"bobber" poems
The creek out to our cottage
was right out our front door...
The boats were docked on down the line
with fishermen galore...
Motor boat, motor boat
putt, putting down the line...
I know you thought you were quiet
but I could hear you just fine...
I'd lay in bed and listen,
to the fishermen in the boat...
They would talk and laugh
and sometimes tell a joke...
I was just a little girl
wishing I was going with them...
But dad was at work, so there was no way
I'd just have to wait for that special day...
So I'd dream of the time
when I could jump in that boat.
with my fishing pole always ready
had a bobber ready to float...
by ~ judy
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 11:15 AM UTC
A ten minute drive
To a place that I love.
Be thankful your alive and thank the good lord above .
Not many people travel deep to its place.
Get lost from society without a trace.
All you need is a pole and a little bit of faith
In hope of some fish will nibble your bait
My bobber dips and dangles my line
as the sun rays reflect off the water and shine
A strike of a bass has hit up my hope
Making it hard to contain and cope
Some fish all day for the one to take home
But I'll wait longer for the one that is unseen
And when yours crumbles mine will be chrome
She swim through my heart with pure sanguine
For some it is hard to find what is fond
For silly young Adam, it's fish in a pond
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 11:55 PM UTC
Sun crashing through the windows and spilling all over the breakfast table.
Squinted eyes looking out at the everything. Focused out there: Trees. Grass. Light. Dirt. Adventure.
Fruity pebbles drenched in whiteyellow light.
The creaky screen door and the blue steps.
Chipped paint. Splintered wood.
The smell of fresh cut grass.
The smell of dirt caked to our bodies.
The smell of heat and sweat and summer.
A Baseball glove lying half hidden in the grass.
A bike parked under the biggest evergreen tree in the world.
A skateboard under your moms beat up rusty car.
Hands digging through dirt searching for some ancient secret.
Super secret plans drawn on paper towels.
****** kneecaps and wooden playgrounds.
The sound of tires on gravel.
The sound of your laugh.
The sound of your sister crying.
The sound of bodies slapping against the water.
The creek.
Deeper, longer and more profound than any other creek on the planet.
The woods.
The endless woods and all the beautiful and terrifying things they offered us every day.
The forever extending ripple my bobber sent through the ***** water of that small pond.
My back against the blades of green.
The dipping sun.
The puffs of white in the sky and branches dancing.
Unlimited.
All encompassing.
Magic.
Pure.
Beautiful innocent ignorance.
Freedom.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
I cast my line into the water. The bobber bounced a few times and then rested on the surface slightly cocked to the side. I pulled my hat down low, just far enough to block the sun and still see the water. Everything was quiet. Tigger was running around the other end of the pond, looking for raccoons I guess. He went to the water and took a drink, then he took off into the woods. He’ll be back. I love that dog. I must have had him for 10 years now.
I lit up a cigarette, a Marb red. God, this is the life, man, just chillin, fishin. I had other things to do. I should be looking for a job I guess. I should probably be cleaning my apartment, or taking care of those overdraft fees, I forgot about those, **** Oh well, this is my day. The birds had started to sing again. I whistled along, Andy Griffith’s theme song, God’s gift to whistlin fishermen. I could feel the sun on my bare arms. That’ll be good for my tan. I took another drag on my cigarette, the air was calm enough that I could blow smoke rings. So I did, for about an hour.
Then out of the corner of my eye I saw the tip of my pole dip down a little, it did it again, again, and again. Finally the bobber disappeared under the water. I grabbed my pole and started to reel ‘er in. It was a catfish, about five pounds I’d say. This was perfect, I would get Tigger and we could go home and fry this sucker up, and I would drink a few brews, watch the game and go to bed. What a wonderful day. I called for Tigger, but he didn’t come out of the woods. Probably found one of those ***** So I walked around the pond to where I saw him go in. No matter how many times I called for him he didn’t come back. I searched for two whole hours but I couldn’t find my dog. He was gone.
Aug 10, 2010
Aug 10, 2010 at 5:03 PM UTC
They said I'm too young to love him,
What would they do if I told,
I live in my free land of twenties
I heard boys whistle to my sassy moves
But they're too young to my wild wild heart.....
When you parked Scount bobber vintage style
Ripped t-shirt with leather field jacket,
I match my short waitress white dress
For your Latte moments at my coffee shop
Shinning like a god, So I go wild wild wild....
My boyfriend loves me more than ever.
He would sing for me all midnight.
We dance until we drunk on a cheap wine
This love is pure. But god have mercy on me.
Because you're the one who makes me wild wild wild...…. Truly
I run away from this truth.
To flee from my own sin.
Hide in a pastel fairytale.
Which doesn't make me too jazzy
But I will not let you to break my wild wild heart.
Where my wild heart burned,
All ashes should be scattered
The color of the flames, painted the sky red and orange
Bitter but intoxicating smell of desire,
remains in the air
Then you'll never forget my wild wild heart.
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 12:11 PM UTC
Passion upon a rocky stream...
youthful expectation of a dueling fray.
Slip-bobber swirls within random eddies
induced from a bottle of Southern Comfort
tossed with wayward abandon.
Time passes...hopeful dream dies.
Enticed by a liaison with greener grass.
She swims with lazy nonchalance,
in shallow recesses naked to my sight.
Dining upon her own chosen array.
Casting off the feast I hold before her.
Something fishy going on here!
© S.Loeding
All Rights Reserved
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
****** if i
don't have it made,
porch swinging with some lemon aid,
bobber twitching there in the shade.
Weber smoking our ribs are laid.
warm peach pie cause we just got paid
last my Martin on which I serenade
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
*please read http://hellopoetry.com/poem/629931/in-the-beginning/
before you indulge in this :-) *
DAD'S DREAMS
The Sandman and I have an agreement:
I will use his grains sparingly,
In return,
He dispenses my prescription in
Nearly lethal doses.
Deep,
Extravagant,
Peaceful
Sleep
Where only contented dreams live
In abbreviated hours
Too succinct
To allow anything unpleasant.
Wrinkled
Sheet-faced
Creases
Trail skippingly through
****** worlds
Utopian neighbors
Calorically absent banquets
Sharing property lines with
Idyllic, passionate women
Who peer over their
See-through fences
Teasing unbridled desire
Of covering me in a favorite topping.
(Dutifully, I double check
Nocturnal filters
To be sure I have prevented
Broadcasting of past names
To my present wife
Half-dozing on the pillow
Taken from my side of the bed.)
A mist sets then rises, a new act begins,
Transporting near the river
On the banks of my hometown.
I am Tom Sawyer,
Lounging proudly with
My Huckleberry friends,
Fishing line on my toe,
Bobber and stink bait
Mimicking ***** waves
On the Muddy Miss.
The string draws taut bending my stubby digit.
It’s a big one hanging on
Pulling so hard
I'm driven from slumber.
There at my feet I can see I have
Reeled in the finest catch of my life.
A blue eyed,
Small mouth offspring
With panting gills
Mumbling something about falling....
Then I remember,
The only thing
Better than my dreams
Is waking to a son
Who believes I am bigger
Than all of his.
Mar 15, 2014
Mar 15, 2014 at 1:06 AM UTC
ends in screams of silent tears
for those that are going
and those that have gone.
They once ran through lands
of meadows and streams
tricking teachers into believing they were deathly ill
just so they could go fishing on a sunny afternoon.
He was drafted
leaving her behind
hoping to return with more than a box
to call his own.
They got married
without a proposal
knowing it would
“just happen.”
Together they raised
a girl and a boy
and soon they had children
of their own.
I followed them
like a newborn calf
follows its mother
riding in the combine
running through fields
sitting patiently on ten-gallon buckets
waiting for the bobber to be submerged.
Tonight I, their granddaughter, scream silent tears
because
she is going and
he is gone.
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
I am broken
Not love sick
Sour faced
Teeny bobber
Heartbreak
But social devastation
The kind that comes
With the human revelation
That things don’t get better
Greed rules the land
Followed by ignorance
Pacing close second
Racial issues are still
Clouding the way people feel
Cops are still brutalizing
Black people
****** is still a word
I hear regularly
In this a redneck society
Except it is never as simple
As that
The poor suffer
The words won’t come
In lieu I guess a heart ache
Will have to do
I would cry
If I had any tears left
I would try
If I had any hope left
But I am broken
Just the way
Some people like
In truth
Only the insane can remain
Standing unbroken
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 8:06 AM UTC
Green Coleman lanterns hung over the water , craving the humid night , nocturnal creatures bathed in the artificial lights ....
The metronomic crash of breakers on the aluminum hulled vessel , baiting hooks and tying gear by flashlight or sheer memory .. Horned Owls , Killdeer and Whippoorwills filled the dark night with haunting songs , the crash of bass and topwater shellcrackers would chill the blood for a moment , cause you to breathe in deep , exhale out loud .... The aroma of lake water , insect repellent and cigar smoke , chewing on a plug of Bloodhound , strained eyes concentrating on nothing but that bobber , waiting on that tasty fish to take it and run ....
Working your piece of the lake till the early morning Sun ....
Feb 23, 2016
Feb 23, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
There is one way I’ll always remember you.
It's a memory that clings to me like clothes to my back
on a Friday afternoon in July.
Your boss let you out early.
I remember the sun on my face
and the sound of
the swamp cicadas seeming to cheer me on.
“Go on.” I hear you say
“Give it a shot. “
There is one way I’ll always remember you.
I stare at my target,
a hard blue plastic
bucket at your feet.
I pick up the Snoopy fishing pole and watch the red bobber
twist and turn about
at the end of the line.
Just like we practiced, I think.
With the swing of an arm and the pull of the trigger I cast it away
and listen to the thunk of the bobber as it lands
in the bucket.
I remember the look on your face.
I haven’t heard that sound
and I haven’t seen that face since.
But I keep casting.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
These bobber and blueberry plaid sheets
don’t seem as sleek as they once were.
I don’t think I washed them last week.
A put-together person
really ought to wash their sheets
at least once a month
because wrinkles and stains
don’t just take care of themselves.
Didn’t our mother raise us better?
I ask the neatly put together bed
that silently sleeps beside mine.
Although, I suppose,
the ticking of the clock
is the only answer I’ve got
anymore.
That bed only stares,
always stares.
That bed is done in purples and reds
and I always said it could use
a dash of black or white.
And when it won’t sleep at night,
I flip its radio on
and I keep country going,
even though I can change it
to play anything that I like.
The radio sits on an empty dresser
next to a bare table now,
one that I really should dust.
You’d be surprised how much collects
when no one stores
deodorant and lip gloss there.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 10:57 AM UTC
elegant
you can hear the fingers slide over the cello
strings
low
deeper than any river
appears
in the rhythm
a riverboat and the slapping
of water like skin
as a bobber rows along
the current tame and mellow
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
of pre-recordings asking me
to STOP WHAT I'M DOING to hear
some uber-important message
like I owe some cookie-cut IVR fuckbot
my undivided attention, like whoooaa
HOLD. UP. let me sit-the-fuck-down
with a hot spot o' tea, bobber nodding
do tell, do tell... mmm, you don't say?!
you've got to be ******** me
how the **** these went through
an actual marketing department
not manned by evil narcissist toolfucks
oh, wait...
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
Could you please please let me know how my life got to be the way it is?
One minute I'm a bird
The next I'm a bobber in choppy water
The next I'm a cinder block dropped in the ocean
I don't understand why good things go and worse things come
I don't understand the prerequisites I completed to deserve the ******** I've been handed
I never will
Please please try to explain
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 12:26 PM UTC
Avoid the crystal spheres
Looking glasses of the ******
Treasured possessions of the evils that inhabit them
Give me your arm darling,
Let me pull you away
From it's alluring tongue
For its bobber is laughing
And the Devil cackles with it.
You are safe with me.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
I'll have to make it.
I'll find a little cabin by the lake.
Have some animals.
Goats, chickens.
A cat that prowls around.
And a dog that lays down.
I'll have a little gym set-up.
Free weights and places to hang.
There'll be a fishing pole.
With a box of lures.
Every evening I'll pull out
that box.
And pour over it a while.
Loot at all the lures and
dream of enticing new fish.
Then choose the same one as yesterday.
And yesterday's yesterday.
There'll be a little dock.
That's where I'll have my lawn chair.
And a fishing pole holder.
So I can write when I'm not watching
that bobber bob.
I don't know what I'll have to write about.
Everything will be okay.
It'll be a beautiful life.
Lived on a beautiful day.
That's setting.
Bringing a beautiful,
quiet, night.
Maybe, if I can't write,
I'll stumble off the dock
and check on my lure.
Give it a tug so my fishing pole
thinks there are still fish out here.
I'll hold my breath.
And appreciate this other place
that's mine.
The light rumble of windward waves.
The silence of everything living there.
And how like them I'm quiet too.
Not silent. Even in my dreams
my head is full of the trouble
I'm wading through now.
But maybe,
When I'm finally there.
My head will be empty.
Sinking slowly
Then shooting up.
All without a thought
to make a sound.
And spoil the beautiful,
underwater quiet.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Somewhere behind my eyes as I rest
At that precious slanted sieve
A vortex forms, where life’s radio station spins its tunes
Softly, constantly, the songs of living play
Concave not convex; oh so inward bent
Songs that filter in reality
Not affectations that filter out
The real thoughts
These songs: As I listen behind my eyes
There I lie wrapped in a warm blanket
Insulated by the down of warm contemplation
Open to the possibilities of my days
Moving at the patient meter of time
Sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly
There in imagined lyrics I drive a winding highway
Up and down grade
Side to side; a 4 wheel on ice; screeching
Relief from studded treads
Fear from the dreaded cliffs of my psyche
Steering by a wheel I hold untouched
Sometimes there I hear me floating free
Like a brilliant, March 1st kite, tightly tethered
A tail of memories keeps my level
A parchment lined with expectation
Thrusts me upward
Or there I lie by a black hills stream
Toe dipping in and out the water
Like a bobber with no real hook
Fishing idle prospects
Touching life’s possibilities obliquely
Or there I am driving small autos with my friends
Us like hectic bumbling actors
Seeking the road out
Spinning around fountains spewing water
Crazy cross way paths that
Pass in phase and double back
Simple songs of truth
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 11:00 AM UTC
How do you think
it feels to be
poor and insane,
looking for
doorways to sleep
in, to creep in out
from the rain?
As a little boy,
I used to fish in
a small quiet
pond on the west
side of town,
catching bluegills in
the young afternoon sun;
sleepy neighborhood,
low crime, safe and serene.
I owned those
autumn days long
ago, bought cheap; the price
of a dozen night crawlers,
and a bobber.
At thirty nine years old,
one October
afternoon, I stumbled
back to my own little
Walden.
Not much had
changed, the old
wooden steps on the
east side of the
pond were still
there. I crawled
under them, ******
myself and passed out,
dreaming of
bluegills, cattails
and young easy autumn
days.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 6:28 AM UTC
Perched on a Flat
Above Mountains of Black Ash
The Stars Ripple...
As If The Moon
:
a Bobber—
The Sky
:
Water—
The Stars:
Jewels Sunk Beneath.
(And every evening
a celestial being
gets caught on the hook
'til morning)
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 11:42 PM UTC
The humming of the cast ,
the plop of the bobber
Boyhood daydreams of -
landing a whopper
The cork begins to dance then -
it quickly goes under
The game between angler -
and fish has begun
A flash of the quarry as the
rod bends over double , maybe a bass ,
a perch or a 'channelcat' enticed
to strike from deep down in the -
pond bottom rubble
Give the fish two feet then -
pull back three , heaving left to right in the-
midmorning heat
A final tug at lands end ,
"I've banked a crappie" , proclaims -
a proud young man
A krill filled with every type -
of fish the pond had to offer
Thoughts of bream , coleslaw -
and hush puppies for supper ...
-
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 12:30 AM UTC