Poem of the Week

Rock River  3/24/2014 dwm photo

I didn't grow up to be a fisherman, but while growing up it was something I did often with my dad and with my grandfather (his dad).  I don't know the backstory for this poem, but do vividly recall one day when Dad and I caught a Bullhead every time we threw our lines in the water.

                                                                 The Boy Fisherman

          A boy with reel and fishing rod

                                                            Trod the ground his elders trod.

He carried worms in a coffee can

Down to where the river ran,

And there his hook he quickly baited.

Then he sat and then he waited.

He caught a bullhead or maybe two

When his float went out of view.

He grabbed that pole with amazing strength

And tried to guess that fish's length.

It seemed to him as he stood on shore,

No fish had fought this hard before,

And he played that line as well he could

Sure the fish would taste real good.

The boy was young, but his line was not,

And that fish's yank found a weakened spot.

The fish was gone when the line had parted,

And the boy on shore was brokenhearted.

He patched his line and fished again

And dreamed of the fish that might have been.

He caught more bullheads but saw no sign

Of the fish that broke his weakened line.

He went on home with his mess of fish,

His eyes reflecting a fisherman's wish

Because his mind refused to stray

From the fish that got away.

The bullheads of his were pretty good size,

And his mother said they should win him a prize.

He wasn't crying, but his eyes were red

When he looked down, and then he said,

"Oh, they're all right, but golly gee

"The fish that I lost was bigger than me." 

                                                                                            W. R. Mossner

                                         1939 - 2012

                                                                                            A Variety of Verse