"anglers" poems
Gotta love fishermen, I guess,
They all belong to Anglers' Anonymous,
Dodging Waterways Rangers,
Are the fish ever in danger?
After the football, they go fishing,
For big catches they are all wishing,
We listen to all those fish tales,
The ones that never got to the scales,
The whoppers that got away, yah!
I barrack for the fish these days,
Gotta love fishermen, I guess,
They belong to Anglers' Anonymous!!
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 7:29 PM UTC
Gumbo the sprat reminds you he has
no place to go,
away from the night shoals
swimming mid stream,
he dithers if the pier should burn down,
could he bear if the anglers drowned?
yet he's not too axiomatic
knowing right from wrong.
but again theres no pretense
only a presence
swallowing this illusion of depth.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.
He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.
It is not his fault.
In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.
So he is blessed, my skipping stone.
It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—
That get lost in ourselves
That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.
But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.
We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
We refuse to die in our sleep.
His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
sea foam green if I’m trying,
and violet when I’m in the mood.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC
Amid the sky of covered crimson plane
The stormy night begets its wonted reign
And down the sails of battered ships
The golden light of sol doeth set.
Far below the wooden hulls lies
O’ oceans crypt, unknown in depth.
Below the base of beaten ships and
Amid the anglers glow
The luminal aura of Isis shows.
Crystal Night, immaculate sight
Waxing strong her sultry form
Oh how bright her soothing light
A beckon of hope amid the perilous storm.
The captive witness cannot cease
Its ponderous delight of beauties scene.
Of the godless night, in waves
Of tumult and titanic might
Of hellish forces the setians reign.
The sacred goddess of Lucifer’s seed
Rests tall for all to see.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
Flashes of silver darts.
Diminutive dancing.
Entrenched in youthful memories.
Mesmerizing the sea.
Seaside salty sailors.
Sand eels.
Summer seas.
Rock pools.
Summer fools.
Caught on the anglers line.
Reeled in, escorted on a day trip to the sea.
(c) Livvi
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
1.
I’m climbing hills today
in one, effete poet’s way
they could be metaphors
for all sorts of ‘big life things’
but in another, my belly
is about to give my knees
some trouble
2.
The sepia on this one’s different
there was sometimes bitterness
in steps made here
as the lure of the theme park rides
sat so near
but the years have done a lot
to replace the roller coaster thrill
with the heart weight of hills,
dales and rivers with tales to tell
3.
You remember I mentioned
the metaphor?
And the belly troubling the knees?
Well these things came to pass
as I hauled my carcass up the hill
turning the air blue
The metaphor? Decisions
that once were natural,
easy like breathing
now can feel laboured, burdened
when a step is placed
how can I be sure the ground will hold?
Even at the peak, where I once
could exhale at the majesty of a job well done
I’m now fraught with the thought
of the journey down
4.
This river is different
at home the stream accompanies me
on local walks, showing me the known
and keeping my chin up
Here, the bold broadness of the river
hides secrets and speaks in a deeper tongue
coarse fish, familiar to me
are replaced by those that anglers prize
I am both lost and a little more alive
5.
Looking into the faces
of teenagers dressed for town centres,
either striding ahead
or shambling behind
parents intent on extolling
the virtues of fresh air and nature
while feeling strangely out of breath at the climb
closer in, the adolescent eyes show
a plethora of emotion
contempt, depression, longing
utter conviction that life is happening
somewhere, anywhere else
but if I may offer some advice: relent
as in a few blurred years
you’ll succumb to the same fossilisation
and will need some routes to remember
Aug 25, 2021
Aug 25, 2021 at 1:50 PM UTC
Our reflections on a brass doorknob .
A skeleton key would slowly turn each tumbler ..
Dusty pinewood flooring , antique trinkets ..
Propane space heaters and fresh coffee balm private , erstwhile collective memories . A matriarchs kitchen , well water aroma and cross stitched towels , her flour tinged cotton apron , cast iron skillets and brass tea kettle with porcelain service ushers spirited times of conviviality over a simple oak dining room table ..
Hand made breakfast nook curtains , the majesty of tall Water Oaks
with foraging bantam hens and roosters ..
Dirt roads would tell of visitors long before they ever arrived ,
fishing for shell crackers at the old bridge with cane poles and and dough ***** , leftovers from cat head biscuits at breakfast ...
Pecans and crabapples fed young anglers on shady Summer afternoons . Feeding tall grass to black angus and hereford cattle through barbed wire fence , collecting afternoon eggs and walking the furrows at Dusk ,
days I'll never forget ..
Feb 11, 2016
Feb 11, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
The waves are dredged along. Under the constant gaze
of the shimmering top floor moon.
Down to each second to each hour.
But, you are the angel fish, floating
free
beneath the cover of these tides.
Your shoals guide, the humble anglers
home
a silver blonde amongst the bigwigs,
The local red army, clothed in Cex shirts,
not needing an October symphony,
but now I sing your praises.
The bag you gave, though I had no 5 pence to spare,
lightened my load as much as any camel
along the silk road.
My journey is eased,
by your projected hope that my railcard,
will be renewed in future,
for your faith gives promises the
weight
of Gold.
You allow me to watch the guided heroes in explosive flames,
despite my smuggling
of Jelly babies under a hoodie.
For the shimmer in
Your
eyes, I will leave no litter,
for those with the blonde glittered scales,
From cold night, let the sun rule,
And the sea shall shimmer too.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
garlands on the beach,
togas like walk way gables,
gaze back expectantly
for our return.
Celestial anglers catch loaves from the shore
and the limelight wash delinates
the patience of man the fallen shadow.
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 8:02 AM UTC
Thick fog breaks across West Point Lake ...
Bass boats and crappie fishermen , tour boats and skiers
skim across her blue looking glass , Wood Ducks test the skies
northbound up the Chattahoochee River , bank anglers anchor poles
along her fortified edges .. White granite boulders visible from the mid-line .. Indigo hope and dreams as starlings silhouette her morning miracle , shad minnows skim the blue mirror , visiting gulls feast along quiet shoreline . A tall Georgia Pine mirage forms in tranquil coves , early day crows call hysterically from the hardwood thickets .. Turtles occupy muddy banks , Whitetails quietly graze worked fields , dragonflies and monarchs incessantly toil beneath the strengthening heat of Summer , baldfaced hornets fortify their paper rampart high atop a lone River Birch ...
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
Pile clouds push the north ridge
liquid blue lines at dead man’s point
cane garden pool for industrious folk
verdant green tuck from the upper deck
Waterfalls heavy and head winds calm
sea deep clear at the pit cove
pusser *** pints (for the pain ****
eateries pop and glow in port
Oleander clips and elephant ears
scuppernong grape from the jester
tannia stock on dipping day
calypso calls from an improvised spot
Hammocks hung at coral beach
funjie band in bamboshay time
ficus, gallows and *** runners
flying fish on the catamaran row
Metallic crab and swordfish
soggy holes for the sage and musk
sinkers, skiffs and rollers
white squalls gust on the north bay
Skeleton art at charlie t's
powder white and breezy
shells and driftwood for the artisan heart
geckos short of the cabana
Butterflies float on violet caps
fingers cross the hummingbird bath
anglers steady under canopy layer
lighthouse sails are bending
Mar 24, 2017
Mar 24, 2017 at 11:01 AM UTC
Yes, I am the same God
that dwells among you
Grace incarnate
again and again
in times and among peoples
various as the stars
if that mighty being
beyond all description
but experience
ever begat anything
it is but me,
me, love and grace
wherever the heart shrinks
and tyranny reigns
and lust and greed
masquerade as law
into that parched desert
do I descend, when
Jordan baptizes the soul
Ichthys of God, I make twelve
the anglers of fisherfolk
who cast their nets wide
and catch me in their soul
so they can behold
Him, that I am,
no greater miracle than this
was ever made
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 7:09 AM UTC
Oconee's throwing reflections at Dusk
Heavenly Monarch orange fields with -
Dove and Wood Duck silhouettes
Autumn , cool dreamscapes christened by -
the Evening Star , shadow boat anglers and -
lamp lit docks
The smoky breath of lakeside cabins
Intrinsic , moonlight interpretations -
over the piedmont treetops
The clap of olive turbid water against her granite -
embankments , voices echo over watery nighttime
level , schools of shad decorate and skim the surface
Carolina blue bows to ebony star filled October night
Dark plains teeming with starlight imagination
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 8:59 PM UTC
Granite and marble talismans , sugar white sandbars and felled Oak
bridges .. Smallmouth bass explode with hunger at the surface , soft shelled turtles in meditative bliss , fill driftwood and sun drenched rock islands , dancing waters and bank head flora lend a thousand different colors to the afternoon palette of a Kelleytown Summer ...
Water striders communicate with dance to the ballad of a bold Bluejay .. Young anglers test their skills with creek minnows in search of Yellow Perch and Black Crappie as the last hour of daylight swiftly begins to pass ..
Feb 27, 2016
Feb 27, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
On my profile is a picture
Of a place I used to go fishing
I would sit there for hours
Staring at the brightly painted tip
of my carefully balanced float
Watching for tell-tale signs
Of greedy little fishes
Which were caught and returned
Without much harm to them
This place was a wide part
Of the local stretch of canal
There so barges could turn 'round
And, obviously, known as the wide
Other than in the minds of kids
Who called it "Dead Man's Cove"
Although, in living memory
No-one had died there at all
Many pleasant hours I spent there
Sometimes chatting to other anglers
Or the occasional passers-by
Some would be walking their dogs
And some just stretching their legs
"Having any luck, mate?" they'd ask
"Not bad," I'd reply with a smile
And, do you know, I never noticed
The beauty that was there all the while
By Phil Roberts
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 3:08 AM UTC
There once was a whale
Or maybe it was just a giant fish
He hung around in the shallows
And all of us anglers wondered if
Catching him wouldn't make us rich
If only that glory could be ours
To win that battle between nature and wit
We set our bait and cast our lines
And in the meanwhile, we wondered, "what if?"
And at the local gas stations we give them our cash
We ask for the many itches that we would like to scratch
We look at the numbers with all our fingers crossed
Hoping that all of our hope is not lost
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 2:45 AM UTC
In tidying his garden shed he sweeps up
spiders’ webs without concern, like
so much dust and spiders too.
They wait for hours, patient as anglers,
their lines complex geometries of silk.
It takes a million years to get to this:
an hour to build a web that lasts a day;
With webs secure as safety-nets,
they lie in wait for acrobatic wasps to falter,
unsuspecting slap-stick moths to snag
their powder-wings on sticky silk…
He locks his shed.
Even as he’s walking down the path,
a ball of legs unfurls, fixes a line,
abseils down the window pane.
Jan 24, 2019
Jan 24, 2019 at 7:50 AM UTC