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Fishing is not just a sport or a hobby, it’s a way of life for many people.
For those who enjoy the peace and solitude of being alone in nature, fishing can be a meditative experience that offers a chance to reflect on life and escape from the stresses of the modern world.
Fishing poems capture the essence of this experience, using words to paint vivid pictures of the sights, sounds, and sensations of being out on the water.
In this article, we’ll explore some of the most beautiful and inspiring poetries about fishing that celebrate the joy of fishing and the peace of solitude.
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Best Fishing Poems
Here, we’ll delve into some of the most acclaimed and beloved best poems about fishing that have been written. These poems offer a glimpse into the wonders of the natural world and the peacefulness.
1. Upon The Fish in The Water
by John Bunyan
The water is the fish’s element;
Take her from thence, none can her death prevent;
And some have said, who have transgressors been,
As good not be, as to be kept from sin.
The water is the fish’s element:
Leave her but there, and she is well content.
So’s he, who in the path of life doth plod,
Take all, says he, let me but have my God …
Thomas Gray, ‘Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes’.
The hapless nymph with wonder saw;
A whisker first and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched in vain to reach the prize.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat’s averse to fish?
2. A Fish Answers
by Leigh Hunt
Amazing monster! that, for aught I know,
With the first sight of thee didst make our race
For ever stare! O flat and shocking face,
Grimly divided from the breast below!
Thou that on dry land horribly dost go
With a split body and most ridiculous pace,
Prong after prong, disgracer of all grace,
Long-useless-finned, haired, upright, unwet, slow …
3. The Fish
By W. B. Yeats,
Although you hide in the ebb and flow
Of the pale tide when the moon has set,
The people of coming days will know
About the casting out of my net,
And how you have leaped times out of mind
Over the little silver cords,
And think that you were hard and unkind,
And blame you with many bitter words.
4. Heaven
by Rupert Brooke
Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June,
Dawdling away their wat’ry noon)
Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear,
Each secret fishy hope or fear.
Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond;
But is there anything Beyond?
This life cannot be All, they swear,
For how unpleasant, if it were!
One may not doubt that, somehow, Good
Shall come of Water and of Mud;
And, sure, the reverent eye must see
A Purpose in Liquidity
We darkly know, by Faith we cry,
The future is not Wholly Dry.
Mud unto mud! — Death eddies near —
Not here the appointed End, not here!
But somewhere, beyond Space and Time.
Is wetter water, slimier slime!
And there (they trust) there swimmeth One
Who swam ere rivers were begun,
Immense, of fishy form and mind,
Squamous, omnipotent, and kind;
And under that Almighty Fin,
The littlest fish may enter in.
Oh! never fly conceals a hook,
Fish say, in the Eternal Brook,
But more than mundane weeds are there,
And mud, celestially fair;
Fat caterpillars drift around,
And Paradisal grubs are found;
Unfading moths, immortal flies,
And the worm that never dies.
And in that Heaven of all their wish,
There shall be no more land, say fish.
5. The Pool
by H.D.
Are you alive?
I touch you.
You quiver like a sea-fish.
I cover you with my net.
What are you—banded one?
6. A Jelly-Fish
by Marianne Moore
Visible, invisible,
A fluctuating charm,
An amber-colored amethyst
Inhabits it; your arm
Approaches, and
It opens and
It closes;
You have meant
To catch it,
And it shrivels;
You abandon
Your intent—
It opens, and it
Closes and you
Reach for it—
The blue
Surrounding it
Grows cloudy, and
It floats away
From you.
7. Your Catfish Friend
by Richard Brautigan
If I were to live my life
in catfish forms
in scaffolds of skin and whiskers
at the bottom of a pond
and you were to come by
one evening
when the moon was shining
down into my dark home
and stand there at the edge
of my affection
and think, “It’s beautiful
here by this pond. I wish
somebody loved me,”
I’d love you and be your catfish
friend and drive such lonely
thoughts from your mind
and suddenly you would be
at peace,
and ask yourself, “I wonder
if there are any catfish
in this pond? It seems like
a perfect place for them.”
8. The Women Who Clean Fish
by Erica Funkhouser
The women who clean fish are all named Rose
or Grace. They wake up close to the water,
damp and dreamy beneath white sheets,
thinking of white beaches.
It is always humid where they work.
Under plastic aprons, their breasts
foam and bubble. They wear old clothes
because the smell will never go.
On the floor, chlorine.
On the window, dry streams left by gulls.
When tourists come to watch them
working over belts of cod and hake,
they don’t look up.
They stand above the gutter. When the belt starts
they pack the bodies in, ten per box,
their tales crisscrossed as if in sacrament.
The dead fish fall compliantly.
It is the iridescent scales that stick,
clinging to cheek and wrist,
lighting up hours later in a dark room.
The packers say they feel orange spawn
between their fingers, the smell of themselves
more like salt than peach.
9. Mare Draws Her Lover Fishing at Dusk
by Anne M
As dark begins to dissolve the body
the crown of his head, the belly’s swell, the ankle
I watch him sleep, recall how he settled back
on his heels just hours ago, sent a line keening
swift and precise over the lake. Everyone knows
a cast is not a question of strength so much
as a relinquishing, that the line’s release
is an extension from the wrist to the lunge
and snap of a Cutthroat Trout. I sketch in the ribbed
trunk of a cottonwood, label it Populus trichocarpa.
Something of what the eye took in is translated
to joint and grip of finger, until ink gives back
the crumbled snag of bark, the silver-sided leaf
dipping like a fish through the evening air.
The wing of his hand is the last thing to go.
10. Fishing, His Birthday
by Michael Sowder
With adams, caddis, tricos, light cahills,
blue-wing olives, royal coachmen, chartreuse trudes,
green drakes, blue duns, black gnats, Nancy quills,
Joe’s hoppers, yellow humpies, purple chutes,
prince nymphs, pheasant tails, Eileen’s hare’s ears,
telicos, flashbacks, Jennifer’s muddlers,
Frank bugs, sow bugs, zug bugs, autumn splendors,
woolly worms, black buggers, Kay’s gold zuddlers,
clippers, tippet, floatant, spools of leader,
tin shot, lead shot, hemostats, needle nose,
rod, reel, vest, net, boots, cap, shades and waders,
gortex shell and one bent Macanudo
I wade in a swirl of May-colored water,
cast a fine gray quill, the last tie of my father.
11. Fifth Grade Autobiography
by Rita Dove
I was four in this photograph fishing
with my grandparents at a lake in Michigan.
My brother squats in poison ivy.
His Davy Crockett cap
sits squared on his head so the raccoon tail
flounces down the back of his sailor suit.
My grandfather sits to the far right
in a folding chair,
and I know his left hand is on
the tobacco in his pants pocket
because I used to wrap it for him
every Christmas. Grandmother’s hips
bulge from the brush, she’s leaning
into the ice chest, sun through the trees
printing her dress with soft
luminous paws.
I am staring jealously at my brother;
the day before he rode his first horse, alone.
I was strapped in a basket
behind my grandfather.
He smelled of lemons. He’s died
but I remember his hands.
Funny Fishing Poems
These funny poems about fishing are some of the funniest and most lighthearted fishing poems offer a break from the seriousness of life.
1. Be Careful What You Hook
by Brenda Meier-Hans
I once heard of a fisher Luciano,
who sang bass as he played on his piano.
Once he fished and cast his line
by mistake hooked his behind
since that day, when he plays he sings soprano.
2. A Fish Named Ben
There once swam a catfish named Ben
hadn’t eaten since who knows when
my worm looked just right,
Ben took a big bite.
No one’s seen Ben swim’n since then.
Ben put up a heck of a fight
was thrashing with all of his might
when reeling him in,
that fish seemed to grin,
and spit out my worm just for spite.
Old Ben made one heck of a meal
couldn’t help but think how he’d feel
if he’d been the one,
who had battled and won,
from the opposite side of the reel.
3. Fishing Gone Horribly Wrong
by Wilma Neels
casting out my line
to catch the favored one
only a shoe lured
Poem Details | by Robert L. Hinshaw |
Categories: fishing, humorous,
The Fisherman’s Catch And Release
There was once an old man from Altoona
Who decided to cast for some tuna
Twas a mermaid he landed
He sighed saying off-handed
“How I wish I had caught her much soona!”
Oh! How I would love to make her my bride
But I’m old, grizzled and gray and, beside
‘Twould be my usual luck
She’d take up with some young buck,
So I will release her at next high tide.
4. Princesses
by Anonymous
Pretty princesses
Dancing all around
Frolicking through fields
Very beautiful
Just like you!
Poem Details | by Carolyn Devonshire |
Categories: funny, seame,
Offshore Fishing Adventure
So far offshore, but nothing was biting
Six-pack behind me looked so inviting
New rod I placed on the deck
Though it was just for a sec
‘Twas then an amberjack hit like lightning
The buoyant rod bounded over each wave
Determined, I vowed that pole I would save
Spun my boat in fit of rage
Against this fish, war I’d wage
An Ahab-like victory I did crave
With a gaffing hook, I retrieved the pole
To catch amberjack, I’d be on a roll
Barracuda caught it first
Fell overboard, then submersed
The cuda eyed me as his dessert goal.
5. Strange Uncle
by Richard Breese
If i had another wish
I would want back my pet fish
for my uncle came to town
and in mothers dressing gown.
6. Fishing Buy The Pound
by Jerry T Curtis
Finn and Mcgee
went fishing once more
With the money they saved up all year
They rented a cabin
up by the lake
And filled it with fish bate and beer
For two weeks of fishing
They made it their mission
To wake up and start at first light
With poles in their hands
They hardly could wait
For a big fish to come up and bit
Day after day
They fished and they fished
but barely got even a nibble
Then on the last day
McGee caught a trout
That apparently wasn’t so fickle
Now on the way Home
Finn said ” McGee
You Know what this fish, has cost you
A thousand Quid”
“Well Finn, if it did
Then I glad I didn’t catch two”
7. A Fishy Comparison
by Edwin Hofert
I can’t understand the ambition
of people who love to go fishin’.
Outsmarting your dinner
Might say you’re a winner,
But what when you fail in that mission?
Poem Details | by Joseph Sergi |
Categories: fishing, funny, humorous,
A Fishing Trip
I love fishing in the deep blue sea,
but that fishing sure cost a lot to me.
First you have to gas up the car,
sometimes you have to go far.
Of course you have to stop for breakfast for two,
it cost $34.50 what can you do.
Then we need to rent a boat,
I hope this one really floats.
And then you need bait and such,
boy it really cost too much.
Finally we are out in the bay,
we fish in the sun all day.
We return home burned, broken and well done,
I guess we even had some fun.
However no fish were caught this day,
so pizza for dinner, it’s OK.
8. The Fishing Trip
by Shadow Hamilton
I thought let’s go fishing
fancying a fish pie
or maybe fish and chips
that would do the trick
I set off, rod and bucket
full of worms in my hands
found a good spot to fish
by the rocks on the beach
Patiently I waited for a bite
then my rod dipped and bucked
soon I had four nice whoppers
flapping around in my bucket
Needing to answer call of nature
I slipped in between the trees
alas when I returned I found
one happy pelican looking full
An empty bucket he’d scoffed the lot
I sighed as I chucked a stone
it missed him by a country mile
no fish for supper I had no more worms.
9. What Irony A Real Fisherman’s Tale
by Jan Allison
He wanted to go and catch scallops
gets into a boat called a shallops
He didn’t look at the time
And had committed a crime
It’s into the court he now gallops
Five thousand pounds he’s now got to pay
A ‘timely’ error on the said day
This ‘scallop advisor’
Just should have been wiser
This fishy story won’t go away!
Famous Fishing Poems
Famous poems about fishing have captured the essence of fishing in all its beauty and complexity, from the peacefulness of the water to the thrill of the catch.
1. The Angler’s Song
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
From the river’s plashy bank,
Where the sedge grows green and rank,
And the twisted woodbine springs,
Upward speeds the morning lark
To its silver cloud — and hark!
On his way the woodman sings.
On the dim and misty lakes
Gloriously the morning breaks,
And the eagle’s on his cloud: —
Whilst the wind, with sighing, wooes
To its arms the chaste cold ooze,
And the rustling reeds pipe loud.
Where the embracing ivy holds
Close the hoar elm in its folds,
In the meadow’s fenny land,
And the winding river sweeps
Through its shallows and still deeps, —
Silent with my rod I stand.
But when sultry suns are high
Underneath the oak I lie
As it shades the water’s edge,
And I mark my line, away
In the wheeling eddy, play,
Tangling with the river sedge.
When the eye of evening looks
On green woods and winding brooks,
And the wind sighs o’er the lea, —
Woods and streams, — I leave you then,
While the shadow in the glen
Lengthens by the greenwood tree.
2. Fishing
by William Henry Dawson
I just take a bamboo pole,
Linen line and Limerick hook,
Make a sneak for some deep hole
In the creek, in shady nook.
Seat myself upon a stone,
Bait my hook and throw it in,
Sit there, quietly, alone,
And wait to see the fun begin.
First a nibble, then a take,
Then my float goes out of sight,
Then a sudden swing I make—
Got him? Well, you’re mighty right.
Bass, by jingo! Weighs four pounds;
Won’t I have a toothsome fry?
String him on this rope, by zounds!
Make him safe or I’ll know why.
Once again my hook I bait,
Once again I cast my line,
Seat myself and watch and wait.
Catching bass. Oh, gee! it’s fine.
Soon the float begins to sail,
Then it makes a sudden dive;
Holy smoke! I’ve hooked a whale,
Just as sure as I’m alive.
Pull, you sucker! Bet I’ll make—
Stop! You’ll surely break the pole.
Splash! and suddenly I wake,
Up to neck in swimming hole.
3. The Call of The Stream
by Charles H. Crandall
I am sitting to-day at the desk alone,
And the figures are hard to tame;
I’d like to shift to a mossy stone
Nor bother with pelf and fame.
I know a pool where the waters cool
Rest under the brawling falls,
And the song and gleam of that mountain stream —
Oh, it calls, and calls, and calls!
There are hooks and lines in a wayside store
Where the grangers buy their plug,
And the loggers swap their river-lore
For a jag they can hardly lug.
I wonder how long that tackle will lie
As useless as any dumb fool
Unless I happen along to buy,
And sneak for that mountain pool.
Oh, bother the flies, I guess I’ve enough,
I know where the worms are thick
By Billy’s old barn — Oh, they are the stuff —
You can dig a quart with a stick.
The reel is all right and the line is tight,
And if they should happen to fail
There’s little birch rods that are fit for gods
When they follow the trout-brook trail.
I jing! the demon has rung me up —
The “central” up in the woods —
Waders, and creel, and a pocket-cup!
I’m after the only goods.
Wire for Hank and the old buckboard —
The secret, I guess, is out —
Don’t bother me now — you’ll get in a row —
I’m catching the train for trout.
4. No Seeking, No Losing
by Anonymous
An old philosopher in China
Spent all his life in angling;
He thought that there was nothing finer
Then having his line dangling;
He used no bait, he caught no fish
Early or late it was not his wish.
5. The Angler
by John Chalkhill
O the gallant fisher’s life,
It is the best of any!
‘Tis full of pleasure, void of strife,
And ’tis beloved by many;
Other joys
Are but toys;
Only this
Lawful is;
For our skill
Breeds no ill,
But content and pleasure.
In a morning, up we rise,
Ere Aurora’s peeping;
Drink a cup to wash our eyes,
Leave the sluggard sleeping;
Then we go
To and fro,
With our knacks
At our backs,
To such streams
As the Thames,
If we have the leisure.
When we please to walk abroad
For our recreation,
In the fields is our abode,
Full of delectation,
Where, in a brook,
With a hook,—
Or a lake,—
Fish we take;
There we sit,
For a bit,
Till we fish entangle.
We have gentles in a horn,
We have paste and worms too;
We can watch both night and morn,
Suffer rain and storms too;
None do here
Use to swear:
Oaths do fray
Fish away;
We sit still,
Watch our quill:
Fishers must not wrangle.
If the sun’s excessive heat
Make our bodies swelter,
To an osier hedge we get,
For a friendly shelter,
Where, in a dike,
Perch or pike,
Roach or dace,
We do chase,
Bleak or gudgeon,
Without grudging;
We are still contented.
Or we sometimes pass an hour
Under a green willow,
That defends us from a shower,
Making earth our pillow;
Where we may
Think and pray,
Before death
Stops our breath;
Other joys
Are but toys,
And to be lamented.
6. The Dissatisfied Angler Boy
by Hannah Flagg Gould
I’m sorry they let me go down to the brook,
I’m sorry they gave me the line and the hook,
And I wish I had stayed at home with my book.
I’m sure ‘t was no pleasure to see
That poor, little, harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string;
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture, and all for me!
‘T was a beautiful, speckled and glossy trout,
And when from the water I drew him out
On the grassy bank, as he floundered about,
It made me shivering cold,
To think I had caused so much needless pain;
And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain;
Oh! never, as long as I live, again
May I such a sight behold!
O, what would I give once more to see
The brisk little swimmer alive and free,
And darting about, as he used to be,
Unhurt, in his native brook!
‘T is strange how people can love to play
By taking innocent lives away;
I wish I had stayed at home to-day
With sister, and read my book.
7. The Trout Brook
by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
The airs that blew from the brink of day
were fresh and wet with the breath of May.
I heard the babble of brown brooks falling
And golden-wings in the wood side calling.
Big drops hung from the sparkling eaves;
And through the screen of the thin young leaves
A glint of ripples, a whirl of foam,
Lured and beckoned me out from home.
My feet grew eager, my eyes grew wide,
And I was off by the brown brook’s side.
Down in the swamp-bottom, cool and dim,
I cut me an alder sapling slim.
With nimble fingers I tied my line,
Clear as a sunbeam, strong and fine.
My fly was a tiny glittering thing,
With tinsel body and partridge wing.
With noiseless steps I threaded the wood,
Glad of the sun pierced solitude.
Chattered the kingfisher, fierce and shy,
As like a shadow I drifted by.
Lurked in their watery lairs the trout,
But, silver and scarlet, I lured them out.
Wary were they, but warier still
My cunning wrist and my cast of skill.
I whipped the red pools under the beeches;
I whipped the yellow and dancing reaches.
The purple eddy, smooth like oil,
And the tail of the rapid yielded spoil.
So all day long, till the day was done,
I followed the stream, I followed the sun.
Then homeward over the ridge I went,
The wandering heart of me well content.
8. The Trout Brook
by Ralph Edward McMillin
Splashing on the cold smooth stones
In mysterious undertones;
Singing in the brush that hedges
Pools and rills and little ledges;
Roaring in the cool ravine,
Eddying in a change of scene,
Through the half-ploughed meadow land;
Dancing gaily on the sand,
Echoing in woods again,
Like the swishing of the rain;
Gurgling, singing, dancing, splashing,
Onward, downward ever dashing,
Now it’s murmuring almost sadly,
Now it’s gurgling onward gladly
And it’s song that’s ever changing
In a thousand keys a-ranging
Needs but one small voice to break it,
One swift monotone to make it
Sweeter than the sweetest bells
With the music that it tells,
As you hear the tick-tick-ticking
Of your trusty reel, whose clicking
Speaks another silent battle
In the roaring and the rattle
Of the ever-singing brook
Till you’ve “got him” safely, surely, “on the hook.”
9. The Fisher
by Ruby Archer
The fishing-rod forgot his hand
And down the mountain stream went swirling,
Among the eddies lightly whirling;
And Sleep came out or By-lo Land.
The fisher’s bonny head drooped low,
And found a fragrant tansy pillow;
Above him sang the pine and willow,
And winged dreams went to and fro.
The trout in safety glided by.
At last his lashes slowly lifted,
And up through ferny branches rifted
Looked half awakened to the sky.
On background of the bluest blue,
A misty temple whitely towered,
In vines of purple shadow bowered,
And opal lights gleamed faintly through.
Fine pinnacles of purest white,
And snowy domes the clouds had builded,
While sunbeams every wall had gilded.
How fair it lay within his sight!
He watched it vanish, tower and beam,
The radiant form by dusk imprisoned,
Then sought his rod with eyes that visioned
The architecture of a dream.
Short Fishing Poems
Short poetries about fishing are powerful and evocative poems ever written. It offers a glimpse into the power of brevity in poetry and the wonders of the natural world.
1. Speckled Trout
by Ron Rash
Water-flesh gleamed like mica
orange fins, red flank spots, a char
shy as ginseng, found only
in spring-flow gaps, the thin clear
of faraway creeks no map
could name. My cousin showed me
those hidden places. I loved
how we found them, the way we
followed no trail, just stream-sound
tangled in rhododendron,
to where slow water opened
a hole to slip a line in,
and lift as from a well bright
shadows of another world,
held in my hand, their color
already starting to fade.
2. The Angler’s Invitation
by Thomas Tod Stoddart
Come when the leaf comes angle with me,
Come when the bee hums over the lea,
Come with the wild flowers—
Come with the wild showers—
Come when the singing bird calleth for thee!
Then to the stream side gladly we’ll hie,
Where the gray trout glide silently by,
Or in some still place
Over the hill face
Hurrying onward drop the light fly.
Then when the dew falls homeward we’ll speed,
To our own loved walls down on the mead,
There by the bright hearth,
Holding our night mirth,
We’ll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed.
3. Fishing
by A.E. Stallings
The two of them stood in the middle water,
The current slipping away, quick and cold,
The sun slow at his zenith, sweating gold,
Once, in some sullen summer of father and daughter.
Maybe he regretted he had brought her—
She’d rather have been elsewhere, her look told—
Perhaps a year ago, but now too old.
Still, she remembered lessons he had taught her:
To cast towards shadows, where the sunlight fails
And fishes shelter in the undergrowth.
And when the unseen strikes, how all else pales
Beside the bright-dark struggle, the rainbow wroth,
Life and death weighed in the shining scales,
The invisible line pulled taut that links them both.
4. Breakthrough
by P.M. Richter
Thrashing cold water
a fish leaps…
into the warm sun
5. Untitled
by Dave Read
floating atop
the surface of the lake
the moon’s
silver coins’ slip
through his fishing net
6. Worm Feed
by James Edward Lee
many fishes swim
so wiggle as the worm on
the line giggles so
capturing the worm
is the fish agenda to?
bite nibble eats up
7. Ocean Musketeer
by Carl Bellerose
swashbuckling swordfish
swimmingly fences free
fisherman’s fable ends
8. Fishing
by Bill Baker
down went the bobber
set the hook and don’t panic
reel it in ~ fish fry!
9. Fishing Haiku
by James Edward Lee
the fish in the lake
does not want to be catch caught
he won’t eat the worm
Long Fishing Poems
Long poetries about fishing use extended metaphors, detailed descriptions, and rich language to delve deeply into the mysteries and joys of fishing.
1. Fishing on The Susquehanna in July
by Billy Collins
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.
Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure — if it is a pleasure —
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one —
a painting of a woman on the wall,
a bowl of tangerines on the table —
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.
There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,
rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.
But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia,
when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend
under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandana
sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.
That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.
Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,
even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.
2. We Aren’t Got No Money, Honey, But We Got Rain
by Charles Bukowski
call it the greenhouse effect or whatever
but it just doesn’t rain like it used to.
I particularly remember the rains of the
depression era.
there wasn’t any money but there was
plenty of rain.
it wouldn’t rain for just a night or
a day,
it would RAIN for 7 days and 7
nights
and in Los Angeles the storm drains
weren’t built to carry off taht much
water
and the rain came down thick and
mean and
steady
and you HEARD it banging against
the roofs and into the ground
waterfalls of it came down
from roofs
and there was HAIL
big rocks of ice
bombing
exploding smashing into things
and the rain
just wouldn’t
stop
and all the roofs leaked-
dishpans,
cooking pots
were placed all about;
they dripped loudly
and had to be emptied
again and
again.
the rain came up over the street curbings,
across the lawns, climbed up the steps and
entered the houses.
there were mops and bathroom towels,
and the rain often came up through the
toilets:bubbling, brown, crazy,whirling,
and all the old cars stood in the streets,
cars that had problems starting on a
sunny day,
and the jobless men stood
looking out the windows
at the old machines dying
like living things out there.
the jobless men,
failures in a failing time
were imprisoned in their houses with their
wives and children
and their
pets.
the pets refused to go out
and left their waste in
strange places.
the jobless men went mad
confined with
their once beautiful wives.
there were terrible arguments
as notices of foreclosure
fell into the mailbox.
rain and hail, cans of beans,
bread without butter; fried
eggs, boiled eggs, poached
eggs; peanut butter
sandwiches, and an invisible
chicken in every pot.
my father, never a good man
at best, beat my mother
when it rained
as I threw myself
between them,
the legs, the knees, the
screams
until they
seperated.
‘I’ll kill you,’ I screamed
at him. ‘You hit her again
and I’ll kill you! ‘
‘Get that son-of-a-bitching
kid out of here! ‘
‘no, Henry, you stay with
your mother! ‘
all the households were under
seige but I believe that ours
held more terror than the
average.
and at night
as we attempted to sleep
the rains still came down
and it was in bed
in the dark
watching the moon against
the scarred window
so bravely
holding out
most of the rain,
I thought of Noah and the
ark
and I thought, it has come
again.
we all thought
that.
and then, at once, it would
stop.
and it always seemed to
stop
around 5 or 6 a.m.,
peaceful then,
but not an exact silence
because things continued to
drip
drip
drip
and there was no smog then
and by 8 a.m.
there was a
blazing yellow sunlight,
van gogh yellow-
crazy, blinding!
and then
the roof drains
relieved of the rush of
water
began to expand in the warmth:
pang! pang! pang!
and everybody got up and looked outside
and there were all the lawns
still soaked
greener than green will ever
be
and there were birds
on the lawn
ghirping like mad,
they hadn’t eaten decently
for 7 days and 7 nights
and they were weary of
berries
and
they waited as the worms
rose to the top,
half drowned worms.
the birds plucked them
up
and gobbled them
down; there were
blackbirds and sparrows.
the blackbirds tried to
drive the sparrows off
but the sparrows,
maddened with hunger,
smaller and quicker,
got their
due.
the men stood on their porches
smoking cigarettes,
now knowing
they’d have to go out
there
to look for that job
that probably wasn’t
there, to start that car
that probably wouldn’t
start.
and the once beautiful
wives
stood in their bathrooms
combing their hair,
applying makeup,
trying to put their world back
together again,
trying to forget that
awful sadness that
gripped them,
wondering what they could
fix for
breakfast.
and on the radio
we were told that
school was now
open.
and
soon
there I was
on the way to school,
massive puddles in the
street,
the sun like a new
world,
my parents back in that
house,
I arrived at my classroom
on time.
Mrs. Sorenson greeted us
with, ‘we won’t have our
usual recess, the grounds
are too wet.’
‘AW! ‘ most of the boys
went.
‘but we are going to do
something special at
recess,’ she went on,
‘and it will be
fun! ‘
well, we all wondered
what that would
be
and the two-hour wait
seemed a long time
as Mrs.Sorenson
went about
teaching her
lessons.
I looked at the little
girls, they looked so
pretty and clean and
alert,
they sat still and
straight
and their hair was
beautiful
in the California
sunshine.
the the recess bells rang
and we all waited for the
fun.
then Mrs. Sorenson told us:
‘now, what we are going to
do is we are going to tell
each other what we did
during the rainstorm!
we’ll begin in the front row
and go right around!
now, Michael, you’re first! …’
well, we all began to tell
our stories, Michael began
and it went on and on,
and soon we realized that
we were all lying, not
exactly lying but mostly
lying and some of the boys
began to snicker and some
of the girls began to give
them dirty looks and
Mrs.Sorenson said,
‘all right! I demand a
modicum of silence
here!
I am interested in what
you did
during the rainstorm
even if you
aren’t! ‘
so we had to tell our
stories and they were
stories.
one girl said that
when the rainbow first
came
she saw God’s face
at the end of it.
only she didn’t say which end.
one boy said he stuck
his fishing pole
out the window
and caught a little
fish
and fed it to his
cat.
almost everybody told
a lie.
the truth was just
too awful and
embarassing to tell.
then the bell rang
and recess was
over.
‘thank you,’ said Mrs.
Sorenson, ‘that was very
nice.
and tomorrow the grounds
will be dry
and we will put them
to use
again.’
most of the boys
cheered
and the little girls
sat very straight and
still,
looking so pretty and
clean and
alert,
their hair beautiful in a sunshine that
the world might never see
again.
3. Moon Fishing
by Lisel Mueller
When the moon was full they came to the water.
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.
And they fished til a traveler passed them and said,
“Fools,
to catch the moon you must let your women
spread their hair on the water —
even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing
net of shimmering threads,
gasp and flop till its silver scales
lie black and still at your feet.”
And they fished with the hair of their women
till a traveler passed them and said,
“Fools,
do you think the moon is caught lightly,
with glitter and silk threads?
You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks
with those dark animals;
what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?”
And they fished with their tight, hot hearts
till a traveler passed them and said,
“Fools,
what good is the moon to a heartless man?
Put back your hearts and get on your knees
and drink as you never have,
until your throats are coated with silver
and your voices ring like bells.”
And they fished with their lips and tongues
until the water was gone
and the moon had slipped away
in the soft, bottomless mud.
4. A Fishy Tale
by Vanessa Hughes
I saw you twice the other day
Stirring passion anew
It’s easy saying just move on
Less easy to do
Ive always said to others
There’s plenty more fish in the sea
But some days it makes no difference
How many fish there be
On the face of it, a small fish
But you took over my whole sea
Never before had I gone fishing
It was all so new to me
You were someone that I longed for
I’d never felt like that before
Some months on, now I’m seeing
The sea has fish once more
But some days you’re the only fish
Swimming in my sea
And the fervor that you stirred in me
Will forever be.
5. Fish Stories
by Wolfgang Carl
I caught a giant bass today
Except I really didn’t
So large it was it broke my line
You really should have seen it
But as far as telling stories goes
It’s the best outcome of all
Escape’d bass are always large
And landed ones quite small
Yet fishermen are not constrained,
By the evidence of fish,
When telling charming stories,
Of the fish that they did wish
Had landed in their boat or net,
This prize they now have taken
Our confidence in their truthfulness,
Would less easily be shaken
By unbounded ‘stravagance,
Of monsters from the deep,
And lines that snapped, and bobbers lost,
And fish they did not keep.
Yet tales they tell unceasingly,
The products of the outing,
More so than fish it sometimes seems,
These stories they keep spouting.
And larger do these fish thus grow
Upon each sacred telling
And eventually they’ll far outgrow
The wall space in their dwelling
Yet I digress from fish me thinks,
And the one that got away,
But yet I’ve proven mightily,
Their stories’ power to stay!
6. The Fish
by Elizabeth Bishop
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
7. The Fish
by Marianne Moore
wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel-shells, one keeps
adjusting the ash-heaps;
opening and shutting itself like
an injured fan.
The barnacles which encrust the side
of the wave, cannot hide
there for the submerged shafts of the sun,
split like spun
glass, move themselves with spotlight swiftness
into the crevices
in and out, illuminating
the turquoise sea
of bodies. The water drives a wedge
of iron through the iron edge
of the cliff; whereupon the stars,
pink rice-grains, ink-
bespattered jelly fish, crabs like green
lilies, and submarine
toadstools, slide each on the other.
All external
marks of abuse are present on this
defiant edifice—
all the physical features of
accident—lack
of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and
hatchet strokes, these things stand
out on it; the chasm-side is
dead.
Repeated
evidence has proved that it can live
on what cannot revive
its youth. The sea grows old in it.
8. A Boy And His Dad
by Edgar Guest
A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman’s way?
I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair.
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who’s with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.
Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he’s finding out, to his heart’s delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim;
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.
A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip
Builders of life’s companionship!
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.
Fishing Poems That Rhyme
Come along on this journey through the world of poems about fishing with rhyme. Also let yourself be carried away by the sounds and sensations of the water.
1. Out Fishing
by Robert Pettit
I figured something was up when you called in sick today.
The telephone in your house kept ringing; you went away.
After you called, you decided to roam.
No answer on your telephone meant you were not home.
Your old trusty fishing pole was what you would take.
There I saw you with your line in the lake.
I hope you caught something big for your sake.
You may lose your job if there are more call-ins that are fake.
Barefoot Boy, with a Fishing Pole.
A man I am and near my end.
I have other men to call me friend.
And women round me for the lust
And four leaf clover for the luck.
Beer or buttermilk to drink
And time I have to sit and think.
I have meadows which to mow
And I have crops which to sow.
I have men that call me sir.
I have work to be concerned.
I have obligations piled.
Work to do from mile to mile.
I’d trade it all, to be, you know
A barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.
To rest in the shade by a river bed
Soft grass to lay my youthful head.
Fish and skip stones on waters calm
And sleep out all night -when it’s warm.
To unravel natures mystery there
Why the turtle wears a shell?
How the Oriole’s nest is hung?
How the frog’s croak is sung?
Why the Blue-Bell does not ring?
Why the hornet likes to sting?
My work keeps me shod like a mule
Only in dreams, youthful things I do.
When work here ends, to Heaven I go
To be a barefoot boy, with a fishing pole.
2. Pin Fishing
by Cecilia Macfarlane
I remember fondly the summer when I was nine Catching minnows in the creek was my favorite pastime Except I called then pin fish,
I had quirky names for things as well as bizarre behavior,
year before, obsessed with swings Decked out in my rubber boots with a bucket in each hand My desire to capture them day after day,
I did not understand for hours upon hours I catch as many I could,
then set them free to the top of the hill I trudge to a natural spring nestled under a tree After taking a drink from the purest water I ever sprung from this earth I overturn the bucket, maybe in my young mind,
I was giving them rebirth for these little minnows, it must have been a harrowing event or an adventure of a lifetime,
for to harm was never my intent Then off to home I go to have a bowl of long strokes aka chicken noodle soup Giving my pin fish time to travel downhill and once again regroup The next day I would wake up eager and a pin fishing I would go I bet those minnows were happy when them I finally did outgrow.
3. The Fishing Hole
by Jason Williams
Twenty years is quite a while.
And yet I still reminisce and smile, thinking of those carefree times, that we trekked and we climbed, over fence posts and through pasture, to reach the fishing hole.
Oh, how I remember those hikes. And the glow of the warm sunlight.
The smell of manure and wildflowers, still shining with dew from the early hours.
Oh, how we’d joke and we’d laugh, on our way to the fishing hole.
It was at the water’s edge, where our love we first pledged, and under pale blue skies, I looked in your eyes.
And kissed your sweet lips. Down at the fishing hole.
The fondest memory I can think of, was out in the open, when we first made love.
On a blanket of grass we watched the sunrise, and the dancing and buzzing of dragonflies.
They simply didn’t notice, we never caught a thing,
all those times at the fishing hole.
4. Orca’s Revenge
by Tom Cunningham.
A fishing boat left the port of Kinsale
The rain was lashing and blowing a gale
Fishing grounds were in sight
Then they had a great fright
Alongside swam a giant killer whale.
A fish pong round the boat was so smelly
“Hold your noses “cried out Captain Kelly
Whale then bit off a chunk
Fishing boat and crew sunk
They all ended up in the whale’s belly.
5. In Sandalwood Dreams
by Maria Williams
Turned and tossed like toys
Riding the mighty waves
Their master does what he wilt
To them his humble slaves
Rudely he flings their boats asunder
But calm can be his days
He is his own Master Wild
Unrepentant in his ways
His moods can change quite quickly
From sparkling blues to greys
From lapping shores so softly
To howling roaring waves
Dark skinned men with coal black eyes
Bear their humble offering
To their Mighty God of the Sea
Lowly fishing boats they bring
There are some days when kind he is
They leave with catch intact
But there are others when he demands
The rights to his contract
Their women sit on the shores
Their eyes in trance like state
They pray the Mighty Sea God
Who decides their husband’s fate
Will he be of better mood today
With offerings that they’ve sought
Garlands of scented sandal wood
From the wild woods they have brought
Dark skinned men return with catch
Bursting through the seams
With laughter ringing out they’ve come back home
In scented sandalwood dreams.
6. Blue Horizons
by Carolyn Devonshire
beyond cobalt horizon’s expanse
fishing ships far offshore call to me
how joyful were those years
casting, catching, communing
lines between God and nature faded
ocean tides rule my life
joy ebbs farther each moment
bright yellow days of prosperity
displaced by lonely indigo nights
wishing the sea were still my playground
eyes now scan a blue bedroom’s walls
blues from a radio taunt my heart.
7. Companions
by Carolyn Devonshire
Tiny boardwalk along the Halifax River
Waiting to see what “catch” nature will deliver
Royal Palms’ fronds rustle in fall’s gentle breeze
No noisy distractions from teens on their jet skis
Cute baby seagull swims above my fishing line
Unlike a pet, this bird doesn’t bark, bite or whine
He knows me well and I can tell he wants to eat
So I toss bait and he bobs his head for the treat
Yet he lingers, craving a flounder or redfish
You see, my companion and I have the same wish
Quick tug at my line; what prize might lie below?
A hefty blue crab emerges as my cargo
with claws and feathers interacting, I’m amused
But break up the fight so no animals abused
such friends make life better for one who lives alone
in a pandemic when isolation’s seeds are thrown
Fishermen appreciate little rays of hope
that grant a smile and make it easier to cope
8. A Farm Yarn
by Robert A. Dufresne
When we were young boys on our farm.
A fish tale never meant any harm,
We oft were given a look,
When from such a tiny brook,
We claimed a fish as long as your arm.
But then our neighbor named Meg,
Beat the fib and put us down a peg,
By claiming from the same brook,
With not a worm on her hook,
She caught a fish as long as your leg!
Well that truth was quite hard to beat,
Then Summer beat a hasty retreat.
Winter changed the fishing world,
Meg turned from tomboy to girl.
And now this fishing tale is complete!
9. Hope
By A.O. Taner
Don’t rush to wash off the sea salt
drying on your skin;
the hopes it carries from other oceans,
those remain yet to be seen.
Fishing Poems for Kids
Fishing poems for children use simple language, vivid imagery, and playful rhythms. The poems capture the wonder and adventure of fishing in a way that young readers can understand and appreciate.
1. To Catch A Fish
by Eloise Greenfield
It takes more than a wish
to catch a fish
you take the hook
you add the bait
you concentrate
and then you wait
you wait you wait
but not a bite
the fish don’t have
an appetite
so tell them what
good bait you’ve got
and how your bait
can hit the spot
this works a whole
lot better than
a wish
if you really
want to catch
a fish.
2. I Went Fishing
by Anon.
Took some bait.
Didn’t go early,
Didn’t go late.
Caught eight fishes
To put in my pail.
Seven were mackerel,
But the eighth was a whale.
The seven were easy
To put into the tin,
But that whale caused me trouble
Before I packed him in!
Took my catch home.
What did mother say?
‘Get those eight fish out of here –
We’re having steak today!’
3. The Fishing Trip
by Steven Blake Horton
Summer has come
so my study for class is all done
and school is out, and it’s time for fun.
My dad and I have made
plans for a fishing trip to the lake.
In the morning after we awake.
The tent and sleeping bags
are all packed in the back of the van.
We have fishing poles and worms and dirt in a can.
Tucked in bed I fall sleep, and I dreamed
of catching a fish, by the little lake stream.
Roasting marshmallows under moonbeams.
I’m sleeping, sleeping, more sleeping
then I wake up from my dreaming.
Bacon is sizzling, breakfast was cooking.
I put on my pants and shirt and socks
and ran to the kitchen with a big smile on.
My plate full of pancakes I ate and yawned.
Down the freeway we drove, fast as a train,
Past houses and towns till we got to the lake.
We set up camp, I held the tent stakes.
Then down to the lake, with our raft, we ran so fast,
with a can of worms and fishing poles in our hands.
Put a worm on the hook, we threw out a big cast.
Plop plop the bate and hook landed in the lake,
We paddled the raft, and waited for the bobber to shake.
My dad told me stories of fishing trips as a boy he’d take.
Then all of a sudden, my bobber disappeared under
the water and I felt a big tug, tug, and then another.
I pulled the pole up, and spun the reel handle over.
On the end of my hook, swished and shook a big fish,
A rainbow trout I let out a loud shout, I got my wish.
Fishing is very fun, fish taste so tasty for dinner on a dish.
We fished all day and caught our limit, our fishing day was done.
Walking to camp we watched the trees make shadows from the sun.
We piled up wood and lit the campfire, round moon was a bright one.
Every camp trip my dad would tell his story of Big Snout,
The hugest of fish he’d ever seen, a legend of the largest lake trout.
If hooked, it’d swim and take you on a raft ride around and around.
4. Fish
by Anonymous
The tropical fish stickers
that decorate my wall
are sprouting gills and fins
before they start to fall.
The stickers are real fish,
complete with scales and slime.
I wish this hadn’t happened
just before bed time.
Sea turtles are jumping
and crawling to my door.
A clown fish dives with grace
then flops around my floor.
I put them in my drink
before another dives.
But I’ll need some help
before that shark arrives.
Game Fishing in Florida
An art or a sport
Some whisper a ‘crazy obsession’,
And like Golf where age won’t cut short
At least our pastime won’t lead to depression.
A hook and a line
Much patience, sun balms,
No rush when your world is sublime
With glistening waters and a horizon of wavering palms.
They ask what we do
Long hours surveying the sea,
So little they know for amidst all that blue
Lies the quest that only we see.
That adrenalin rush
A shout or a curse, the rod twitching possessed,
Tranquility broken no semblance of hush
All steely resolve now hard pressed
Arms aching, back breaking
Reel screaming the line pulling so deep,
Fish gaining, strength failing
Maybe this task is too steep.
We win some, we lose some
The joy’s in the chase not the catch,
No matter the outcome no semblance of glum
And for this feeling there’s simply no match.
5. What Kids Did
by Richard Thomas
Compared with us, the kids today
too little play and too much weigh.
Alone indoors they snack and sit
and buttons hit, while we stayed fit.
We’d quickly chores and homework do,
Then dash through doors to fun pursue,
To basketballs and arrows shoot,
To jump with ropes, and footballs boot.
We’d earthworms dig for fishing bait,
On scooters glide, and roller skate.
We’d hopscotch, seesaw, chase. and swing
And boomerangs and frisbees fling.
We’d tackle, dribble, leap, and throw.
We’d tunnel through and shovel snow.
In haystacks dive and wagons ride,
On ice and into bases slide.
We’d whittle wood and baskets weave
and pennies pitch and horseshoes heave.
We’d yank the strings so tops would spin,
When wrestling, try to shoulders pin.
We’d kindling fetch and firewood chop,
Inflate balloons to later pop,
Sink numbered balls in billiard halls,
And topple pins with bowling balls.
We’d weekly swim at downtown Y,
Our kites and model airplanes fly,
We’d darts and putts and marbles aim,
With lens or flint set twigs aflame.
We’d sneak beneath the sideshow tents,
Climb ropes and poles and chain link fence.
We’d hike and camp with scouting troops,
Rotate our hips in hula hoops.
We garden weeded, hosed, and tilled,
We’d soap box car and treehouse build,
At picnics joined the tug-of-war,
And barefoot romp when rain would pour.
We raced on stilts and pogo sticks,
Made pies of mud, our pets taught tricks,
Were paper, pin, and altar boys,
Ignored complaints of too much noise.
For caddie tips, we’d golf bags lug;
To jukebox records, jitterbug.
We’d carpets beat, played kick-the-can,
Collected rocks, and errands ran.
To school and back on foot we tread,
Down steepest hills and valleys sled,
Played pitch-and-catch in yard with Dad,
Pushed mower that no motor had.
We’d rake the leaves and chestnuts crack
and toddlers carry piggyback.
With feather pillows fight in bed,
Our cap guns fire, and fall down dead.
We’d wildly flail at punching bag
and batted balls and passes snag.
We’d zig and zag, avoiding tag,
Till tuckered out, we’d homeward drag.
No trophies or applause we’d get.
Our play was real, not internet.
To kids today, I this advice:
Get off your butts and exercise!
6. Little Fish
by Lisle Ryder
One little fish
swam in his dish.
He blew bubbles
and made a wish.
All he wanted
was another fish
to swim with him
in his little dish.
Another fish
came one day
to blow bubbles
while they played.
Two little fish
blowing bubbles
in the dish.
Swimming around
singing
plish, plish, plish.
A shell tells
A whelk shell on the bathroom windowsill
reflects modest colours curled twirled around
its helix. It takes me back to where I found
this gastropod with others dumped as spoil
over a bank behind a coastal shed.
In the waste of whelks my dear spaniel rolled.
The sticky mess adhered to fur and fold
and in the car the stink did fill my head.
Back home I set about with brush and hose
to clean my Silas of this grave offence.
Yet this made the smell yet more intense
as on both eyes and nose it did impose.
At the youth club some days later, two girls
had him in a sink to wash away the pong;
refreshed, this made the smell arise more strong
from deep within his coat and all its furls.
The shell I kept, from such foul smells now clear
holds memories of my companion dog.
Now to complete this with an epilogue
I dwell upon the shell, hold it to my ear
to hear the distant sea beneath whose swell
that gastropod across the ooze once grazed,
growing this shell above the mud upraised
until the trawler’s net its end did spell.
This creature’s home now in my hand I feel
its helix holding these events through time
a small memorial here preserved in rhyme
as gathered thoughts; I hope they will appeal.
7. The Fishy Wish Seine
by Pat Adams
I had a wish, to catch some fish
but I never have had much luck
I bought a Seine called “Fishy Wish”
Why not, it was only a buck!
“Fishy Wish” seine did not impress
when my seine turned outside/in
this was an outside/in, seine mess
where only the fish were to win!
Turns out the “Fishy Wish” seine store
Packed up and went off in the blue
“Fishy Wish” seines, I don’t adore
That’s how fishes wishes come true!
8. I Fish like I’m Drunk
by Lewis Raynes.
I fish like I’m drunk, with the line in the water,
I fish not knowing a thing,
I fish like I think I know what I do,
I fish as good as I sing,
And the bait on the hook: who knows if it’s on?
Maybe the worm ran away,
Maybe the worm wriggled up on the bank,
And is watching my fishing ballet…
Laughing and giggling, with other worm friends,
Laughing at my little fish dance,
Looking at the fish avoiding my hook,
Knowing I haven’t chance.
I fish like I’m drunk when I’m dressed to camp,
I fish with no real idea,
And that is why, after about twenty minutes,
I decide to open a beer.
9. Camping And Fishing
by Lewis Raynes
Covered in muck, dust, dirt and filth,
The rods were pulled from the shed,
Brought inside, through the kitchen,
And laid all over the bed.
And the tackle box was emptied of hooks and sinkers,
Old lures, old bobs, and line,
Then the esky got emptied of the last camping trip,
Of empty old bottles of wine.
All washed and dried with thick soapy water,
Then packed to wait for the day,
When we’d all get up early and, with our tent and our beds,
We’d simply just drive away.
And the day came along, we all left the house,
Released from the old ball and chain,
We went camping and fishing, up by the river,
In a torrential, cold steady pouring rain.
Fishing Poems for Dad
Here we have some of the most heartfelt and touching fishing poems written especially for dads. These poems offer a glimpse into the power of poetry to celebrate the joys of fatherhood
1. Fishing With My Dad
by Jim Yerman
I was fishing with my dad one day…sitting on the shore…
I can’t remember…was it the fishing…or the sitting I liked more?
When Dad handed me a little stone and said, “Give this rock a throw.”
“Toss it in the lake…and let’s see where the ripples go.”
When it broke the surface the water immediately began to shake
and before I knew it those ripples had spread out across the lake.
“Kindness is like that pebble”, he said, “for every act of kindness that you throw
will ripple out in all directions…you never know how far they’ll go.”
“And as you watch the ripples spread out…this is also true
Some of those ripples from that kindness…will ripple back to you”
We both went back to fishing…sitting on the shore
Now I remember…it wasn’t the fishing…
It was always the sitting I liked more.
2. Gone Fishing – or – There And Back Again WithoutAny
by Marcus Whitnell
Nestled in the lee of a thick flint wall
guys taut, grappling to hold firm
our canvas castle shook and shuddered
flimsy but somehow reassuring respite
as mountain giants prowled through the night
inside, hunched low over his stove
blue flames licking around the pan
Pops whistled a calming retort;
his gourmet dish to warm us up
bangers ‘n beans in a tin camp cup
we ate and we watched through the half closed flap
as lightning struck nearby –
so, while thunder grumbled at the drumming rain
(still in coats, with hats on heads)
we stretched out on our blow-up beds
father and son fishing had been the plan
on the shores of the lake that weekend
but different memories, caught by different lines
were shaped and set in that storm
as Pops read me ‘The Hobbit,’ all cosy snug and warm
3. One
by Ann Foster
There was only one,
worm in the can.
He was all alone
but knew his fate
was sealed.
Born and bred to catch fish.
Alive for a reason,
and a purpose.
Fate, to dance at the end of a line,
and end his time
on this earth.
How?
As breakfast, lunch,
or even dinner.
Sadly too small for any
of the above,
more than likely just
a snack.
Fate is fickle
the man drops the can.
The worm has been given
a reprieve.
Wiggle and giggle,
he moves toward freedom,
and a chance
at living another day.
The fisherman cheated
out of his catch,
by an accident.
The worm,
happy to have been
given one final opportunity,
out of a thousand…
and joyous at his success
in the end.
4. Boat
by Ann Peck
Boat
of blue
for fishing
met many waves’
long, hot summer days’
echoes of child’s laughter
boat waits for owner to come
“both old now and, some feel, useless”
5. Fishing is Fun
by Anisha Dutta
Me Jack thirteen years old
Smart intelligent bold.
Son of a fisherman
Also my Dad’s fan.
Studying in eighth grade
Learnt fishing A to Z.
Trying fishing off and on
in the right fishing zone.
I catch with fishing rod
on wheel tied to long cord.
In boat lying fishing net
for use of Dad, that’s meant.
A basket I have brought
to keep the fishes caught.
Lots of fishes and fry
for us: Mom to fry.
6. Fishing With My Dad
by Evelyn Swartz
To cast a line with their dad
Is the best feeling for a boy
It can’t be measured good or bad
Can’t be compared to a toy
Dad is first to bait his hook
The boy gets him a worm
“Come here son and take a look”
“Be patient and you’ll learn
They fish until the sun goes down
Then mother says “it’s time”
The boy can’t wait to tell the town
Dad taught him to cast a line
The boat is a place they share
It is their second home
He’ll always feel his Daddy there
Even when he’s grown
7. Fishing With Dad
by Bryn Strudwick
Oh so long ago when I was just a lad,
I remember fishing with my dad.
Sometimes, though we’d fish all day,
No fish came our way.
Just me and
Dad
That was grand.
Sometimes we would stay,
Even though the skies were grey.
It was worth it for the bond we had.
Oh so long ago when I was just a lad
8. A Wish to Fish
by Terry Flood
I spent my life wishing that I was out fishing
And quite often that’s where I’d be
When asked the attraction my instant reaction
Was that it was born into me
My mother, no lie, made a tasty fish pie
My dad spent all day in the bay
He’d write fishy rhymes for the Angling Times
While fishing for conger and ray
I often left home to fish on my own
My wife hadn’t quite made the grade
We might well have laughed while sharing a bath
If only she’d been a mermaid
But she met a fella, the local fish seller
I didn’t have even a hunch
So I went to heaven at ten past eleven
Because she had poisoned my lunch
I felt a bit odd when I bumped into God
Who offered me halo or harp
I said thankyou Geezer, don’t really want either
But where might I fish for a carp
9. A Fishy Tale
by C Victor Buhagiar
How could the weather forecast not tantalize me
to play truant on the eve of Miss Gaybird’s test?
The river would be an invitation the next day
to go and try my luck at catching a tasty trout.
So early next morning I left my mother curious
wondering where I was heading to, as I carried
My tackle and my fishing rod and prayed for weather fair.
There the river ran its surface shining and calm.
All day I fished, throwing line, reeling in and slacking out.
Alas it seemed too calm for my eventual luck.
Then a light breeze ruffled the surface and I hoped.
After a while the rod bent, I had managed a catch.
I used all my experience while controlling the vortex
Of elation at what I was sure was a big trout,
I had to tread carefully lest it got away and so
I had to plunge into the water, net in hand to land the fish.
In the kitchen, all alone I knew how to eviscerate the trout,
Clean it under running water and put it in the fridge.
My mother would be pleased, I thought. I would bewilder her
with a great barbeque pleasing dinner when dad came home.
Surprise of surprises Miss Gaybird was there, face scarlet
Asking: “What fallacious excuse am I to hear from you?”
There was not much to say except invite her to eat with us.
Which she did and enjoyed it to the full too.
But I got no sympathy from her. I still failed the test.
10. Just an Old Cooler
by Robert Moore
Not much to look at,
Hard to carry,
Won’t through it away.
To you, it looks dirty,
To me, it looks used.
From the late 1960s
To you, it appears empty,
To me, it’s full of memories.
I miss my dad so much,
The tears well up, flowing out.
Camping trips to Spruce Knob.
Just me and dad and
The squirrel that got the Oreos.
Yes, they eat chocolate.
The cooler was full of ice.
With drinks, sausage, bacon,
Eggs, hamburger, hotdogs and potatoes.
Everything a father and son needed.
Camel tent camper with
Nothing fancy, two beds,
Screened in room.
Coleman stove on the picnic table,
Old Cooler by her side.
Fishing Spruce Knob Lake by day
the fresh mountain air.
Campfire by night
Marshmallows, chair, lantern,
Nature one of God’s greatest blessings.
That old cooler made it to
Cherry Grove Beach.
Drinks and sandwiches for the day
I just wanted to play.
Drinks from the
Old Cooler, refreshing.
Old Cooler even went deep sea fishing.
Drinks for the day.
At the end of the day,
Filled with Sea Bass
to filet.
Old Cooler you made me cry.
Now I’m happy.
You really are full of memories
Thanks for letting me reminisce.
Fishing Poems About Life
Through fishing poems about life, we can find a creative and meaningful way to express the emotions and experiences that come with living.
1. Fishing And Wishing
by Zitella Cocke
Three little folks by the meadow brook,
With a line of twine and a bent-pin hook,
And an eager, earnest, serious look,
As if they were conning a lesson book,
Sat resolutely fishing!
“I wish,” said Tom, “for a pot of gold
With every minute that has been told
Since the day the earth was young or old,
I’d have more money than I could hold.
See, what I get for fishing! “
“I wish,” said Ned, “that the ships at sea,
And all that is in them, belonged to me,
And all that have been, or ever will be:
My wish is the best, don’t you agree,
And worth a day of fishing! “
“I wish,” said Moll, with a toss of her head,
And a pout of her lips that were cherry red,
“You’d get your wishes, just as you said,
And give them to me, — now, Tom and Ned,
I’ve got the most by wishing! “
2. Logic to Fishing
by Saxe
Of all amusements for the mind,
From logic down to fishing,
There isn’t one that you can find
So very cheap as “wishing.”
A very choice diversion, too.
If we but rightly use it,
And not, as we are apt to do,
Pervert it and abuse it.
3. The Real Bait
by Edgar A. Guest
To gentle ways I am inclined;
I have no wish to kill.
To creatures dumb I would be kind;
I like them all, but still
Right now I think I’d like to be
Beside some rippling brook,
And grab a worm I’d brought with me
And slip him on a hook.
I’d like to put my hand once more
Into a rusty can
And turn those squirmy creatures o’er
Like nuggets in a pan;
And for a big one, once again.
With eager eyes I’d look.
As did a boy I knew, and then
impale it on a hook.
I’ve had my share of fishing joy,
I’ve fished with patent bait.
With chub and minnow, but the boy
Is lord of sport’s estate
And no such pleasure comes to man
So rare as when he took
A worm from a tomato can
And slipped it on a hook.
I’d like to gaze with glowing eyes
upon that precious bait.
To view each fat worm as a prize
to be accounted great.
And though I’ve passed from boyhood’s term,
And opened age’s book,
I still would like to put a worm
That wriggled on a hook.
There’s nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul Like a day on a stream.
4. The Fishing Cure
by Edgar A. Guest
There’s nothing that builds up a toil-weary soul
Like a day on a stream.
Back on the banks of the old fishing hole
where a fellow can dream.
There’s nothing as good for a man as to flee
from the city and lie
Full length in the shade of a whispering tree
and gaze at the sky.
Out there where the strife and the greed are forgot
And the struggle for pelf,
A man can get rid of each taint and each spot
And clean up himself;
He can be what he wanted to be when a boy.
If only in dreams;
And revel once more in the depths of a joy
That’s as real as it seems.
The things that he hates never follow him there –
The jar of the street,
The rivalries petty, the struggling unfair –
For the open is sweet.
In purity’s realm he can rest and be clean.
Be he humble or great,
And as peaceful his soul may become as the scene
That his eyes contemplate.
It is good for the world that men hunger to go
To the banks of a stream,
And weary of sham and of pomp and of show
They have somewhere to dream.
For this life would be dreary and sordid and base
Did they not now and then
Seek refreshment and calm in God’s wide, open space
And come back to be men.
5. Fisherman’s Prayer
by Anonymous
Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble, with my fishing pole in hand
why I almost feel like another Bill Dance, not just an ordinary fisherman.
Forgive me when I stretch the truth, about the one that got away
Why we both know he’s in the lake, waiting to be caught another day.
Calm me oh Lord when my temper flares
when my lines become tangled and I begin to swear.
Help me to look upon my fishing buddy with patience, and grace
why just look at the big one’s he’s catching I’d like to punch him in the face!
Lord please help me to think up a story, to tell to that wife of mine
I told her I’d be home hours ago, I just lost track of time.
Ode to Fishing
6. Listen to The Poem
by Robert Liguori
I cast a line to the ocean depths
And my thoughts wander far away
To a time and place unknown to me
Perhaps visions of a distant day
But when a fish strikes I snap right back
To the reality that I see
I yank the line and hook him up
And have dinner awaiting me
But the battle is long and he’s not done yet
For he’s a fighter that I’ve hooked
He’s four foot long and big and strong
This scaly fighter that I’ve cooked
The Striper’s Should
7. A Break in The Line
by Ryan S. Harvey
Ever gone fishing? Here is a glimpse of one man’s fishing experience.
Listen to the Poem
I walk up to the river and in it I peer.
So soothing is the water and crystal clear.
A slight wind from the west awakens the trees.
I watch as they dance in this sweet cool breeze.
Tired is the sun as it sinks in the sky.
Little time left so my best I must try.
I reach back with my arm then bring it down like a hammer.
Releasing my line, in the most graceful of manner.
Through the air my lure soars, what seems like a mile.
Evoking from me, a most pleasurable smile.
A perfect cast, a wonderful shot.
I see my bait slip flawlessly into the best of spots.
Slowly I reel taking in slack.
Just then an explosion, a vicious attack.
Hard I pull back.
Then from nowhere a snap.
The fish was gone to travel on.
An outing on the bank all gone wrong.
A 7 Dollar lure still in his lip.
I hang my head low holding my rod at my hip.
He got lucky this time, but not the next trip.
Final Thoughts
In conclusion, fishing poems are a great way to explore the beauty of nature and to reflect on our innermost feelings.
Poems for fishing offer us a glimpse into the depths of our hearts and into the depths of the sea.
They can be both thought-provoking and therapeutic. Fishing poems have the power to bring out the best in us and to remind us of the importance of nature.
We hope this article has inspired you to explore the world of fishing poetry. We invite you to share your own favorite fishing poems in the comments section below.
