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miki Sep 2018
your voice is a curse
that i can never get rid of.
it entices me,
pulls me in
until there is no more rope to be held
and you have to throw me back out again
just to reel me in once more
so you can speak to me
with your voice made of poison.

i can never tell who’s worse.
me.
or you.
Riley June Apr 2018
connected to the end of a fishing line,
pulled by a hook the eye,
reeled onto the deck by a strong grip,
lashing out against every touch,
try to hold me down and still my movements,
screaming for air while swallowing nothing,
soon limp i'm tossed aside as you go back to the reel,
pray that others will see my blood on; your hook in disguise
Star BG Feb 2018
Endless poems surface
from poets river in mind.
Waves containing fish-like words
move gracefully
as pen becomes oar.

Woven net of breath
captures some
while others are thrown back
for expansion.

catch is laid
on white screen-like table
cleaning them
before displaying my prizes.

Soon they are ready
for a wandering eye,
as I a poet fisherman continues to troll.
Just aware of all the poems that surface in me.
Jonathan Sawyer Dec 2017
A rope does not know its strands until it unravels.
Crazy unfurls as a cable overwhelmed by tension.
Braids to maintain are woven as need arises, and are not prepared.
My sanity is an anchor renewed,
while my instability is the eroding product of a millennium of crashing tides.
What knots do I need to know to endure the waves ahead?
I fear I will never be a fisherman.
4 December 2017 - by my wife, Adyson Wright
Sam Oct 2017
I didn't need a lure
Not even a hook
Bait didn't pay a role
No net, no knots, no pole
You simply walked into my life
You threw your arms around me
A squeeze ever so tight
Tight enough to free the unlit cigarette
from my jaw
It sailed softly to the ground
As if to say
"You won't need me anymore, that girl is here to stay"
And sure enough you did proclaim
I've never been much of a fisherman
but somehow I still caught you
Gilang Perdana Sep 2017
who needs to learn
to wrap the tides
while the fisherman
cast the net of fire
from the darkest seabed
locked the doors of events
to keep an ancient calendar
still glowing on it's eyes
but within the time
the firts cry came
the lips of the ocean
became reluctant to return
for us to be afraid
to saw the wraith

of the fish
Nishu Mathur Sep 2017
On golden shores on white sands,
Stands a blue catamaran.
With toil, love, skillfully made.
Though paint chips off, colors fade.
It's built from logs of hardy wood,
A fisherman... his livelihood.
He sails each day, with hopes new,
His life, his love on a rippling blue.

On calm waters when sun shine beams,
When the shimmering bay glistening gleams,
When waves dance, in tandem sway
Where sun rays wink, hide and play.

On vengeful days when waters mock,
When menacing gales toss and rock,
When dark clouds engulf the bay,
When the world anchored safely stays.

But the sun kissed fisherman,
Sails each day his catamaran..
Never tethered on safe shores he,
For thats not where he's meant to be.

As he sails the coastal bay,
I see him fade.. far away
Singing songs, in the distance he,
His love, his life, his hope..the sea.
Hasan Aspahani Aug 2017
I a m hungry, therefore I am -  Garfield



IN prayer he will never utter
    it waits for the rain of milk,
       a heavy rain, because of him

the cat with thirsty tongue, see with
      its own eye, when mother was disappear.

In prayer he never dared to ask
     it wants a fishy fish neck,
         the smell of a fisherman,

no care about salt salinity, or its own sweat.

In prayers he will never say
       it expected the lap, the fire on that stove
                warm, and maybe also sear.
Hasan Aspahani Jul 2017
MONTHS are mature, the moon comes, I pluck you, with a doubtful hand and an abundance of anxiety. Night is ripe, night comes.

Moon hungry, wild moon. You make me a bat, take out. I am from the blind stone cave, hunting you. Night hungry, wild night.

The moon is sharp, the moon is deep. I'm a diver fisherman, long sharpening. Spear, on you I shut my eyes-wounded. Night sharp, deep night.
Catarina Pech Jun 2017
I was born of a fisherman, fine and faithful
Faithful to God and the sea, faithful to my mother and me
I am a daughter of the sea, sensible and salty
To the sea I am impressed, there is peace that permeates
Perhaps it is in my bones, Portuguese explorer’s blood
When I breathe the salt air, its spirit deflects despair
This love derives from my father, this love affair with saltwater

This man of the sea fosters respect, but also tends to overprotect
Perhaps the sea prepared him to be practical and prudent
Undulating waves shaping his vision, dreams escorted to fruition
For these dreams I am grateful, for the breath of the sea
The lust the ocean produces in me
The love from his heart, the love from the sea
Floated over the waters so lavishly so lovely
I'll send him a kiss across the Atlantic
I hope it lands neatly on his cheek
I hope it reaches him, quick
My father started working on a fishing boat at 13
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