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THE OUTDOOR POETRY PAGE
(FOR THE FINER TIMES IN LIFE)

    Sockeye

    On a cool summer eve   

    I sat out on a mission

    For I had got it in my mind

    To do some sockeye fishing

    (and the sockeye... they were running that day)

 

    I arrived at my location

    Rod and reel in hand

    After an attitude adjustment

    I’d see how many fish I could land

    (and the sockeye ...they were running that day)

 

    I commenced backdrifting my fly

    In one of my favorite spots

    A few drifts and a pull and a tug

    And my stomach it filled up with knots

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    "Fish On!" I finally shouted

    And out of the water it shot

    That bright and feisty salmon pulled and tugged

    And gave it the famous “flippety flippety flop”

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    Unable to bust my line

    Or pull my hook from its mouth

    That tasty sockeye salmon spooled my line

    Until my line was all but run out

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    I fought and reeled and tugged and pulled

    And finally I adjusted my drag

    And finally I began to reel him in

    When somebody yelled out “Looks like a snag”

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    Undaunted by the outburst

    I asked someone to “Get the net”

    I knew it was a fair hook-right in the mouth

    But that sockeye he wasn’t tired quite yet

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    Flippety flippety flop

    Flippety flippety flop flop flop

    Oh no, there’s slack in my line

    And my heart it screamed to a stop

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    “Oh well, there’ll be others” I said

    As I waited for another bite

    I’m going to land me a sockeye salmon

    If I have to wait here all the night

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    So I walked back into my hole

    And cast and cast and cast

    I yanked and pulled and tugged and yanked

    And reeled in really fast

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day)

 

    That evening when all was said and done

    I had landed many fish

    I said a prayer and thanked the Lord and honored Him   

    For giving me my wish

    (and the sockeye...they were running that day

 

 

    The Gift 

    Sometimes in the midst of these moments

    I feel as though I’ve been given a gift

    And a responsibility

    A privilege

    A duty

    To realize how beautiful nature can be

    And to remember it

    And cherish it

    And share it with others

    To use the beauty I’ve seen

    And be able to give it to you

 

    Wildflower

    In the midst of the forest

    Next to my parking spot, no less

    Grew a wild pink flower

    And I thought of you

 

    And the canopy of lush green trees

    Provided a joyful song

    Sung by joyful birds

    So happy to share the news with me

 

    And a bumble bee gently massaged the pedals

    While toads creaked in the nearby overgrowth

    The sounds of man no longer filled my ears

    And that wildflower made me think of you

 

    SOCKEYE TIME

    In the dead still calm of a July morning

    I awoke to a chill in the air and an orange sky

    Though my body ached from lack of sleep

    I told myself it was sockeye time

 

    Wrestling about the camper ever so gently

    I geared up for fishing without waking my wife

    Legs in my waders, feet in my boots, cap on my head

    I checked my watch and it was sockeye time

 

    I made my way down the trail

    A trail so muddled from a thousand passer-bys

    Each step brought me closer to my goal

    A goal so close I knew it was sockeye time

 

    As I made my way to my favorite hole

    It became apparent I would be totally alone

    No competition, no tangled lines

    The river was mine and it was sockeye time

 

    Before my first cast I thought I saw a shadow

    I looked up and an eagle passed by

    What a great sign I thought as I flipped out my line

    A great sign that it is sockeye time

 

    All around me the mighty Kenai gurgled with life

    It had captured my soul for the umpteenth time

    I was there to fish and the Kenai there to provide

    I was one with the river and it was sockeye time

 

    Cast after cast was made that beautiful morning

    And I caught fish after fish with that one fly on my line

    No competition, no combat fishin', everyone was still asleep

    But I was there because it was sockeye time

 

    Eventually I gathered together an impressive stringer

    I had six plump sockeye to take home for a feast

    But soon I found out that the limit was three

    And Fish and Game came down with a ticket for me

    It just goes to show that it was truly sockeye time

 

    THE TIDE

    As luck would have it, my timing was perfect.

    The tide was low and slack and all was silent.

    I walked along the craggy rocks and muddy beach

    My thoughts were my own, a gentle breeze on my face.

    And I stood and I stared and gave thanks of His grace.

 

    Amidst yellow mountains and snow-dusted peaks,

    Things began to change and the silence was broken.

    The roar started gently with intensity gaining,

    The tide it came in upon the moon's command,

    And all of a sudden I was awakened from my deep silent sleep.

 

    As if a veil had fallen the elements roared to life.

    What had been calm just a few minutes ago,

    Turned into the sound of a hundred river rapids.

    And the power of God was unleashed in my heart,

    So I stood and soaked it in through my humbled silence,

    Grateful to see all that I had been allowed to see.

 

    And then a giant whirlpool formed,

    And the power was massive,

    I was drawn to it, until its life dissolved and the spell was broken.

    I slowly looked around and took in all of my surroundings,

    Amazed at what God had made in His own mighty way.

 

    Dolly's and Rainbows

    Near noon on that chilled autumn morning,

    We sat out across the Turnagain Arm,

    Mountains dusted with white and dotted with gold.

    Up over the pass, Wayne and I and the motorhome did go,

    And our target that morning: dolly's and rainbows.

 

    We hiked through a trail of yellow sponge

    Lodged in the base of broken trees and fallen leaves.

    Across the bear trails we did take ourselves,

    And our journey had just begun,

    And the water we did find.

 

    Emerged at last, our thoughts turned to the art of pleasure,

    Of rainbows and dolly's

    And where they might be,

    Of watching our step

    Amid the foul odor of dead salmon.

    Walking the creek we began hunting our prey.

 

    Every hole so full of reds,

    In another place another time they are mine,

    But not here, not today.

    We aim to seek dolly's and rainbows,

    Oh where might they be?

 

    And we cast and we cast

    At some of the prettiest holes I ever did see,

    Looking for dolly's and rainbows amongst creatures of the sea.

    And then Wayne pulled one out finally

    And he says, "Aha, a dinner for me"

    Dolly's and rainbows oh where might you be?

 

    Myself, I didn't catch anything that day,

    More content to watch my old adversary as he lay,

    Thinking he looked like the one that had gotten away,

    That summer along the bank of the Kenai oh not so long ago.

 

    In their final moments of life

    My old adversary lay guarding the place of their youth

    And I had passion for their courage

    And I came to understand their cycle complete

    All while hunting dolly's and rainbows

    In a place that I see in my Kenai dreams.

 

    A SOCKEYER'S DREAM

    For days of three hundred and another thirty-five

    I've been seeking for ways - ways to survive

    I've been dreaming a dream and imagining ways

    To return to the spot where I stand and I slay

    Those mighty sockeye salmon whose flesh I desire

    Returning to spawn in the color of red I admire

    I've been thinking of them since those past July days

    About how I would return with fly-rod to play

    Those amazing sockeye salmon fresh from the sea

    Whose tendency to swim in schools makes it easy for me

    To cast and to drift and to hook them with ease

    And once hooked they take line and do as they please

    The battles that are won being outweighed by those lost

    Every fish fighting for freedom despite all the cost

    Yes, there's no place in the world where I'd rather stand

    Than along the Kenai River each July, fly-rod in hand.

 



   AN ALASKA ODE
    One day I’d like to pen a simple ode
    A poem of all the Alaskan joy I’ve been showed
    Of eagles and terns, And fish barbs that burn
    A hook in the cheek , A knife slice in the finger
    Blood in the river, And fish on the stringer
    The eternal sunset, Fishing limits not met
    An occasional tail hook, and campers that cook
    Bass-fishers from the south, Stupid fishermen with big mouths
    Children at play, the twenty-four hour day
    A moose, an otter, a bear - fishing without care
    A place of sockeye and coho and things
    A land where the mighty chinook are kings
    Of rafts and driftboats and sleds with big jets
    And then there’s folk who eat by luck of dipnets
    Driving and flying to ancient places not seen
    Meeting Alaskan locals and not one is mean
    Days and nights spent on the beautiful Kenai
    When no fish show, asking the Lord, “Why?”
    Driving to Homer to reel up huge halibut
    Baiting my  hook with a herring that’s been cut
    Doing battle for silvers in a line at Ship Creek
    Or fighting so many fish that it leaves my hand weak
    Ah, for the romance of all that I’ve seen
    If only I could pen an ode for all the beauty I’ve gleaned
    Alaska, the land, the legacy,  the place of my dreams
    Has granted me joy and beauty surpassing all means

The Grayling King

    A bright sunny day, a few clouds in the sky

    My feet in the river, I picked out a fly

    Choosing an offering which I knew fish to eat  

    I tied it to my leader, fish-line complete

    I found myself stalking along a cut-bank

    The shallow riffles gurgled and dead salmon stank

    Coming to a spot that seemed like the place

    I pulled back the ‘skeeter net, revealing my face

    Reading the water I perceived but one thing

    This is the spot that holds the great Grayling King.

 

    Sneaking into the water I cast with great care

    But the wind took my offering and I hooked a brown bear

    He’d been hiding behind a fallen log near the opposite bank

    Eating the carcass of a red salmon which made him quite rank

    I set the hook in order to break off my fly

    But that only upset him and he started to cry

    With my fly in his tail he turned with a growl

    My head started spinning I must’ve looked like an owl

    There’s nothing to do but drop my stuff and I began to run

    Looks like fishin’s over today before it’s even begun

    I can’t remember a time that I had run so fast

    But today was quite special due to my errant cast.

 

    When at last I’d recovered it was early next day

    The sun had started up to show me the way

    I retraced my steps ever wary of that brown bear

    And quivered in my boots when I recalled his great stare

    Finally I returned to the scene of yesterday’s crime

    And there lay my flyrod like crushed pieces of lime

    But ‘lo and behold my leader and fly were still quite intact

    Surviving the pain from that wounded brown bears furious impact

    So, I grabbed up my line and inspected my fly

    And noticed a gangle of bear hair stuck through the eye

    At that point in the day I began to feel like the Grinch

    I got a terrible idea and my insides started to wrench.

 

    Scrounging through the forest I came up with a stick

    It would make a fine rod and the handle was quite thick

    So I tied on my line with a great big granny knot

    Then wiped clean my brow since it was getting very hot

    Next I angled into position and hit the water with my line

    I made a cast that had to rate as heavenly divine

    My bear-hair fly gently floated down and landed with a ring

    And moments later up shot my quarry – the great Grayling King

    With my great bear-hair fly firmly lodged in his lip

    The Grayling King jumped and thrashed and tried to give me the slip

    He darted to the left and then he darted to the right

    And I ended up chasing him until sun turned to night

    As the last rays of the sun began to fall on the river

    The great Grayling King shook his head with a mighty shiver

    Then all at once my line went slack and my fly popped free

    And I realized that eating the Grayling King wasn’t to be

    The moral of the story, though it may sound odd

    Is that despite my mishaps I’d been quite blessed by God

    So finding and catching such a fish is one thing

    But being eaten is not for the great Grayling King

 


     ALONG THE MIDDLE FORK

I can still see the place in my mind
Pure blue water, knee-deep, racing by my boots.
I'm standing in the midst of the gentle current
Fly-rod in my left-hand, fishing cap on my head.
The sun shimmers across the top of the water
And gently pours heat along the back of my neck.
My full concentration is along the far-bank,
For there beneath an ancient submerged log
Is where my prey lies in waiting.
My left-hand starts my fly-rod in motion,
And the line whips back and forth through the air
Not making a sound,
Except when it makes gentle contact
With the scrub-brush that lines the bank behind me.
When the moment is exactly right
My line delivers its fly in a delicate motion
Floating down like a bug knocked out of the air.
I track the movement of my fly through the current
Following it to the place where I know my quarry lies.
As time stops and all is perfect,
The grayling shoots forth from its protected cover,
Engulfing the yellow-humpy which has invaded its turf.
A flick of the wrist and the hook is set
And the grayling that I knew was there
Tightens my line and gives me his fight.
A crow cries out, breaking the silence,
Signaling to others that something has changed.
The grayling endures and gives me a struggle
He is much bigger than I previously understood.
Indeed, I come to believe he'll be my champion
I must land him and celebrate his glorious nature.
The fight is intense and I can hardly move him
Into the current he sets himself and pulls against me.
The battle lasts for five minutes of perfection
Pure contentment is mine- a gift from the Creator.
The grayling succumbs and begins to move toward me
As I take hold of him, he looks me in the eye.
My heart is broken and he has discovered my weakness
Gently I stroke his fin as I revive him in the side current.
A moment later he shoots forth and is gone from sight
And peace and joy and contentment return.

Home on the Breitenbush

 

There is a small mountain stream way up in the forest

A two-hour drive from what I called home

Past the firs and the ferns and a mountain or two

Up in the lands where the wild deer roam

 

 This stream was discovered on a previous adventure

When friends gathered to welcome an old comrade home

By chance we stopped there and had a look about

Up in the lands where the wild deer roam

 

As the years went by I returned many times

Enticing the trout a many with rod, reel and fly

Not once did I ever encounter another soul on the river

And the land of the Breitenbush became my own

 

I learned every ripple, every bend, every pool

I knew where the trout lay and where they might be

And not once did I ever encounter another soul on the river

For the land of the Breitenbush belonged but to me

 

But now many years have passed by and left me

I moved far away from the land that I knew

Yet every summer I still have the same yearning

To return to the Breitenbush, my fly-fishing home

 

I know that one day I shall make my return

To greet the trout and the pools and the ripples with glee

And once again cast my best fly on its waters

For the land of the Breitenbush belongs but to me.

 
 

  

    THE LAKE

And he stared at the lake again today. He likes it there, on that bench in the one corner. Today there were lots of big geese about. Around eight of them called his corner home this afternoon. As he approached, the geese gave way without incident and soon he was about his usual pattern upon the bench.

Ah, the wind was up today. It had blown the whole time he was walking to the bench, but not until he stopped and let life come to him did he notice its grace upon the waters of the lake. The patterns. The chop of the water. The glimmer of light. Patterns of wind and wave did not go unnoticed.

Then a scrawny little white tern flit by. By golly, he’d seen those kind of birds somewhere else before, along the island on the Kenai River. He never expected to see one of those around. And then quickly a small flock of them was swept into view by a gust of wind. For a moment the sky was full of them - just them and nothing else. Another gust of wind and they were gone, blown out towards the middle of the lake, fading from view. But it was marvelous.

For awhile the wind started to tame down a bit. He felt the serenity of the lake. The healing powers it emanated to all those who looked upon it was not lost on him. He took it in knowingly, convinced by its magic. The ebb and flow of the water in the middle of the city was a solitary place he could dream in. Granted it’s not all that solitary. Cars chug on by all around the park and the steady stream of landing jetliners forms a surreal atmosphere of urban-rurality. But the magic of the water was able to overcome.

Earlier in the day he had seen the magic of the waters from high up above. He had been at the building on the 14th floor. During a break he made his way over to the window and looked out over the landscape. Great inventions those tall buildings. Even from the 14th floor he could survey a vast panorama below and to each side. The bay was a mile or so east of his position. The bay hills to his west. Below was a flatland urban sprawl, populating the space in between. But down directly below him was a uniquely carved lake that sparkled in the sun. It looked like a series of flashbulbs going off, one after another, indefinitely. The more he stared the more beautiful it became. A natural sunlight water reflection phenomenon that captivated the eye and spirit. He became drawn into the spectacle not blinking for fear of missing out on the details.

But now as he sat upon the bench on the corner of his lake in the middle of the evening the effect was no longer there, though the lake was no less powerful than before. And then a wind-sailor came tacking into view. A small yellow job with a blue-striped sail. He was making a good run of it and the wind was blowing for him fine. In no time he had made the journey from side to side, conquering the great expanse in just a few minutes. As he faded from sight over came another group of geese. And then, back on his bench, in the corner of his lake he knew it was time to go for the magic had done it’s work. He got up and started for the pile of geese, driving them away up over the slight grassy hill.

 

    

                                                                                            

 

 

To Some Thoughtful Prose...

ALL POEMS WRITTEN BY - MIKE CANNON              COPYRIGHT 2002,2003,2004 - MIKE CANNON

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