Humorous and funny Poetry about Fishing – Fishing is one of the most polarizing past-times going, and non-fishers can find it very difficult to appreciate the attraction. However, we have collected more interesting fishing poems you’ll really enjoy.
Table of Contents
Your Fishing Pole
There is something about you, something in your soul
something that seems to surround your fishing pole….
You moved to the coast, now that’s no lie
And we had a hard time with that little goodbye
But no need for heartache, no need to console
You had your boat and your fishing pole.
You know everyday you go out to fish
it’s like a genie granting every little wish
every time that bobber goes out of control
we know you are happy with your fishing pole.
Now on birthdays it’s special out on the water
I hear if you’re there, they’ll jump for the slaughter
You’ll be piling them in like your lucks on a roll
Reeling them in with your fishing pole
So today of all days take heed and relax
Pack up a cooler with drinks and some snacks
put on your shoes and go take a stroll
Down to your boat with your fishing pole.
Kathleen J. Shields
I Love To Go Fishing
I love to go fishing everyday,
To the river or the lake.
Up in the morning without delay,
I go fishing soon as I wake.
Down to the water to wet my line,
My float bobbing up and down.
Fishing in the morning, is just so fine,
Your face will never sport a frown.
A big ole catfish, or a little bluegill,
I just don’t give a hoot.
I love the way fishing makes me feel,
To me it’s like forbidden fruit.
If I get lucky and get a bite,
Then the day is made.
I’ll stick around till early night,
Just snoozing in the shade.
The Fishing Net
Finally he has gone to fish
With a nylon net
Since unskilled he is
Anyhow has set the net,
But, o! he alone has caught
All the fishes
No a single one in the pond
For them, you or us,
Modern devises are so accurate
To finish things at once
Beings also face same fate
Here, there always.
A Bad Day Of Fishing
A bad day of fishing,
Can go a long way.
It beats a good day of work,
Any old day.
Nothing beats fishing, I guarantee,
Listen to what I say.
If you don’t like fishing, you’ll still agree,
Have a bad fishing day.
Old Men Just Go Fishing
When a young man’s fancy, turns to desire,
An old man just goes fishing.
It takes too long to stoke that fire,
And what’s the use in wishing.
So I pull out my rods, pull out my reels,
And go kick my old truck’s tires.
Unlike with love, I won’t miss meals,
And I won’t put out no fires.
I’ll just make sure my tackle box,
Is bursting at the seams,
No fancy cars I love old trucks,
No women in my dreams.
I’d rather be fishing any old day,
Not to say women are fickle.
And above all I just must say,
Fish won’t slap when you tickle.
Fishing For A Friend
When you go to fish
go fishing for the finest kind
which good anglers always do.
if you’re looking for a fine fish
you must choose the purest lake
in which good anglers fish.
if you catch a fine fish
try not to let it get away
good anglers real them in.
you must bring your fish home
a fine fish will quench your hunger
after a long day fishing.
Fishing In The Sunset
Have you ever fished in the sunset?
I did so many years ago
I remember it like it was yesterday
I can still hear the water flow
I had used a little bobber
On the end of my line
Even though it was dark now
A bat found it a find
For it flew down and bombarded
The floating little ball
Thinking it was food I guess
But it wasn’t food at all
The colors of the night was
As beautiful as it could get
I will never forget the time
I was fishing in the sunset!
Fishing With Dad
Sitting around watching it snow –
Listening to the cold wind blow –
It’s a dark gray day –
Meant for gazing out a frosty window,
At thoughts so far away.
Sit, and enjoy the sound,
Listening to Greg Brown
Sing about ‘ Fishing With Bill ‘…….
And for just a moment of sentiment
The rest of the world is serenly still;
As if this song was meant for me
And my childhood memory,
When it seems all I had
And all I wanted
Was fishing with Bill, my dad.
It was the best blessed time,
His, and mine.
Oh to go back again
And be once more, fishing with him…….
I thank God
For those wonderful times we had,
Out there on Houghton Lake
Just a fishin’,
Me and my Dad.
When the moon was full they came to the water.
some with pitchforks, some with rakes,
some with sieves and ladles,
and one with a silver cup.
And they fished til a traveler passed them and said,
to catch the moon you must let your women
spread their hair on the water —
even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing
net of shimmering threads,
gasp and flop till its silver scales
lie black and still at your feet.”
And they fished with the hair of their women
till a traveler passed them and said,
do you think the moon is caught lightly,
with glitter and silk threads?
You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks
with those dark animals;
what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?”
And they fished with their tight, hot hearts
till a traveler passed them and said,
what good is the moon to a heartless man?
Put back your hearts and get on your knees
and drink as you never have,
until your throats are coated with silver
and your voices ring like bells.”
And they fished with their lips and tongues
until the water was gone
and the moon had slipped away
in the soft, bottomless mud.
Fishing In Troubled Water
“Fishing in troubled waters” means end of happiness
Infusing hatred and violence where exists oneness
Excuses advanced with malign and hollowness
Waiting for chance to ruin and reduce to nothingness
Human psychology may differ from time to time
Inherent weakness remains through out the same
Either with countries or human beings no difference at all
Need of an hour is to avoid and never give it a call
Human mind and politics are devil’s workshop
Nothing is achieved by pleading from priests or Bishops
No religion, principles or teaching can yield any influence
Inviting only destruction, misery, poverty since
Millions are dying not because of natural curse
No one will lament if that is destiny of course
Who are we to have killings and then no remorse?
No will power but to face helplessly is only force
We talk of peace but work for only pieces
Dividing the spirit to have only fishes
Does this serve the flash only for riches?
No one thinks as it is beyond reaches
Somewhere region imbalance work or fanatics
In reality it is purely human tragedy and politics
Where everybody wants to have sway and power
No concern for plight, misery and deaths of fewer
We may witness upsurge in reckless killings
Nothing will matter except force willing
You may loose your rights and freedom
Nations may buckle under pressure without any wisdom
We have no business to play dirty games
History has witnessed it with only few names
We will still not learn and lessons from the past
Continue to debate and doubts always cast
Off To The Fishing Ground
There’s a piping wind from a sunrise shore
Blowing over a silver sea,
There’s a joyous voice in the lapsing tide
That calls enticingly;
The mist of dawn has taken flight
To the dim horizon’s bound,
And with wide sails set and eager hearts
We’re off to the fishing ground.
Ho, comrades mine, how that brave wind sings
Like a great sea-harp afar!
We whistle its wild notes back to it
As we cross the harbor bar.
Behind us there are the homes we love
And hearts that are fond and true,
And before us beckons a strong young day
On leagues of glorious blue.
Comrades, a song as the fleet goes out,
A song of the orient sea!
We are the heirs of its tingling strife,
Its courage and liberty.
Sing as the white sails cream and fill,
And the foam in our wake is long,
Sing till the headlands black and grim
Echo us back our song!
Oh, ’tis a glad and heartsome thing
To wake ere the night be done
And steer the course that our fathers steered
In the path of the rising sun.
The wind and welkin and wave are ours
Wherever our bourne is found,
And we envy no landsman his dream and sleep
When we’re off to the fishing ground.
Lucy Maud Montgomery
Fishermen cast out their nets
We all in turn go fishing
Some will use a rod and line
While others fish by wishing
Some wish for so many things
Like numbers in a line
If the line is lacking some
Next time they say that’s fine
Others fish for gossip
So they can tell to others
No escape for anyone
Not even someone’s brothers
Fishing for a missing sock
The washer won’t release
Hiding out behind the drum
With fluff and bits of fleece
You see we all go fishing
Not always using bait
Just cast a line for what you want
Then settle down and wait
To J.A. Froude And Tom Hughes
Oh, Mr. Froude, how wise and good,
To point us out this way to glory-
They’re no great shakes, those Snowdon Lakes,
And all their pounders myth and story.
Blow Snowdon! What’s Lake Gwynant to Killarney,
Or spluttering Welsh to tender blarney, blarney, blarney?
So Thomas Hughes, sir, if you choose,
I’ll tell you where we think of going,
To swate and far o’er cliff and scar,
Hear horns of Elfland faintly blowing;
Blow Snowdon! There’s a hundred lakes to try in,
And fresh caught salmon daily, frying, frying, frying.
Geology and botany
A hundred wonders shall diskiver,
We’ll flog and troll in strid and hole,
And skim the cream of lake and river,
Blow Snowdon! give me Ireland for my pennies,
Hurrah! for salmon, grilse, and-Dennis, Dennis, Dennis!
Among the logjams and flotsam north of Brown’s Landing, Negroes,
as black people were then called, fished for channel cat and crappie.
Poor whites, loners, and teenage boys came there as well and threw things in
or pulled them out or hid them in the flooded bushy inlets presumably
ignored by the constabulary. Sometimes night fishing there with lantern
and a box of horrible Marsh Wheeling crooks, dark forms rose near us
like submarines listening, mystified Germans, perhaps, trapped there since the war
and wondering if they should kill us or simply steal our catfish and cigars.
We never knew. We reached out with our flashlights and found the river
meditative, clueless, and unitary as the sky where the huge chandelier
of the universe turned and sputnik scored its winking caveat: “There’s more
up here than Heaven, boys. Breathe deep.” And so we did, while
below us, we were certain, more than fish circled and tugged at our lines
with dark or bright mouths, with the hunger of all unknown things.
Fishing In The Sky
Fishing in the sky
The sun came down to say goodbye
For you don’t need the sun to beam on your shoulders no more
She gives you more than any heat you could ever store
Don’t look back, I was just a heavy hearted sack
Now I’ll get my fishing rod and fish somewhere else
Don’t hold on to my hands, let me get off your back
I thought I had you, but I only ever wish I did
She looks like that missing part of you that you longed for
That missing part of you that I tried to be
She has dry eyes and a fresh smile
She’s the missing piece of your suburban tile
Bury the sand we clasped in our hands
Translate the words we never dared understand
Gather your seeds and say your goodbyes
Pass me the fishing rod, ill fish in the sky
Through the router type a ruse
I am a hooker on the loose
I a pauper with unholy paunch
True to form, a lecherous raunch
I’d never run promised myself
Get the hardware off the shelf
Marching words across a screen.
Pull a fast an the disc is clean
My eyes glued no tear will fall
Just type a quicker for her call
Tears of dismay and of sorrow
Oh! Paste a joke, fake a morrow
Logged off now, but not for long
Hooked she is to my tick tack song
How could they so much mean
There’s no cure an no wean
Nothing stems and no firewalls
If on line, she’s waiting calls
On love or hate I do not thrive
Always on, on forward drive
In this buzz no love no cheat
If your rig is dig be up beat.
The virtual world a veritable trap
Abuzz the genie on my clap
Our fishing trips arn’t fruitful,
but they’re always lots of fun.
We always have a story
about losing ‘the big one’.
Most of the time we’re casting
while dad says ‘Watch your pole!
To be a real good fisherman
you have to play the role! ‘
‘You can’t keep reeling in your bait.
Patience is the key.
If you just stare right at the tip…
You’ll get one…you will see.’
‘Stop making noise! ‘, ‘Stop fidgeting! ‘
‘Who drank up all my pop? ? ? ‘
‘Don’t hit her! ‘ and ‘Don’t look at him! ‘
‘This fighting’s got to stop! ! ‘
Just when we reach the fishing hole
of course you need to pee! !
Next week we’ll try it all again!
It’ll be fun… REALLY… You’ll see!
A Little Advice, Fishing’s For Fools
You get out of your bed, at three in the morn,
Sleep still clinging to your eyes.
Leaving your nice warm womb, like a newborn,
To fight the snakes and flies.
You drive for an hour, to get to your spot,
Freezing your fool behind.
To give those damned fish, just one more shot,
Your’e a fishing fool, one of a kind.
Then you sit on the bank, waiting for a bite,
Slapping mosquitoes all day.
Drinking beer till your’e higher than a kite,
And the fish just don’t want to play.
At the end of the day, your’e haggard and worn,
Your hair going every which way.
You’ve lost all your hooks, and your pants are torn,
Your tackle box in complete disarray.
You eyes red and sore, Your skin is sunburned,
You just want to go home and die.
It’s the same old lesson, you’ve never learned,
It makes a grown man want to cry.
Yet you’ll never confess, lord perish that thought,
That those fish did you in one more day.
Heaven forbid, just say that you fought,
And lie, say they just got away.
Joy Of Fishing
Oh how I enjoyed so very much
Fishing off a bridge
Or perhaps ‘long side the road
Or from up on a slight ridge
I remember many years ago
On the first day of the season
Going out before daylight
Getting my limit was the reason
Cold when I would paddle out
In a small and rented boat
And if I caught lots of fish
Oh, how I loved to gloat
But it was fun, I remember
As I tossed the long line out
And when I’d feel that tug
I’d wait to give a mighty shout
Until that little fish was on
And I’d nailed him on the spot
It was so much fun, my friend
Especially if he really fought
By the afternoon it was hot
So a cold drink I’d be wishing
And ready to go out again
For the ultimate joy of fishing!
Elizabeth Bishop – 1911-1979
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
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