Your fishing Pole

Your Fishing Pole

There is something about you, something in your soul
something that seems to surround your fishing pole….

You moved to the coast, now that’s no lie
And we had a hard time with that little goodbye
But no need for heartache, no need to console
You had your boat and your fishing pole.

You know everyday you go out to fish
it’s like a genie granting every little wish
every time that bobber goes out of control
we know you are happy with your fishing pole.

Now on birthdays it’s special out on the water
I hear if you’re there, they’ll jump for the slaughter
You’ll be piling them in like your lucks on a roll
Reeling them in with your fishing pole

So today of all days take heed and relax
Pack up a cooler with drinks and some snacks
put on your shoes and go take a stroll
Down to your boat with your fishing pole.


Kathleen J. Shields

The Last Cast - Death of a S-Glass

Made by the hands of an old salt,
given to me as a token of friendship,
both one of a kind.

Cherry in color, wraps of silver and pale blue,
casted as a steady for ten years.
Always at my side on the walk,
a backup for twelve, used only to bring back memories.

Cared for as a child, protecting it from any harm,
never traveled outside of a vehicle,
no stones to scratch or blem this one.

Admired by some,
questioned at the line by others,
no matter, my enjoyment rewarded.
The capabilities sometimes exceeded,
the hits felt through the hands,
the runs felt into the body,
the drag of a healthy Striper onto dry sand,
the admiration of the fish,
the thanks to the Stick,
only to be repeated again.

The run was slow,
first light was starting,
my prime time, nervous,
the casts were numerous,
something felt different,
the load, the departure, the snap.
My line? No. No one else around.
It is me, disbelief, confusion, splintered,
one that was once one, is now two.

Twenty two years of trips, the comfort of the hand placements,
memories of fish caught, the occasional gull.
Now done, finished,
tired and now retired,
to hang on a wall
along with old plugs,
to look at and reminisce.
The memories can't be duplicated,
only remembered, Thanks.

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more..."
-Lord Byron