Perched on the plank seat
of the old wagon
the dusty man gently jiggles the reins
of his reliable old steeds,
they as resolved as he
to reach Archer City
to get booked up.

Larry was there with his white hair
whittling his latest creation,
an overweight manuscript
sure to cause a sensation
no matter its heft.

They sat together talking
til the fireflies flew,
shared stories of books
loves, and good bass hooks,
reaching down to fetch a fresh brew
when they got parched
which was frequent
as they spoke at length
of men like Woodrow and Gus,
how they cussed,
poked, and stretched yarn after yarn.

Larry’s gone to the barn
but the guy who pulled up
in that old wagon
still is reading
and yet yearns
to revisit Texas lakes
to fish bass,
visit the local café,
and eat a passel of pancakes
or a big, tasty chicken fried steak.

(In memory of Norris Hickey 1935-2014)

Love of family and fly-fishing: twin tributaries flowed
into your heart like a braided river.
Paradoxically, a sociable man who preferred to be alone
on some braided river,
basking in the peace of the wilderness,
hearing only birdsong and the gentle whirr of the fly line,
its nylon whipping to where you hoped the fish would rise.
Patience comes easily in peaceful surroundings,
unlike waiting for the blessing of grandchildren.
Eventually rewarded with five blessings.
You always said what a lucky man you were.
I’m glad your luck held because you would weep to see
your precious braided rivers drying up down here,
****** dry by the farmers’ greed for white gold
and the threatened tarāpunga (Black-billed gulls)
getting their nests crushed by callous four-wheel drives.
It would be enough to make your big, generous heart burst.

© Andrew M. Bell

Details of now, surface of ever.

Step, as we may, step away, on a way
from
to

Details of now, magnified, made nearer
to see,
to learn.
Ifery and wasery, wondered, wandered

upto, but not beyond, go
think that which holds the heavens,
a bubble, eh,
must be,
edge-less, inside, so smooth, smooth as
air,
I dare say, air is smooth, breathed easy,
calm, cold or hot,
air, is smooth, this surface of mind, this
is rough.

Pitted, adolescent greasy fifties happy
fashion engine, rewind,
take us back to when Ike and ****, gripped
the winds of change,
in signals so mysterious, we wonder if we saw,
the signs saying,
turn or burn,

and thought, what the hell, truth
is related to me, I cannot prove a lie.

I can say, virtually literally, true as such can be,
I can say there is no hell and we can't breathe
in heaven as conceived, beyond the stars,
or at least, past Mars,

ah, when all the world had, say,
a number, ten thousand, or so, say
science, prescience, right fore thought,

a story rises, from a word, that was a name,
first presented to me,
forethought was a god de-ifier, resistor of the bit
part, seeing the whole,
part seen is deception, to any who wished at then

to know, only to know, edge of knowing,
stood, stare, seeing we being a whole generated
mind, in lines linking one thing
to another,
in ever after birth, before death, now, as we imagine.

We think the wind a wonderous thing,
the mixture of elements we breathe and have
our native being in, & we have our post-natal first
known, ah, breathe,
air, this is the wind we wondered
through momma eyes, maybe,
I guessed, just guessed, instant-
iate a probability,
set a whatif, then

else
I laugh and douse the flames of cortisol,
thinking you may feel this wind,
next week, it meanders, and
may linger in New England,
delivering the requests

question everything, but wait, wait, listen
answers cost attention, not to mention
understanding, beyond - as in through,
which my kind plants as great crops
to make peace with,
as we burn through the opposition,
like mental hot coals.

Re learning to live, as once we lived when we all
knew, innocently, presumptively, knew
enough is always enough to share,
died, and we noticed
dying is easy, and
that much, that extent of declared, I know
dying is easy, is true, because none, once the
resistance
removes the lie that lingers as hell to pay, while
little grey Domeanies squeeze the truth
from me,
a sufficiency, enough to prove my reconciliation.

fishing                        fishing
loose nibble               all alone
on the lure                 on the water
pulling                       swaying
trying                         with the waves
failing                        thinking
trying again              about my goddess


fishing
catching
feelings
calm
content
alright.

Contemplation is like fishing.
Often my reason fails me
and I cast out into the waters
hoping I can catch that vital energy
feel its power, its resistance, its strength
that is elusive
but I know is there
and those moments of connection
with that mysterious force
give me energy.
I am alive
so I keep castings into the ocean
knowing the elan is there,
the verve that takes me from my mind
to dance, to move, to swerve
in that moment of now.

Author’s Note: I bow in gratitude to Brian McLaren and Barbara A. Holmes for their wisdom that inspired this poem and kneel in awe and thanksgiving to all the fish I have caught over the years, for the excitement and nourishment – the life they gave me.

his leather palms grip the line
as the tuna fights for life.
it sings in psalms,
stinging strong,
shining in his eyes.

what use have you for words, o' fish?
o' tyrant of the sea?
your royal hues
of palace blues
defy all eulogy.

that string of silver, slicing fast
across his arching back
rends slivers til
the swells go still
or coils run out of slack.

and when that sun, that burning eye
sinks beneath the waves,
your wild run
of songs unsung
sets memories ablaze.

at last you rest, o' king of kings,
and glide toward the sky.
your final test
at his behest;
he's weeping as you die.

The ghost of you won't follow me,
Though I try to lure you out.
Never do you fall for my tricks,
I never did doubt
Your capabilities and your wit
I know you float, magical broom
stick your finger in the air.
You'd hitchhike the galaxy
I know you'd dare.

I cast my line and reel in my bait
I cast my line and it's a snake
I cast my line, a reprobate
How much longer till I break

Patience is not a lesson I care for
I like waiting even less
I say, "that's enough", You say, "there is more"
- I'm breaking, I must confess

Vice on my heart, squeezing out tears
Thoughts are swirling all of my fears
Ripples in the pond spread out from my float
All goes still, there is a lump in my throat

Chin in my hand
Slumped and alone
My pole, unmanned
Heart's monotoned

I have cast in shallow waters
And reeled in dregs
Wandered forbidden corridors
And near lost legs

How much longer must I wander?

I trust You not to tip my boat
Believe You've brought me where I float
You've kept my rod from breaking
But not my hands from aching
It's the catch that I doubt
It's all one endless bout

I'm trying to practice trust
Though my heart's dusted with crust

Fishing, endless fishin'
Waiting on fruition
Fishing, oh, endless fishin'
Perhaps I'll reposition

"I go to Nature to be soothed and healed and to have my senses put in order".
- John Burroughs


Part I

When the time was right, he does not hesitate to follow the path, “I've been waiting for this moment a very long time" he says.
Just himself, a Sage XP fly rod, a Golden Prince reel and a selection of March Browns and Slate Drakes. Its a special morning, Autumn 60s, overcast skies and lowlights.


The pathway bends past tall Sugar Maples, Old Stone fences, a Groundhog or two, trout lilies and mountain laurel. Its right here, that his fondest memories reside.
He had come at last to transcend the idea of coming back to the river for a greater purpose. A purpose that makes life worth living, a milestone, his own personal mark on this special place.
The sound of the river is in earshot now. A Chipping Sparrow sounds the alarm and all of Neversinks inhabitance are now on notice….human approaching.


As he reaches the river bank he's transported to a memory of his Granddad. The times when they fished this stretch of the river together.
His Grandfather told him about a time when fly fisherman and fly tiers honored Neversink and made it famous.


We always fished until it was dark. Granddad would light the lantern and we’d walk and talk all the way home. I often felt encouraged that just knowing the importance of this place, brought me luck.

Part II

"So by now, you're probably wondering who I am." "My name is Tom, Tom Murphy." "As a child, I came here each summer to spend time with my grandparents in the town of Roscoe, NY. When I graduated high school, I still came here from time to time whenever I had a college break as an Agronomy major at Cornell. I've always loved this place. It's always been near and dear to my heart."


The very next morning, Tom makes his way down the pathway to the river again. A nice steady Breeze was blowing through the trees, and that's when he heard it again. It's almost as if someone was speaking through the trees and wind. There it was again, this time calling out a whispering "tight lines." This was the very same voice that Tom heard as a child when his Grandfather took him to the river from the very first time.


A light rain began to fall, and Tom took cover under a large hemlock tree. Thunder sounded off in the distance, and everything in the forest was dead silent. As Tom peered across the river, he spotted movement in the adjacent Forest. A second later, a figure appeared on the bank of the river. An older man probably in his late sixties dressed in a top hat and coat, a split bamboo fly rod, and a German Shorthair Pointer by his side. Tom called out, " Good morning, sir. How are you?"