One morning, Howard was deciding what he was going to cook for today's lunch. Howard was not the worlds best cook, he mainly enjoyed buying ready meals to eat, Fishermans Pie was his dearest. But today was to be different; a change; he would make something from scratch. He decided that Carbonara met his fancy, so he got up from his wearing sofa, and made his way to the half filled book cabinet. 'How to make Pasta', the book read. It was a result for Howard. He clinched his hands on the closed book, and bought it into the front room.Howard opened the book to the contents and turned to page 21, 'Carbonara Chicken Special'. Howard firstly read the ingrediants needed, then popped to the local convinience store to fetch the things he needed. When he eventually started the meal, he was on task and ready to go. So he prepared the sauce, and the pasta, and the chicken. Then put it in the oven, a fourty-five minute wait.Howard was knackered by this time and thought he'd have a quick lye down..."BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP"!!!!!!!!!!!!!   This incredibly loud noise was coming from the smoke alarm, startaling Howard! He rushed to the kitchen to discover masses of smoke dominating the room. Howard glanced up at the the clock to discover that he had been sleeping for over an hour. The pasta was ruined and had to be thrown away.Howard was starving though. So he went over to the freezer, grabbed a microwave fishermans pie, and heated it up. As he sat down to eat the meal, he thought to himself; ' Well I gave it a go, one step closer eh'. Then digged into his seafood.

A pigeon loft on the protected building list!
We should add a Fishermans hut they will all be missed.
They are built around the docks hung with nets and pots,
That are repaired and stacked for the next tidal slot.
The smell of fresh fish and tarred rope in the air,
Lots to sell and some spire.
Boats are moved and huts come down,
Progress changes Seaham town.
Replaced by cafés and sailing boats,
No more lobster pots with coloured floats.
Improvements are made so we can move on,
What can we save before it’s all gone?

Up before the sun filling a chest with ice. Drinks and sandwiches all neatly packed. Out to the lake, wait I forget my bait, turn around and find an open store. Back to the lake and put the boat in the water, head out onto the elusive monster fish. Settling into a quiet cove and begin to drown a worm, only to have the sun rise and blind you. Turn your boat around and reset to fish again. Then a power boat roars by from the lake party of the night before. The birds squawk as they are driven from their morning repose the waves rock your bass boat and churn up the water. You bite your tongue as not to curse, as you wait for the fish to decide to bite. Hours pass and still nothing, perhaps you are in the wrong place. You pull up anchor and move down the way only to find a pontoon boat in your usual spot. Two gorgeous women are laying out in the morning rays, then an old hairy fat man lumbers around the deck. On you go to another quiet cove and settle in again. Then you realize that the fishing time has passed and the sun is high and hot. So you set up an umbrella and settle down to eat and take a small nap. Time passes and the sun moves and you awake to a sun burn. So you amble around and pull your gear together as you begin decide where to throw out a line. As the sun moves toward the west, you finally get a bite as you set the hook and real your first fish in. Behind you the sound of another boat and you turn to begin to curse. You see the fish and game warden smiling as he takes his ruler out, he grins that its too small and you have to throw it back. After a thorough inspection and a look at your license, he bids you a good day. Meanwhile another hour has passed and you are tired but resolve to fish anyway. So as twilight falls, you have three or four good sized catches as the mosquitos begin to swarm. So you decide to call it a day as you head back in, but your motor dies because your out of gas. So with your wooden paddle in hand you head back towards your boat slip that seems miles away and you begin to contemplate the lies you will tell about how your day went and the one that got away.

Hi, I'm back,
it's Howard the horse shoe,
I really like photo frames,
but not as much as fish,

fishermans pie,
in my big belly,
it's so so good,
until I do a smelly,

I love my fish,
from the bottom of my heart,
they taste like mushy peas,
see ya I need to ****

Sometimes a pleasant shower and sometimes show her power;

Up to the expectation of someone or becoming a curse for someone;

Many feelings many reactions for the same drops by the same people;

Ask a trader whose skin pores are dry after a long time, how happy he is?

Ask a farmer who watered his young grains last night, where his smile is?




How can be you so unexpected so partial, to give joy and sorrow;

When the cold breeze blow sprinkling the droplets of water;

Lady of the house standing by the window letting her hair go;

With a dancing heart like a peacock, wishing to get dissolve in air like sugar in water;

But what about those droplets which became bullets for a Fishermans cottage;




Oh! Lord Indra are you unaware from the pain and vain of earth;

Sitting in nirvana are your blessings forgotten to be at right time;

Why there are floods and drought faces of yours;

Why can’t you be always symbol of joy and satisfaction?

Joy that a child feels in facing towards raining sky;




Rain oh! Rain don’t make us wait, is this our fate?

Questions sweated bodies looking towards the sky;

Sun overhead, shining mercilessly, extracting water of earth;

Farmer sitting with bending knees can’t even spot a single cloud;

Lands and roads are as dry as faces of people, asking the same question;




All hells and heavens reside here only;

Goods and bads, joys and sorrows, gifts and penalties;

Nothing is in hand of anyone, none can stand against divine powers;

Good and evil happens because god wanted them to happen;

It’s all written somewhere, by someone, for everyone, "MAKTUB"

I've been dry for a time,
i struggle to make these words rhyme,
or even a pacing flow and
i thought to let you know before all you begin to think so low.
The irony in this passage for help
is more of a message
to tell you i have no self-

worth or motivation,
like the rest of the nation,
work needs motivation,
i need a motor-vation sensation,
to propell my accumulation
and prevent the inevitability of defication.

I lack the currency to do as i please,
but not neccessarily
for we could stride through the park with
backpacks and water,
some sorta thing i'd like to do with my daughter.

Or Son in the sun,
either way, a child, we've won,
But right now it's our time to shine,
embrace what we've got between the lines.

I'd come back to this later but let's be real,
if my writings were fish,
they'd be banned from the fishermans creel.

"we are learning to ...
fish in the river of sorrow"*
Faith Sherien

this has been a year of
hard lessons.....
of trying,
again and again,
to perfect the the cast
to catch, cleanly,
the fish of loss.

to split it open,
and seize it's innards...
the stench, the messiness,
the ichor, the guts.

to scale the skin,
rough, cutting scales,
little tear shaped discs.

to eat of the flesh....
chewing, chewing, chewing
on the hope of afterlife.

and picking the bones clean
of delicate, delectable memories....

hard lessons,
too many this year,
yet all a part,
of a fishermans journey....
down, the river of sorrow.