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old willow Oct 24
The rain embraced earth,
leaving behind morning dews and vigor.
Somewhere along the distant town, I hear an aged song.
Swirl swirl, I once roam the world.
Azure sunset, Tears of spring, The world once my mount.
Mountain thoughts, River heart, Valley self,
My River is dried, ocean emptied,
Simply a Drunken fisherman in the sunset.
old willow Oct 1
Fisherman is earth, his net is life,
Fish is Man, Ocean is heaven.
Sway by the earth, we dwell in life.
Entangle in this life, Earth is now home;
Ocean is just an illusion.
The fish move where the net moves,
The net move where the fisherman goes,
The fisherman move where the ocean drifts,
Man who dwell in life only see his net,
not both the drifting fisherman and ocean.
Maria Mitea Sep 13
There were two good friends,
The flowerwoman and
The fisherwoman.

Both selling
flowers and
fish at the market.

One weekend,
The fisherwoman  invited
The flowerwoman for a sleep over.

At night,
after talking for a long time
they were tired and wanted to sleep.

The fisherwoman  fall asleep immediately,
as she was sleeping in her home,
but the flowerswoman could not fall asleep.
She was tossing because of the smell of fish in the house.

She woke up, and got a few flowers from her basket, and put them on the table.
The flowers smell helped her easily fall asleep.

Suddenly,
The fisherwoman got up,
wondering from where this awful
smell was coming.
“ I can’t tolerate flowers smell. “
She removed the flowers from the table.
The fish smell again helped her fall asleep.
Only falling asleep took them beyond their likes and dislikes.

We engage in changing many things in life. We change our diet, look, car, house, friends, relationships, ...  We eat super foods. We create and learn  different sophisticated  theories to feel smart. We work hard to change others, but rarely we notice and approach our own attitude ....
annh Apr 18
Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes

Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High

‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘
- Ben Myers

Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
one year later and I still can't
get over that fisherman's silence
Devin Ortiz Nov 2019
Words drift, past the pages and recollection.
Some skip just above a stream of consciousness.
Others hurdle by, accelerating into shapelessness.

A fisherman of thought.
Praying the last of his bait,
feeds him, just another day.

As the days blend together,
and the current thrashes on,
hope is a face on the water.

He’s filled his belly with persistence,
but the need for creation lives on.

Cast the line.
Spin the rhyme.

Feast on the dreams of tomorrow.
Morgan Alexander Sep 2019
The man to my right was more than eight feet away. I was going to have to move closer to him to catch my limit of four trout. I halved the distance between the two of us and noted the sideways glance he shot me. I apologized immediately and asked if I was crowding him.
     “No, you fine,” he replied within a thick Serbian accent.
     “You’re with them?” I asked, pointing to the crowd of people on the bridge some 30 feet upstream from us. I had heard the crowd of eastern Europeans talking earlier, and their accents were unmistakable to me. He nodded and we continued fishing.
     With my new angle I was better able to pick my fish in the water, so that’s what I did. I spied one and tossed my jig toward him. It took five casts but eventually, he took the bait. As I netted it in the swift, ice-cold spring water the man beside me congratulated me on the catch. I thanked him and added it to my stringer. This made three, and I only needed one more.
     “What’s your name?” I asked him.
     “Ivan”.
     “Have you been in the states long?” I asked, after the pause following his short reply seemed to invite more questions.
     “Since ‘96, my family live here. It is good.”
     “You like living here?” I wondered aloud.
     “Yes, the fishing is good. It is like back home in Serbia, or in Germany. We have this fishing there.”
     “You mean trout?”
     “Yes, trout...and some other fish like these, in water like this, but I can’t go home now.” He looked away momentarily. His lips pursed, and his brow furrowed. I pulled my line in, wanting to ask him more and not wanting to be distracted.
     “Were you in the war?”
     “Yes, I was in the Serbian police force.” My heart pounded. “When I was in the Serbian police force, we did what you see on the news. We went into villages and we killed them. We killed them all.”
     I cast my line back into the water, spying another trout. Ivan shrugged and cast his own line. I couldn’t tell what he was using but it looked like cheese of some kind. “I was drafted in Serb police when I was 15. I had no choice. If I refuse, they **** me. I did what I had to do.” I nodded, and ****** my line, missing a fish. “Before the war, I fished. After the war, there were not so many people, so fishing was very good.”
     The air around me was alive. The trees were greener, the water was colder and clearer, the sun was brighter, and the sky was bluer.
     “I’ve been fishing for a long time as well,” I responded. My father used to bring me here as a child. He nodded and continued.
     “After the war, all the fish come back, no one fished during the war, so there were many of them. You just had to be careful of the mines.” He grunted and gazed skyward.
     “The mines?”
     “Yes, during the war they mined the water.”
     I watched trout number four take my jig and I carefully reeled him in. Ivan congratulated me a second time, and I thanked him in return.
“You’re a good fisherman,” he said turning back to his own pursuit of the four-trout limit, as I left the water to clean my catch.
All imperial, resource-based wars are bad wars. There are not good and bad actors, only competing wealthy interests.
Dawson Aug 2019
Your words reel me in
Gently
So gently that I don’t even know I’m moving toward you
Away from familiar waters
Until I’m staring into the deepest blue
Unable to steady my thoughts
Here
Thoughts swirl in the whirlpool that is you
Just like that
You let out your line
The one that has me hooked
Give me slack
Let me drift away from you
Just until I’m swimming freely
Away from thoughts of you
But then
There it is
The tug from you again
Swiftly I am pulled toward you
Praying you will reel me in this time
And decide I’m
Worthy
Decide I’m your catch
Nigdaw Aug 2019
The waves hold secrets
of fishermen's lives
fishermen's wives

buried at sea
sacrificed
giving life
to the ones they love
left on the shore, looking out
to an endless horizon
praying for God's mercy, love

safe return
for the fishermen
and the fisherman's friends
who left port
with bravado, confidence
they could conquer Neptune's wrath
sail between heaven and hell
bringing home the catch
from the depths

celebrate another day of life
snatched from the precipice
of a watery grave
Valentin Jun 2019
Many bottles of Jack Daniel's
Are empty on this boat
He likes spending summer
With his friends on this boat

He can be wherever he wants to be
As long as the seas and oceans
Are part of his life
And this boat

He is always looking for this place
Where he could drop the anchor
Stay, live and die
With this boat

The Blue Planet is all his
All of the coasts are his
Today he is in Flensburg
Tomorrow probably still in Flensburg

He chooses
He decides
As long as he eats fish
And drink whiskey


I am wondering if this poem could have been any longer if this crazy old German guy would have not came and disturbed me.
06.21.19
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