A small gust of air
and then a flash of rainbow
A dragonfly
My thoughts wander
Why are they compared
To  majestic
Creatures of lore
When they are no longer
Than my shortest finger?
I shake my head
It is hard to stay focused
In this hot muggy air.
My fishing rod hangs limply
Over the unnervingly
Clear pond
My eyes drift over
To a patch of water lilies
Their petals droop
in the hot muggy air
I see their roots
And recall how easy it is
to pull one up and out
Stirring up the pond floor
In a flurry of mud
I sigh and lean back,
The old dock creaking
Taking special care
To avoid splinters
From the brittle wood
My feet-
Are the only cool part of me.
A drop of sweat
Snakes down my leg
And with a soft sound
Drops down
To join the rest of the water.
I am growing impatient.
The fish and I
Have something in common
We are lazy in the heat.

Smoke rings out of your ****.

Sitting in a wigwam playing tom toms
What a lovely day; tomtom along
Tambourine jingles while I'm playing this song
Look at all the children dancing; nothing shall be wrong
People always want something but I smell a fishy that's horrid and pongs
Playing tom toms calms me to centre thoughts of the past and the devil's tongue
You use people freely like a troublesome one who will string you like a puppet then simply move on.

There once was a man
Who stayed up all night
Fishing for hope at the end of a string.
The man got a bite
And he reeled it in tight
To find the line had broke in the spring.
The night became day
With the Sun's painted display
And he started to head back home.
With a tackle at side
And a pale of dreams dried
Fishing wasn't for him anyway.

January    cold    damp    little snow.
Cleaning two fish in the garage-
a rainbow    a brown    both gifts.

Dad taught me:
Cut down behind the gill
use the bend of the blade    follow the spine    flip    repeat.

Hold the tail    slip the knife between skin and meat    push
let the knife do the work
don’t waste meat.

Two beautiful fillets.

Half done with the brown    his hands stiffen    red and cold.
He stops    puts the knife down    stretches them    
wipes them of slime    blames the arthritis    continues.    

His hands never get cold.    
His age never shows.
Some day he will die    I realize that now.

Hard to believe it was 18 Years ago, 1998.
Waiting that long to make love is an unfortunate fate.

A July rain awakens the sleeping nymphs’,
Like old Rip Van Winkle, a yawn & stretch those limbs

Clawing their way out of an earthen cocoon,
Metamorphous begins by the light of the moon.

An electric buzz fills the West Virginia holler,
Charlie Cicada says “Connectin’ with them females is the problem”

And not long after… a loving relationship is bequeathed,
For the less fortunate, the brown trout waits beneath the Sycamore for a tasty treat.

Well there you have it; such is the life of the Brood Cicada,
And for new born nymphs’, it’s time to go sleep until the next Mania.

K.E. Carman 2016

I threw my darkness in a well
One wish, I'll never tell
The flick of a thumb
Splash, dream currency

An afterthought,
I walk with no shadow
Ominous spectres melt
Into the ripples of the deep

Quarters, nickles, dimes
Reflect the hopes of fishers
Casting out their demons
Cutting the line, thats a day

Cast that spinner bait
The emerald bass tail walks
Til I reel her in

Days begin
somewhere under
the height of
the sinking moon

and the tides that dance in and out
with it; I drift among
the crests—resting among them—
wondering how to catch a fish—
how to catch myself.