84 Fishing Poems to Enjoy Your Time Alone

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.

You May Also Be Interested In:

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

       by Charlie Smith

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


and in Los Angeles the storm drains

weren’t built to carry off taht much


and the rain came down thick and

mean and


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


exploding smashing into things

and the rain

just wouldn’t


and all the roofs leaked-


cooking pots

were placed all about;

they dripped loudly

and had to be emptied

again and


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


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


until they


‘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


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


and I thought, it has come


we all thought


and then, at once, it would


and it always seemed to


around 5 or 6 a.m.,

peaceful then,

but not an exact silence

because things continued to




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


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


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



they waited as the worms

rose to the top,

half drowned worms.

the birds plucked them


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


the men stood on their porches

smoking cigarettes,

now knowing

they’d have to go out


to look for that job

that probably wasn’t

there, to start that car

that probably wouldn’t


and the once beautiful


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


and on the radio

we were told that

school was now




there I was

on the way to school,

massive puddles in the


the sun like a new


my parents back in that


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


‘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


and the two-hour wait

seemed a long time

as Mrs.Sorenson

went about

teaching her


I looked at the little

girls, they looked so

pretty and clean and


they sat still and


and their hair was


in the California


the the recess bells rang

and we all waited for the


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


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


one girl said that

when the rainbow first


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


and fed it to his


almost everybody told

a lie.

the truth was just

too awful and

embarassing to tell.

then the bell rang

and recess was


‘thank you,’ said Mrs.

Sorenson, ‘that was very


and tomorrow the grounds

will be dry

and we will put them

to use


most of the boys


and the little girls

sat very straight and


looking so pretty and

clean and


their hair beautiful in a sunshine that

the world might never see


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,


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,


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,


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


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


of cornice, dynamite grooves, burns, and

hatchet strokes, these things stand

out on it; the chasm-side is



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


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.


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


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


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.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *