish
And dreams come true, but not for me
The trains and boats and planes
Took you away, away from me
You are from another part of the world
You had to go back a while and then
You said you soon would return again
I'm waiting here like I promised to
I'm waiting here but where are you?
Trains and boats and planes took you a way
But every time I see them I pray
And if my prayers can cross the sea
The trains and the boats and planes
song performed by by Fountains Of Wayne
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Gently
(words & music by wizell - lisbona)
Gently your eyes met mine
Tender, trusting, true
Gently your hand took mine
Thrilled me through and through
Gently, oh so gently
Gentle as the dawn
Gently, oh so gently
Our true love was born
Gently your lips kissed mine
As we strolled along
Gently your heart touched mine
Young and warm and strong
Gently the hour is near
When true loves have to part
Gently well meet again
One more kiss, sweetheart
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crumbling Chalk
Beneath the cliffs of crumbling chalk was once a path
where you could walk. The walk would take you down to
the sand where fishing boats would come to land.
Now this crumbling chalk falls into the sea, where once
crabs and lobsters were caught for tea.
No scavenging left in this lonely bay even the gulls
have flown away; they have left the waves and the spray
are they to return another day.
Nets and pots have been swallowed up by the waves and
now their left to sleep in watery graves. A fishing village that was
once a boom has now become an empty tomb.
An oil slick just driffted into the shore and took away the beauty
that it had known before. Crumbling chalk that drops like tears
on the sand that's black made from the oil smears.
There is nothing left to self contain, oh will they no come
back again.
poem by Sylvia Spencer
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A Paumanok Picture
TWO boats with nets lying off the sea-beach, quite still,
Ten fishermen waiting--they discover a thick school of mossbonkers--
they drop the join'd seine-ends in the water,
The boats separate and row off, each on its rounding course to the
beach, enclosing the mossbonkers,
The net is drawn in by a windlass by those who stop ashore,
Some of the fishermen lounge in their boats, others stand ankle-deep
in the water, pois'd on strong legs,
The boats partly drawn up, the water slapping against them,
Strew'd on the sand in heaps and windrows, well out from the water,
the green-back'd spotted mossbonkers.
poem by Walt Whitman
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The sea gipsy
The sea gipsy
she's anchored in our sheltered bay, a fishing boat tonight will stay
a forard mooring rope made fast, engine's cut, anchor cast
light is failing, silhouettes, casts shadows of old fishing nets
atop the mast a solitary light, a beacon, throughout the night
with the tides rise and fall, she swings on the anchor's maul
waves lapping against her hull, oblivious to a wandering gull
decks are clear, gear stored, sleep comes to those aboard
on the morrow, at dawns first light, the eastern sun chases the night
movement aboard this working craft, is witnessed forard and abaft
now in the bright light of day, the gipsy prepares to get under way
lines are hauled, the engines started, the gipsy now, has departed
steaming to the fishing grounds, through the reefs and outer sounds
poem by Bob Gibson
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Clouds And Moods
Puffs of clouds covered the sky
Like my thoughts of you and I.
At times I could see and think clearly
But my mind would get weary.
Those puffs of clouds would take control
And my heart it would hold.
It’s amazing how it could be
That the clouds are like you and me.
When the clouds get dark and grey
We become defensive in every way
And the fights come into play.
And when clouds are a misty white
I want to make love to you day and night.
And when the clouds look like ripples in the sand
I want to squeeze you and hold your hand.
And when the clouds completely cover the sky
I thank god you’re by my side.
poem by Louis Rams
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By the Sea side
Staying by the sea, now at sunset
With the light slowly fading into greyness
And the waters lying quiet
A peace fills me as never before
Dismal fears barred entry into the soul
And mind freed of all disquietude.
Through the soft whisper of waves
A low sweet melody finds its way.
Listening to the gentle sibilance of the sea,
A new insight suddenly dawns on me
None but we are to blame
For all our angry bickerings.
With all swirls and whirls underneath
Is an abstruse calm in the deep
In this continuum of flux
Is a permanence - abiding and perpetual.
Staying by the sea at sunset
With its still waters glimmering in twilight
And the stray clouds straggling in the sky,
My soul undulates with the slow rhythm of waves
And in me breaks a light, luminous and clear
A glimpse of a radiance - ethereal!
poem by Valsa George
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Port Albert
The silver gulls mewing in the Village, the fishing boats moored to the pier
The gentle waves break at the jetty in fancy these scenes to me near
The last time I was in Port Albert the black and white bird known as pee wee
He piped in the afternoon sunshine on a flowering pittosporum tree.
Port Albert in Southern Gippsland doesn't change with the passing of time
A fishing Village by salt water the bards by it inspired to rhyme
The artists have captured it's beauty on canvas for to hang on the gallery wall
And all of those who have paid it a visit the memory feel glad to recall
The last time I was in Port Albert in September in early Spring
On a day of bird song and sunshine that memory to me seem to cling
A warm wind blew in from the ocean it was such a marvellous day
A gift from the Goddess of Nature to me for to carry away
From the fishing Village of Port Albert that developers yet have to find
The Utopia of Southern Gippsland are words for it that spring to mind
In the old cafe in the Village we enjoyed cappucino and cake
And I will re-visit Port Albert if only just for old time sake.
The silver gulls mewing on the jetty, the sun shining bright in the sky
As we drove on out of the Village this time it would not be goodbye
For I will return in September in the early days of the Spring
When magpie will pipe on the gum tree and blackbird will whistle and sing
poem by Francis Duggan
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Another Near To Perfect Day
In the sky the sun brightly shining the blue sky with some clouds of gray
On an afternoon in late October another near to perfect day
The white surf waves are gently rolling one reason no surfer in sight
And the silver gulls on the white beach search for food in the warm sunlight
An artist may well sketch such beauty and writers about it may write
By the coastal town on the surf beach there is beauty in peace and quiet
Today the ocean is not roaring no big waves for surfers to ride
The waves on the beach gently lapping so timid the sea at low tide
In the park the magpie larks calling the only notes they sing pee wee
And wattlebirds on the flowering coastal banksias their harsh calls familiar to me
On a beautiful day in the Springtime of around 24 degrees
And there is a cool sort of freshness in the cool freshening coastal breeze
Save for the silver gulls the beach is deserted and so clean is the fresh coastal air
A good memory to keep and to cherish and a good memory with others to share.
poem by Francis Duggan
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