Monday, November 24, 2014

Fishing Poem

I wrote another poem for my creative writing class and I thought I would share it with you. The writing prompt was a photograph of a man, alone on a big rock that overlooked a large body of water that I thought looked like the ocean.

This is obviously not the picture that inspired the poem, but close enough, right?

A swing of the arm,
The flick of a wrist.
The hushed “whoosh” of the rod,
As it cuts through the air.

I'm getting better at this.
Slowly but surely, I'm learning.
I haven't caught anything yet,
So I wait patiently as he always did.

The waves are crashing against the shore,
Along the rocky pedestal on which I stand.
My feet are wet, my hands tired.
I'm getting weary of waiting.

The moment I give up,
The second I start reeling in,
Something tugs violently at the end
Of my line, something hidden.

Whip the rod upwards,
Just like he taught me;
Secure the hook, he'd say.
And I start a battle of tug-o-war.

This is when it gets exciting,
Playing tug-o-war with an invisible force,
Not knowing what's on the other end.
It's what he loved about it.

Finally, I see something.
A flash of a golden fin.
A smile tugs at my lips;
I did it.

Why he always loved to fish
Remains a mystery to me.
My dad never taught me,
I never taught my son.

He loved it so much.
And so here I am,
Catching my first fish at 62,

Just the way he taught me.

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