AS I WANDERED #31 A TALE OF TWO CITIES

Tags

1902, angling, fishing, Issac Walton, Larcher, Plimpkins, Tale of Two Cities, trout, Walton, Whig Review

There we were, arguing about which city has more value.

One city is real – – – it even exists.

The other is only in the mind – – – and it also exists.

The first city came in the mail.

It is here: Walton, New York.

Walton is on the East Branch of the Deleware River in New York. None of us guys in the railroad yard have been there – – – yet!

~

The second city can be found here:

Right there – – – on Page 384 – – – for the whole world to see.

I really can’t say if Isaak Walton would have made a good “Last Executive.”

But he sure as heck could have done better that some we have had.

How can you fault an angler?

Other people have visited the second city.

Although mostly in their own day dreams.

Others try to get there any way they can.

 

The ladies usually do – – – especially if we wish to go fishing.

That silly Miss Larcher – – – she was just playing a game with poor Mr Plimkins.

©W. Tomosky♠

FISHERMEN: #40 A NATURE SCENE

Tags

angling, balsam scent, Do'n What Comes Naturally, fishing, Mountain scene

 

I was fishing in the creek,

enjoying nature at its best,

the trout is what I went to seek,

but the picture tells the rest.

I smelled the balsam trees,

saw a mother with her fawn,

watched pollen stolen by bees,

and more at the crack of dawn.

Splashing beyond a large rock,

caught my attention at mid-day,

on this scene my mind did lock,

wood-scene thoughts soon fell away.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #39 OPINIONS

Tags

angling, balsam, balsam scent, dock, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, friendship, lake fishing, libations, Mountain scene

 

Whew – – – that was rather taxing.

This is the tenth and very last picture of fishing lakes and streams with that big dome in the background.

I was running out of words.

See that young fellow wading around out there? Pretty clever guy.

His friend wanted to build a dock – – – and he did so.

But not that dock.

The other dock is long gone. You see – – – his friend built it on stakes pounded into the lake bed. And then he built his dock on that. The following spring the snow and ice caps melted off of big dome and the lake rose two feet. It tore his dock right off the stakes and completely ruined it.

So this fellow, the one in the red checkered shirt that is attempting to fool the fish, he told the other fellow with the ruined dock “I have an idea.”

And the ruined dock fellow says “Do tell.”

Then checkered shirt guy says “We can build a dock that is attached at the shore line with hinges. The outer end will float on barrels. We can put stakes inside the dock to keep it from twisting but we won’t attach them to the dock. Then when the lake rises the outer end will rise and fall with the lake level.”

And they did so together. Became good friends in the process. Had a beer together when they finished.

I am not sure if the beer was meant to bond the friendship or just to quench the thirst. It really doesn’t matter. Probably did both.

And even I got something out of the process. That dock made me change my dealings with other people.

“Do tell” you ask.

Well – – – I was like that stiff dock. When the tempers rose, like the lake, I would remain adamant and would not budge. It didn’t work out most of the time. Now I stay grounded in my base opinions but allow others to raise or lower my outlook.

I used to get destroyed in most opinionated discussions. But now people realize I am listening and am willing to change.

Guess what! They also change their opinions once they realize we are having a discussion and not an argument.

Go figure.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #38 A LAKE

Tags

angling, balsam, balsam scent, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, lake fishing, Mountain scene

 

I don’t feel much like writing anything this morning.

So guess what I am not going to do?

I am not going to point out that bridge across the lake.

And I am not going to call your attention to the other half of this lake on the other side of that bridge.

I am not going to wonder how long it took nature to eat away at that dome of a mountain and place all the fertile earth half way down where all those trees are growing and whose branches are full of birds and squirrels and fishers and owls and aromatic scents.

No – – – I am not going to point out, tell, describe or prattle on about this lake – – – or the dome shaped mountain in the center or its little sister to the left.

Neither am I going to say anything about this fisherman not having to worry about his boots filling up with cold water because the lake is so shallow he doesn’t have to concern himself about it.

Nor am I going to wonder what type of self-respecting fish would live in such a lake.

Is there no privacy for these fish in such a clear lake?

Are there such things as voyeur fish who seek other fish out for their own prurient interests?

And where are the ubiquitous water plants such as weeds, reeds and lily pads. What type of lake has no weeds for the insects to feed on and hide in – – – for the fish to eat – – – for the man to catch?

This is a strange lake indeed.

Yet it has a stark beauty of its own – – – much like people I don’t quite understand.

THERE! I didn’t say a word and I am quite pleased with my ability to shut up for a day or so.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #37 FISHERMAN’S SESTINA

Tags

angling, balsam, dilemma, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, sestina, stream

 

INTRODUCING THE SESTINA

The sestina follows a strict pattern of the repetition of the initial six end-words of the first stanza through the remaining five six-line stanzas, culminating in a three-line envoi. The lines may be of any length, though in its initial incarnation, the sestina followed a syllabic restriction. The form is as follows, where each numeral indicates the stanza position and the letters represent end-words:

              I

Blah blah blah blah “A”

Blah blah blah blah “B”

Blah blah blah blah “C”

Blah blah blah blah “D”

Blah blah blah blah “E”

Blah blah blah blah “F”

      II  through VI

2. FAEBDC

3. CFDABE

4. ECBFAD

5. DEACFB

6. BDFECA

7. (envoi; One or more detached verses at the end of a literary composition, serving to convey the moral) ECA or ACE

I have injected a second level of difficulty by keeping not only the end-word but the total end phrase (or possibly I lessened the level of difficulty; you be the judge).

                            I

He was out and about – that day fishing,

For a large rainbow – he was wishing,

A Royal Coachman fly – was he dishing,

However these fish – they were unforgiving,

They simply wanted to – keep on living,

As he kept on – different flies switching.

                            II

Black and deer insects – different flies switching.

Made for a miserable – that day fishing,

He didn’t want them to – keep on living,

For some insect spray – he was wishing,

However the bugs – they were unforgiving,

Swats to his own face – was he dishing,

                            III

An imaginary supper – was he dishing,

Landing on his meal – different flies switching.

A world full of insects – they were unforgiving,

And he wondered while – that day fishing,

Just one large fish – he was wishing,

So as to sustain him to – keep on living,

                            IV

As we all know insects and bugs – keep on living,

God appeared unmerciful – was he dishing?

To give us some patience – he was wishing?

Trying a variety of tests- different flies switching?

Did he know we wanted to go – that day fishing?

And all the saints joined him – they were unforgiving.

                            V

Then his fishing buddies showed up – they were unforgiving.

He told them to keep quiet if they wished to – keep on living,

Did they have to decide to go – that day fishing?

He wondered if enough returned insults – was he dishing?

They kept up the sarcasm “Are you – different flies switching?

“Go fish somewhere else old pals” – he was wishing.

                            VI

 “Just catch a fish and then go home” – he was wishing.

The flies kept biting, but not the fish – they were unforgiving.

Continually he repeated his error – different flies switching,

And those stinging flies and fish – keep on living,

And never again the Royal Coachman – was he dishing,

It surely was not a good day – that day fishing.

                            VII

He loved to fish so he decided to – keep on living,

But for supper that night hamburgers – was he dishing,

And his nightmare as he slept was – that day fishing.

THE KEY:

(A=fishing, B=wishing, C=dishing, D=unforgiving, E=living, F=switching)

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #36 FAR AWAY

Tags

angling, balsam, cosmological, dilemma, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, stream

 

His heart isn’t on fishing today,

he contemplates moving far away,

however there is no better place to think,

than standing among trout, deer and mink.

He stares at bottom-stones of sienna,

thinking logically about the dilemma,

put pros on the left and cons on the right,

but he has brought no paper on which to write.

He casts fly once more – without reason,

while enveloped in the springtime season,

knowing that logic will not solve his problems,

various aspects pop out, much like apple blossoms.

This is not a dilemma solved by logic,

its facets are emotional, not unlike the cosmic,

questions that arise about nature and humanity,

that drive un-centered men to the point of insanity.

He reels in his line and is done for the day,

with his question unanswered – no yea nor nay,

walking back through the forest path of gray moss,

as he gives in to “no answer” – he remains at a loss.

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #35 THE DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

Tags

angling, balsam, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, stream

 

Twas the day after Christmas, when all through the stream

Not a creature was stirring, ‘twas my fondest dream.

The stocking waders were donned with great care,

In hopes that I wouldn’t find a rip or a tear.

The trout were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of earthworms danced in their heads.

And mamma made sure that I took my cap,

Then she went back to bed for a well-deserved  nap.

When out in the woods there arose such a clatter,

I looked up from the stream to see what was the matter.

Away through the woods they flew like a flash,

Leaped over hemlock logs – with a loud crash.

The sun on the breast of the peaks full of snow

Gave the luster of first-sun to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But an old man chasing eight laughing reindeer.

The little old man was so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they flew,

And he whistled, and shouted, as more flustered he grew!

“Now Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!

Oh, Comet! Oh, Cupid! Oh  Donner and Blitzen!

Come back here you ingrates before I trip and fall!

Damn each one of you! Damn you! Damn it all!”

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they met with an obstacle, jumped very high.

So up to the tree-tops the coursers they flew,

With a neigh and a guffaw, and St Nicholas in a stew.

And then, right behind me, I heard with a “poof”

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the shore-line St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was covered with fir needles, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all muddy, his red suit kaput.

Somewhere, in the chase, he had fallen on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, that dirty old sad-sack.

His eyes,  they were afire! His grimace how scary!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth screaming aloud “Whoa, whoa,”

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

An old briar pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad red face and a big beer belly,

That shook when he shouted, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right angry old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

The glare in his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had something to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

Shackled all of the reindeer, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his fist aside of my nose,

He then gave me a nod and brushed off his clothes.

He took the end of the chain, to his team gave a whistle,

Away they all walked through the brush and the thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he walked out of sight,

“To hell with you all, you guys aren’t too bright!”

 

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #34 CHRISTMAS

Tags

angling, balsam, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, stream

 

He – – – whoever that “he” is,

can never forget the trips he has made,

with his sons to one fishing place or another.

Sometimes – – – like their “twelve year old trips,”

it was with a singular son – – – just the two of us,

at other times – – – it was all three – – – plus me,

to the series of chutes and pools at Chasm Falls.

And that is where we had “Bean Boats,”

which were no more than aluminum foil,

shaped like a boat – – with canned beans,

and brown sugar on top of the whole thing.

As the boats sat over a few twigs and branches,

getting heated up in the tiny fire that glowed,

in the evening after a long day of hard fishing,

we also placed the tins of baby white potatoes.

The beans and potatoes cooked while we,

inspected the lichen attached to nearby stones,

and the princess pine and other deep green flora,

while simultaneously discussing our day.

Those days are remembered on this Christmas day,

as well as other days fishing deep river pools,

between those cliffs of sandstone and granite,

the hummingbirds envying our honey sandwiches.

Remembering the “clay banks” and “salmon hole,”

Mrs. Jones’ cabins and those of the Half-Way house,

the Bender cabin where we were greeted by a mouse,

and kidding each other about a broken fishing pole.

Those days will not return but I have them cataloged,

in this weak and forgetful old mind that tends to lose,

most of the details of all those memorable old trips,

however, overall, and forever; I have them to cherish.

MERRY CHRISTMAS BOYS

© Copy written for what I will never know.

FISHERMEN: #33 SURROUNDINGS

Tags

angling, balsam, eagle, fir trees, fishing, fly fishing, Mountain scene, stream

 

Another day,

has passed my way,

the waters I did flay;

mind you – all was not lost,

for those flies that I had tossed,

at those brookies – speckled gray.

The mountains lent,

that sweet balsam scent,

limited by shadow’s extent –

the snow rested in the hollows,

a hatch calls forward the swallows,

in my surroundings I was quite content.

The mountain peaks,

their eroded age speaks,

between  – a myriad of creeks;

a fish here or there hides from me,

an otter or two – a deer family of three,

from somewhere high above an eagle shrieks.

A creel quite empty does not,

leave on this summer day a blot,

I relish every day – this beautiful spot;

its mountain peaks, snow, trees and fauna,

to others it is not much – but to me it is nirvana,

days like this should not be wasted, a few does He allot.

© Copy written for what I will never know.