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aennij Jul 7
Justice, when will you seek this land?
Infuriated and filled with rage and flame.  
Nation, do you demand?
Neglecting our own and true name.
Education, how will we stand?
Aggravated with ignorance and fame.

And when must our country be at our hand?

Justice, you shall always acclaim.
Oath taken by people whom hands are to blame
Stripped and deprived of our own sea and sand.
Eager, I am, to save our crown land.
for our fellow filipinos who were deprived to fish at their own sea.
Lilli Sutton Apr 4
Thinking about silence. Or
learning that my voice doesn’t always need
to fill a room. Somewhere there is always
snow falling. Or coyotes fishing.
It’s like a dream. If I go too long
without looking it might disappear.
And then where would I be.
I want to keep everyone happy and alive
and quiet and soft. It’s like I’m the only one
in the museum. Or I’m always listening
to conversations that weren’t meant for me.
A passive way to hurt. I want to take the afternoons
and twist them until the answers come out.
I want it to make sense to you
in the way it does to me. When I get home
I’ll study the birds that live out west.
I want to already know them when I get there.
I’ve had enough surprises – I want to be a kid again
with a hand full of salamanders. Or digging
in the warm, wet earth for pill-bugs.
Universal memories. We waited hours
for the rain to pass and when the lights came on
we gazed in awe at our reflections.
03.14.19.
Megan Hammer Feb 12
As I listen to Otis Redding on the harbor, boats named after people float around;
Boats named by fishermen who think just a little too much.
They come out everyday like Hemingway Jrs; the old men and their sea.

December does not feel right here: It’s not the same without a Chicago winter,
But this harbor’s got my father on my mind.

He used to run numbers for a local casino & now he writes numbers in a sudoku box on Sundays.
The days of wild adventure on the streets of Germany are what he sees when he looks at his beer mugs.

and when he’s had a little Heineken, Marlboro, and a spin of his record player,
I know that no one else should be in the room.

He shows his thoughts in photos: His winters spent coming back home to feed his family,
Keeping warm in a house with one heater, snow, noses blown in hankies, Uncle Frankie,
Harry playing jazz in the living room, and walking to school in the cold.

But there are no photos of him - and there wouldn’t be -
When he snuck away to the harbor with his friends.
We tend not to talk about them anymore, but he still remembers where they lived.

And sometimes, I catch a glimpse of him - with his Heineken and his Marlboro and his music -
I catch him as he smiles in hiding while his eyes confide in a light I do not see,
And when I do,
I know that my father is still on that harbor.
Purcy Flaherty Feb 2018
'Twas all so beautiful a sight,
A long summers night; The sacred stars were burning bright about our mother moon.

The wind filled the sails above the waves that sped us through the sailors tales and brought us to a deep lagoon.

We cast our nets out far and wide, then watched them sink below the tide, which rattled out a tune for me and you.

We hauled aboard the silver fish, to fill our bellies and our fists, then set off home like seagulls chirping tunes.

The wooden boat now tied about the key,
its tattered sail and rusty cleat,
tugs and tugs the rope upon the swell and gently whispers come to sea!
come to sea!
come to sea!
A little well used boat ried about a key
Donna Jul 2018
So they bopped in there
average sized boat under a
warm bright happy sky

The sun designed a
diamond necklace , the ocean
wore it with beauty

But in the distance
A whale floated to top of
the surface in tears

Entangled in a
net , its movement limited
slowing down it's heart

The fishermen pulled
frantically at the net , not
stopping for a breathe

Slowly the net had
loosened , the whale was free , the
fishermen relieved

For a whole hour
The whale jumped out of ocean
Happy to be free

Like midnight stars the
water glistened from the whales
body , the sun smiled

The whale entertained
Showing gratitude , the sweet
kind fishermen watched

Then they sailed away
And so did the whale , now free
to live once again
This Inspired me today after watching fisherman recuse a whale on utube  :-) im so happy the whale got to be free thanks to those fantastic kind fisherman - heroes **
Terry Collett Mar 2018
The fishing nets are fine,
fine and well mended.

Jose helps to haul them
aboard with his young
strong hands.

The catch seems good
as if Christ Himself
had been on-board.

The sun is low
in the sky,
seems to sit
on the sea.

Fishes flap and turn
on the deck of the boat
after we haul them in.

It has been an arduous trip:
one man down, off sick.

Jose, bent down
his strong mucluar arms
performing their task,
seems content.

Back home his wife
awaits him, no doubt
with troubled brow,
her brother drowned
on a fishing trip
a few years before
out here in this wide expanse
where the fishes swim
and the sunbeams dance.

It is done;
the catch is sorted
and pack away.

We head for port,
our load complete.

We light up cigarettes
and smoke.

He quiet
stares at the sea;
I repeat
well worn jokes.
Terry Collett Mar 2018
A beach,
early dawn,
fishingmen

preparing their boat,
nets arranged,
sea welcoming,

tides rushing,
sunlight smimming
into view,

and you,
one of them
thinks about,

how he left you sleeping,
tucked up in bed,
how he kissed your head,

they push out
the boat together
until the sea bears it up

and they clamber aboard,
away from the shore,
preparing themselves

for action,
and he remembers
the night before,

making love,
kissing each aspect of you,
your lips on his

over and over,
looking back,
seeing the White Cliffs of Dover.
Siren Coast Nov 2016
It was the strangest of days,
That turned into the coldest of nights.
I lay there waiting for the Fisherman's return.
A promise of his blessing,
Before I headed out to warmer waters,
Until Summer was to return.
The red wine was now half empty,
The candles wax-ridden and burned.
The current shifted, it was time to return.
A fair maiden in a tavern,
Wrapped around the Fisherman's arms.
He gave her tokens she would treasure
I gave him curses of scorn.
Stanley Wilkin Jul 2016
Beneath the water lived a nymph, beautiful as
A flower, if you like woman with petals
Growing from out of their face
And lips adorned with myriad metals
Moving silently with infinite grace.

Fishermen who caught her, in alarm
Tossed her back with dismayed cries
Fearful that she would do them harm
When she exposed her fangs, darting from her eyes,
Forked tongues from each palm.

But apart from all that, she was a delightful creature
As proud as a catwalk model
Sexuality impressed into each feature
Death in each cuddle,
Poison injected from each freshly opening suture.

At the sea’s dark bottom lived the nymph
Devouring fish raw, terrifying sharks and barracuda,
Dining on shellfish and prawns for lunch;
Darting amongst Angel Fish and eels, a hungry aficionada,
Tearing into shreds what she could not crunch.

Gentle with her own kind until coition
Was complete, when if hungry she devoured
Her temporary mate without undue consideration,
No please or thank you. Feeling duly empowered
By her actions, as confirmed by her explosive, acrid indigestion.

No longer young, her children dead,
She glides through the water from China to France
A preposterous seaweed hat upon her head
And in several places, impaling her scaly flesh a serrated coral branch.
Her sartorial taste filling even the sharks with fin-quaking dread.

The last of the kind. The others are (literally) toast.
Protected by animal charities here and abroad
She gladly subsists on ambitious swimmers who venture far from the coast
All she can now catch or afford.
A capricious tyrant until the last, when, victim of a fisherman’s boast

She was hoist up like iniquitous cod
Out of the sea, paraded on the deck while she struggled for breath.
Shot at. Abused. Poked and speared with a steel tipped rod,
Dragged into the harbour, pummelled close to death.
Screaming out, as she in unexpected agony died: “I thought, I truly thought, I was god!”
Elizabeth Feb 2016
I throw my gubbins out
in my net, casting for a
dinner to feed you
by spoon.

My words are gubbins.
Irritating impulse of
fingers and joints
bending around your waist.

Our speech is gubbins -
puked through esophagus
bile and awkward conversation.
A belch of early caught perch.

We make love like gubbins.
You flop wrongly, I flip coarsely.
Our toes knot and break.
We kiss backwards.

I cry gubbins
on your sweaty shirt.
Your gubbin caught dinner
still smudged on your cheek.

I wake up to your bucket of
gubbins from dinner next to the bed.
I bring it to my boat
to catch our next meal.
From a prompt to question the meaning/existence of a word. I chose "gubbins", an old word for fish chum. Working title.
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