Array ( [sid] => 179969 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Fishing in the Pond of Myself [time] => 2014-12-07 08:26:49 [hometext] => Fishing for an idea led to writing of fishing for an idea. Poetry is quite forgiving. [bodytext] =>
I went fishing this morning in
the pond of myself-
a glorious sun to smile and bless my endeavor,
though cold outside I'm blessed-
these waters are 98.6 degrees-
no fumbling bait to squirm and mate
with fishy mouths taken in by poor vision
and barbed hooks.
Fishing in myself sounds as harmless as it looks.
No water but books surround the rim I throw
my ideas in.

It helps when fishing if I am the caster and the fish-
I toss my fingers hither and yon with precision
in the cerebral pond;
pulling, sure, an old shoe every now and then-
but what angler hasn't felt the false pull and
thrill of resistance....the let down of the sneaker
sneaking to the top.

But patience, ahh...patience- any good caster
will tell you that-
so needed in search of the perfect scales shimmering
somewhere (No doubt there- no fail!) waiting
for just the right light, the moment this word
flows into that, this idea forms and fins
to break the surface of the placid mind-

this fishing hole to plumb,
these thoughts to cast and find-
no joy
to equal the break from the surface,
the splash and droplets and action caught in
sunny delight-
I like my little pond in me-
no license, limit-
just eternity. [comments] => 4 [counter] => 427 [topic] => 69 [informant] => Invierno [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => poets ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Fishing in the Pond of Myself


Fishing in the Pond of Myself
Date: Sunday, 7th December 2014 @ 08:26:49 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: Invierno

I went fishing this morning in
the pond of myself-
a glorious sun to smile and bless my endeavor,
though cold outside I'm blessed-
these waters are 98.6 degrees-
no fumbling bait to squirm and mate
with fishy mouths taken in by poor vision
and barbed hooks.
Fishing in myself sounds as harmless as it looks.
No water but books surround the rim I throw
my ideas in.

It helps when fishing if I am the caster and the fish-
I toss my fingers hither and yon with precision
in the cerebral pond;
pulling, sure, an old shoe every now and then-
but what angler hasn't felt the false pull and
thrill of resistance....the let down of the sneaker
sneaking to the top.

But patience, ahh...patience- any good caster
will tell you that-
so needed in search of the perfect scales shimmering
somewhere (No doubt there- no fail!) waiting
for just the right light, the moment this word
flows into that, this idea forms and fins
to break the surface of the placid mind-

this fishing hole to plumb,
these thoughts to cast and find-
no joy
to equal the break from the surface,
the splash and droplets and action caught in
sunny delight-
I like my little pond in me-
no license, limit-
just eternity.

This poem is Copyright © Invierno


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