"sinker" poems
I fished a movie
hoping to cast a reel
that catches a keeper
hook, line, and sinker
I waded in line
smiling
the tackle box optimism in my sights
butterfly's in my net
visions of a hotrod
I look up at the marque
with a good cast and reel
my boats singing
a song that's hooked on love
I enter the theatre
among the trees
branching towards my spot
such forestry
I race past the mainstream
hotrod in tow
I take to my seat
setting anchor to a fun outing
as the lights abate
skip to my Lou
at bay
watching the cast make a splash
Logan Robertson
8/2/2018
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
“where time is the fly and age the fisher of men”
<>
*”until I fell forward
into fall where time is
the fly and age the fisher
of men, then when winter
begins all will be forgotten,
where time is the fly and
age the fisher of men”*
excerpt from “The Fall” by Rick Richardson
<>
that words from a different ionic state, jump as embodied ions from screen to the throat, evicting a guttural current of exclamation, you believe even with the half-heartedly palpitations from remainder of my damaged pumping heart, that these words were always intended, just for me…
boy and old man coexist, the pottage of memories stirred,
and the time is fly, and I drown in the miracle of greenest grass of
Yankee Stadium at age eight,
oasis, heaven, a child reborn in a sea of Bronx concrete,
and the swallowing up of my boyhood is forever marked henceforth, the hook has caught me, and I am of the age
once and forever
not a fisherman, but a fisher of men’s souls,
mine own is my best bait,
hooked line and sinker, and
wisdom and words
elude and delude always,
like summer is perpetual and aging a construct,
time does not fly, but slowly laps and waves
eroding our myths and ourselves upon a continuum with
no ends
~postscript~
<>
*yet I believe,
in miracles of
fish and loaves,
and that our individual continuums
will exist beyond the artifice of constraints
of
mortal time and that poems are
the forever chemicals within
our
bloodstreams,
even when our blood no longer spills*
yet I believe!
Sep 6, 2023
Sep 6, 2023 at 7:57 AM UTC
Grandmother Willow said
listen to your heart, you will understand
but when it pounds all I want to do is run
my heart says so many things
one minute it's telling me to climb a tree as high as the branches let me
the next it says hook line and sinker
and when I'm with someone beautiful, it says
nothing, it just
flutters and pitter patters
Mulan was always my favourite because
she had her heart broken and still
She Saved China
all on her own
my heart breaks like twigs and crumbles like dry
stiff leaves
in Autumn
and my heart is also a rubber ball that bounces from
one place to the next
too rapidly,
I forget where I am
and where I just was a moment before I ended up
wherever I ended up
my heart is like ice and sometimes if you are the right temperature,
it will melt for you
my heart is aware of fallacy and sometimes if you try to coax it,
everything I ever felt for you
won't exist anymore
a few months ago I was sitting at the back of
a midnight bus
in my hometown,
with a hippie headband on, accompanied with braids,
a long dress and moccasins of black suede
when a drunk teenager pointed and hollered directly at my face,
"you look like Pocahontas, how many John Smiths love you?"
I don't get angry anymore
I just get tired
my heart goes to sleep for days and wakes up at
the sudden gong of recognition
in eye contact
that lasts longer than just a few seconds;
my heart awakens at sunsets,
when I am sitting in a tree alone
and it awakens each time I successfully skip a stone
I've always thought highly of the two
disney cartoons
and it's not just because they can fire a harpoon
it's something like embodying the female
self-assurance,
strength of the soul,
embracing solitude like wind on a stroll
heart strong from a softening,
heart loved from singing just for singing
heart open like eye contact
that lasts longer than
just a few seconds
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 3:33 AM UTC
_Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes
Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High_
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 1:34 AM UTC
I wake up and see so many things,
always different from yesterday.
Today I'm going fishing.
But I must not allow myself
to focus on the worms or
on the death of the worms,
We went out early in the morning,
before sunrise,
The early bird catches the worm;
the early worm catches the prize.
And we caught many more
than the others!!
Getting up before sunrise
is a secret known to the wise.
On the end of my cane pole, a bamboo stick, really,
hangs a thin fishing line, about twenty feet out,
Attached with a bobbin, a lead sinker and a hook
Threaded on the hook is the worm
which I've lowered into the water
from the pole I'm dangling from
the low dock jutting out into the pond
I see the first fish I catch!
I feel powerful and horrible
and proud at being the best!
My catch is the biggest one yet!
It is similar to a cat chasing a bird.
The bird is innocent,
but the cat gives in to the chase
with no ill will, instead,
blessed by God, the gift...to be a cat.
It is not easy being a cat.
God gave to the cat, nine lives
to fall back on, in case of being
thrown off a roof by a ruthless
boy who is curious to see
if it will land on it's feet.
The cat is now down to eight
A bird chased by a teenage kitten
must learn to fly if it's to survive.
Nature's timing for the offspring
does not support favoritism.
But it happens anyway.
There is always one in the nest
That the mother bird loves the best.
Feb 11, 2011
Feb 11, 2011 at 11:31 AM UTC
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A nimble skip in her steps.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
Grace lighter than a thimble.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A fairytale entwined by her alone.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
Her beauty far greater than the light shone.
I watch her constantly by hallows-eve
A beauty held by thee.
Thine eyes far more than the jewels of thieves,
A being deemed only for me.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A lost angel of the dawn.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
Her watcher constantly drawn.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
With sisters of threescore by her side.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A daughter of evil, one of a kind.
She is no angel of heaven,
A beast that roams the earth,
With a lucky number of seven,
No holy is she to say the least.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A beast that changes form.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A feast meant for the eyes.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
My love for her never dying.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A love made with lying.
I am a creature of the sea,
Thine caller and sinker of ships.
She is a beast of the land
Thou’s hands of blood at her lips.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
As light steals through.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
When morning light is due.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
By light does she return form.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A newer different sight.
She has returned to the truth,
A beast of cruelty and sin,
With fur of golden sunshine youth,
A sad but noble thing.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
No longer does she dance.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
Her glorious stance done.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
Return once again to her true form.
All hallows-eve does she dance,
A beauty gone by dawn.
Nov 13, 2020
Nov 13, 2020 at 4:16 PM UTC
Sometimes poems take
forever to pass by
like fishing for the big one
hook, line, sinker,
Sitting, watching the water
ripple as they tease
saying "we're just below
the surface of what you see."
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 7:15 PM UTC
Quiet are the fields
with ghosts
from pennants past
the aces
and cutters
set idly away
from the maple
spread fall
soft sounds
of Sunday
(chilling on the boneyard)
telling tales of
validated stars
and wheel house legends
the rally cap sluggers
with mahogany eyes
Mustard colors
in floating mists
give a hallowed glow
to sublime skies
scattered walkers
trip to the hole
their spit buckets
and spigots
pressed loosely into
pure life form
bikers and loners
and curious coffee goers
mill about the horn
whispering numbers
from an old
Keelman heaving
Alley lookers
and Mendoza lines
screachers, bleachers
from years gone by
dancing fingers
and cracks at the bat
moonshots
(from the big time Timmy Jim)
the 9th inning gunner
with sinker
and slider
and imposing
brush back ballz
the game day citizen
and dugout warrior
who lit it all up
in Rockwell fame
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 11:28 PM UTC
FISHTHOUGHTBLOOD JON BOLDUC
When I was a boy,
Father taught me to ice-fish.
Here’s a memory;
Father drills a hole,
the auger bounces, vibrates, roars,
shaving ice– soon
the blade connects with winter water,
–the engine fades off.
I fish floating ice chunks from the hole with a skimmer
while
Father sets the trap, ties the sinker, and hooks the minnow
thru its side.
He lowers the line
gently into the fishhole; the bait plunges to the lakebed.
Father reels up the slack, pitches the three legged trap
above the exposed black water
and we wait for a trout, or a snarled toothed pickerel.
Father,
I have learned
to fish for thoughts
with an ice–trap. When the flag
springs up, I reel
slippery ideas up from deep darkness.
As they flop, I pull the hook out from their lips,
knock them in the head,
throw them in a pail; gut them, I spill fishthoughtblood on the white snow.
After the low sun sets,
My friends and I fry caught fishthoughts
in my dim cabin.
Hughes, Plath, Ginsberg, and Eliot
talk around the fireplace
as the pan sizzles, as the oil jumps. Soon
we feast on flakey poemfillets;
we talk about the dark english rain,
the crowded zoos, electroshock therapy, bald mediocrity.
After we have eaten
and finished the wine,
and all my friends have gone home
I look down at empty plates
and somehow,
“the page is printed.”
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 10:10 AM UTC
Girl, put down the pocket knife fist and pick up that pen of yours.
stop...
They aren't worth the status updates or the 140 character #hashtag
They are worth books. Trilogy novels of witty 'should have' banter and Good wins over Evil plot themes.
Rake in the millions.
Then put down the skinny jeans and wear the Tutu.
stop...
They aren't worth the clone bulimic fashion trends.
They are worth ballets. Extravagant classical shows where millions come to see. Each one hanging on you like fish hooks.
Because you got that audience hook, line, and sinker.
Then, go home.
stop...
They aren't worth the boastful air you inhale.
Exhale humility and stories about best sellers and the view from a ballet hall in Germany.
You are worth it.
You are worth the pens,
and tutus,
and a home.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 3:21 PM UTC
A bright lad called Alistair Cook
Did enjoy the occasional book,
He went out to bat,
NO - don't play at that,
They did him; line, sinker and hook.
On him I'd bet my whole house,
More like a lion than a mouse,
He bats with aplomb,
Both dainty and strong,
It can only be Andrew Strauss.
From the pavilion did Jonathan Trott,
Nervous and anxious he is not,
He'll be there for a while,
All England will smile,
And South Africa know he is hot.
Next in is the feisty KP,
His batting, the top of the tree,
Sixes so great,
They should be worth eight,
Now just stay IN for a hundred or three!
A chap from ooop north who is good,
Goes by the name of Paul Collingwood,
Gritty and tough,
We just can't get enough,
Fight as hard as him, we all should.
No more will the fear he smell,
He's been down to the gym as well,
His batting is slick,
Number six does the trick,
The crowd cheers for Ian Bell.
Swinging his bat, it's Matt Prior,
Born with iron grit, steel and fire,
If he holds each catch,
We'll win the match,
And his ranking will go much higher.
Our spinner is next, Mr Swann,
His bowling is coming on strong,
His batting is great,
Which the opposition hate,
Not to pick him much sooner was wrong.
Our tall quickie is young Stuart Broad,
His bat is a rapier like sword,
He can oft' bowl too short,
Yet the batters get caught,
And Of wicket-taking we never are bored.
James Anderson is our king of swing,
Late movement his favourite thing,
Please bowl nice and full,
Offer nothing to pull,
And just hear those stumps go 'ping'.
Graeme Onions comes in at long last,
Cannot bat but, he can bowl fast,
He makes them play,
While others may stray,
Durham long-hops a thing of the past.
Feb 9, 2010
Feb 9, 2010 at 10:59 PM UTC
ten men fishing
on auckland wharf
all with thin fibreglass rods
just that exact distance
(made in china)
all watching each others baits
bobbing in the silver sheen
no one watching his own sinker
bobbing
one twitches down the line
a reel swishes
reeling in
nine men watching intently now
20 cm struggling catch
not much, so back it goes.
a bronze whaler
slinking slowly
under twenty pairs of dangling feet
decides
the distance was too much
to crunch a man for snack
quietly slinks
to the opposite shore
where she senses
feet splashing on a shallow beach.
primitive.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 months ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11438556-the-fishermen-on-the-wharf-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HWKslwYM.dpuf
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC
You rushed in like a quarterback carrying the ball
Like a rookie I fell for the fake play
Hook, line, and sinker, I foolishly bought it all
It seemed like a game that started out fair
Fans all abuzz claiming "This is our year!"
Now the bleachers stand empty, not a soul left to cheer
Nothing left but to turn off the stadium lights
On a field that was once so hopeful and bright
Off to the locker rooms both teams retreat
One to lick their wounds as the other celebrates the championship repeat
In glory you'll go on to play for more teams
While this career-ending injury is killing my dreams
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
Is 'Moving On' a reality?
Or merely a fantasy?
It feels like the latter,
because no matter what I try--
I still can't get the thought of you out of my head.
You plague my thoughts like an infectious disease.
Everyday your face is there, reminding me--
torturing me.
'Moving On' feels like some cruel fairy tale of false hope,
and I was just dumb enough to fall for the idea momentarily.
Hook, line, and sinker.
(d.d.b)
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
It's Sunday again for you cloistered patricians
aloof from the madness, the magic and myth;
who trust in your wisdom, investments, physicians
unready to answer forthwith:
"Why bother with worship—in church or the zoo—
why weaken the links with a dull set of tools ?"
you ask yourself over your high-end Tarrazu,
bemused at the fables of fools.
You've bartered salvation for New York Times articles,
sipping on bitterness (shade-grown organic).
You settle for molecules, atoms and particles
unfairly-traded, satanic—
while you celebrate emptiness, general futility
musing on nothingness, sure of specifics
ensconced in your kitchen of pampered gentility
flirting with atheist physics.
Those simple plebeians: you'd love to enlighten them
help them, like you, to become a free-thinker
but you remain tasteful, for boldness might frighten them
reeling in fairy tales: hook, line and sinker.
Yet somebody, somewhere has uttered your sentence
(though you abhor judgement, let's read it again).
Sheba and Nineveh, versed in repentance
await you—not whether but when.
The darkness is brewing unholy filtration;
the wine of the harlot approaches the rim;
your guilt is augmenting in slow percolation;
you shrug it all off on a whim.
The souls of Assyria rise from your paper
they watch in amazement, prepare your abyss.
Your coffee now brims a more sulfurous vapor;
oh sinner—there's something amiss:
The crypts of Marib and the tombs of the Axumites
shudder and groan while you're reading the Times...
(immune to the words that some Christarded poet writes
mixing psychosis with rhymes.)
Royal Sheba will chastise your erudite unbelief,
smug self-importance and cynical squawk.
Then she'll sigh with immense Ethiopian grief
and her Highness Queen Bilqis will talk.
It is Sunday in Babylon. What if your sunlight ends...
why are there mobs in the streets of the nation?
Shall you have breakfast—or calculate dividends...
what would you pay for salvation?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 10:30 AM UTC
I realized it was not your job to keep me afloat, so I stopped looking for places in conversation where you said something shallow and I tried to add depth. I stopped saving the text messages you sent past 3 AM because those words were not formed with love for me to cling on to, no, they were baited lines waiting for me to bite. Hook, line, and sinker I surfaced gasping for breathe in unfamiliar air. Writhing around in my discomfort, hoping you would throw me back into the water rather than watch me struggle. They never tell you how many fish in the sea are actually sharks waiting to sink their teeth.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:05 PM UTC
All hail the heartbreaker,
Silent, he’s the king
Of all things that come naturally
When breaking hearts of teens.
All hail the heartbreaker
Bow before it’s late.
For he shall find another
When you were his first date.
All must hail the heartbreaker.
He’s the master of this game.
He got you hook, line, and sinker,
Then left your heart with shame.
So all hail the heartbreaker.
For when he finds his queen,
She’ll break the heart of the one
Who broke the hearts of teens.
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC
When I laugh like a 65-year-old smoker,
when I fill in the lines of her face with my fingertips,
when my thoughts crash,
when I don't return my mother's calls,
when I apologize for stepping on your new shoes,
when I read Wolfe instead of socialize with the priests,
when I stare into open caskets,
when I microwave popcorn for all my friends,
when I throw nickels at Vietnam veterans' feet,
when I drink almond milk,
when I swear celibacy,
when I break oaths,
when I decide to write an epic poem that rips off "Howl",
when I browbeat idiot roommates,
when I buy books I never read,
when I hit on summer girls through text messaging,
when I wake up beside myself,
when I sleep on the tile by the toilet,
when I **** off the neighbors
when I hear someone say New Journalism died,
when I say they lied,
when I break my fourth finger against a wall,
when I listen to The Silver Jews during a heinous fog,
when I get to the table on time,
when I talk to Shorty about Waits,
to Zach about Springsteen and Ryan Adams,
when I'm surprised my friends actually listen to me,
when I straddle roadkill,
when I rock the proverbial boat,
when I lie with good intentions,
when I hook,
when I line,
when I sinker,
when I shift,
when I falter,
when I fix,
when I fake,
when I take the bait---
it's involuntary.
Dec 28, 2010
Dec 28, 2010 at 11:24 AM UTC
Guilt.
the only one who is guilty of anything is me.
of being naïve.
your treason was so exposed.
post cards, emails, text messages.
written in my own blood.
reminding me of how faithless I have become.
it was always present,
uncontrollable,
my love for your stigmata.
enraptured me.
I took it as my own.
Sociopath, NARCISSIST, insecure...
your transference worked so well.
for someone so stupid
you always seemed smarter
more mature
.
I was the only one being stupid.
falling for those sweet,
made up lines.
that took me
hook and sinker.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 11:09 PM UTC
At the time it was worth it,
to be hooked like a fish,
baited by the bottle,
strung on it for years,
caught by
addiction.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 9:17 PM UTC
Lovely skies
Dark with clouds and rain
Leaden skies
Lead, Pb, Plumbum
Flat diffuse light, photographer's dream
Latin 4 lead = plumbum
We plumb our psychic oceans' depths, as the sailors did
With lead on their sinker lines
We plumb our depths if we choose
When we are earnestly explorative
Reflecting, meditating, in our psychic plumbing
Pb: the ugly duckling brother of glowing gold
Au of the aura Aurum
Both are soft, malleable, unassailable, & so helpful
Gold like Thor the glowing hero, lead like Vulcan the sooty artificer
We have made one the hero, and misused,
Demonized, besmirched the metal lead
Is it lead's fault we have put it in our paint, our gas?
That we made it accumulate in our fish, like fools?
Without lead, your car would not start
Imagine going on your trips on a mule
Or trundling down the road in an ox cart
Do not denounce lovely lead
Gravid, protector, quiet engine starter
Gently available to you to plumb your depths
Before your chapter's demise
Leaden skies
Lovely skies
Gravid with rain
Keep me grounded, serene and sane
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
Asked myself a zillion times...Why you?
I always receive the same reply.
Found in you what I was missing...
in what I thought was a full life.
From the moment I looked deeply..
within your beautiful brown eyes.
I knew love....
From the moment I heard you
say, "Hello there! Are you following me?"
You captured my heart and soul...
hook, line and sinker.
I saw a genuine class act with a very nice caboose.
You were worth the risk of threats of beat down
by chivalrous sailors and suits.
Thank you for telling them I was no threat to you!
You were gorgeous with truck walk...
How could I not follow you Nubian Goddess?
How could I resist irresistible you?
You make me feel like I can soar high...
You make me feel as if I can move mountains.
You are the reason I want to breath...
My eyes find pleasure seeing you.
My ears hear only your **** voice.
My hands enjoy the softness of your skin.
My nose loves your body's scent.
My body finds endless ******** pleasure...
in the heat and passion of yours.
You stimulate every part of me...
my mind, my body, my heart and soul.
Betty Ponder.....my only love....
You are the wish my heart made.....
you are all I could ever hope for.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
The colour of addiction,
Transparent,
Translucent,
Visual in ***** dreamers,
Black minute slivers,
Black graphite,
Waxy as moon rises,
Poisonous,
She's a lush,
One on one,
She's out to steal your heart,
Corrupt you,
She's all out to catch you,
Hook line and sinker,
Product of a clever thinker,
Wants to make a buck,
**** some b****er with his muck,
Such evil *****
Mischievous tinker,
I met her on my way,
Played just once in steep stupidity,
She was lovely,
Delicious head fodder,
Chasing on as dragon dancers spewed their guts,
I was sensible,
Tried her once,on one occasion,
First was last,
Then I forgot her!
Never ever,
No more to dabble,
With her heart so fetching,
As such effect 'Smack' has!
She'll leave you wretched,
Retching,
While strolling on air,
Your feet ,
Well, the floor's not touching,
Head floats imperially,
Impervious to her stranglehold,
She is cruel,
Don't visit her,
Be not a fool,
****** in any guise,
She's so f**King uncool!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 4:34 PM UTC
You cast out your net
Woven from fibers interlocking like our fingers
And disturb the calm of the surface I understand
Speech bubbles rise in my throat and pop with the sound of your name
There are plenty of fish in the sea
But I'm too tangled up in you to look
This isn't love, it's subterfuge
Yet somehow you still lure me in
And I fall, hook, line, and sinker
Sep 26, 2015
Sep 26, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC