FISH STORY

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FISH STORY


I imagine that I must have surprised you,
What with your waiting game, your sport.
You had exhausted me.
You had that great angler’s skill;
You had me hooked, long, on the line.

It was the lure, you, I swallowed you whole.
I had not seen that a great barb was nestled in the fly.
Your beauty, I had become prey to it,
You must have realized, you must have known,
How beautiful you seemed to me,
How you dazzled, your shimmer,
And I ate you right to the lead sinker.

I was your catch.
I believed every thing you said.

Who would have devined it?
Given the great tensile strength of your nylon-reel wire,
Hard to phantom that I might break it;
But I took a deep dive toward bottom,
Then, gathering up all my muscles' power,
I turned upwards and with a fierce, five-foot leap
I broke above the water's surface.

A loud snap announced how taut had grown the tension.
At once boat and bait had lost all connection.

I swim with that hook; it still punctures my mouth.
Your fisherman’s string, its segment,
Runs along side of me for at least a yard.
My injury, it hurts, and I shall have to bear it for life,
But I have set myself at liberty,
Free to travel world’s grand and open ocean seas.
And may I ask, again, take a moment, please, consider,
Who would ever believe my, this fish story?

But it is true; I have broken from you.

DREAM CHILDREN, A Reverie

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DREAM CHILDREN,
A Reverie,
Edited May 2011




I know that by the time Isabel reaches her teens
She'll want to read all the love letters Dad sent to Mom,

And Mother,
Ever attentive to the moral order of the home,
Will have censored some details of the lovers’ delight,
Until the girl attains the appropriate age,
And she possesses the missives on her own.



Our son will study the photographs,
Taken while his parents' passion was young;
He will marvel at his Mother's beauty.

From her character and image he learns standards
That, when time comes, he might choose,
Among women, the one, suitable to marry,
Who, too, would be good mother.

And our children will cherish the memory of how,
Night after night and over the years,
We read from books to them until they fell asleep.

And their minds retain the cadence of nursery rhymes,
And the breathy note of excitement
In tales of heroic deed and glorious adventure,
And the memories of wonderful day dreams,
Which twice-read stories of fantasy and magic create.

Their rooms teem with books;
These books form a collection, a magnificent library.
It remains today the envy of posterity.

And most of all our children recall the hugs and kisses,
The times they rode out on our shoulders
Their arms around our necks,
The softness of our voice when we spoke to them,
The affection lavished without stint,
Bringing to soul warmth and calm,
And that happiness evident
From childhood spent in a good home.