Search

Search results

John B. Colwell, fishing, in English Clear filters

ContemplativeJohn B. Colwell

I Went to Fish

I went to fish, at a place I know, Where the stream winds languidly to and fro; There a red-bud stood adorned in pink, And greening willows fringed the brink. The soothing 'plaint of the mourning dove Coalesced with jubilant notes from above That came from a thrasher's active throat. (Such a ribald air has the thrasher's note!) In the quiet pools I cast my lure And breathed in the perfumed air so pure, That softly fanned my careworn brow. The PAST slipped by and I lived in the NOW. Thus, ever, the NOW has a joy to give As spice for the hum-drum life we live If we but heed the proffered gift Our cares dissolve and are set adrift.
CheerfulJohn B. Colwell

Resurrection

Last fall when chill winds swept the fields, And swirled the dead leaves in the wood, It filled our flue with eerie squeals — I knew spring fishin' time was good, So I just took my fishin' poles And stowed 'em on the proper nails, To wait 'til spring should stir our souls And make us yearn for well loved trails. Today, those fish poles spoke to me, From where they hung on garage wall ; And strong desire awoke in me — Desire that had been dead since fall. The flicker yammers from his tree, A soft breeze keeps the willows swishin'— My office would a prison be: I'm digging worms to go a fishin' !
DreamyJohn B. Colwell

Transmigration

Before the window of a shop With fishing tackle on display, I stop To view the rods, hooks, lines and reels; The painted lures ; the canvas creels ; And landing net As yet unwet; To me each shining article appeals. But, as I gaze, these disappear. Within the window, showing clear, I see some pines — a rocky shore — A little baylet I adore — A fishing boat E'en now afloat, While wavelets rock it aft and fore! Why should I care though wind be chill? My heart within, is warm with thrill.
DreamyJohn B. Colwell

Fishin' Days Are Gone

The leaves have fallen, and the limbs are bare, The cricket's chirp is stilled along the shore; Above, the lustrous crow sails in the chilly air; Below, the frisky squirrel hunts his winter store. Before me lies the creek I know so well — Each hole, its every pile of drift, its snags — Just here I caught that two pound "cat" ! (I love to dwell Upon the mem'ries of the days I made GOOD bags). But, now the leaves are gone and limbs are bare, And icy needles skirt the water's edge. Oh, speed the time of dogwood bloom, of odors rare, When green comes once again to osage hedge!

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: