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My Poetry Poetry

Trout Fishing With Edgar

cutthroat-trout

One, no, two big silvery, slippery
shadowy trout lurk silent, tails sweep
slowly steadying against the current,
beneath a tangled lodgepole strainer
Left over  from spring’s high water.
These fish must be grateful
For a log like this, just right
And rotting back to the mud it sprung from:
A once-proud, once tree skeleton
Now just an eddy sanctuary
For two old cutthroats–like Butch and Sundance,
Pancho and Lefty, like Edgar and me–
No, not that.  He’s downstream with his fly rod
And I’m not shouting.  These two are mine.
I don’t let my shadow cross the water,
But here–big luck, Vegas-odds luck:
A greenish grasshoppery weed-to-weed leaper
Vaults, a mini-martyr, into my denim lap.
I snag him by one frail spring-loaded leg
And
I
fling
him
in.
Plop.  He’s in.  Can’t swim. Fish keep station.
We wait,
as the sun
dapples ripples,
we wait
and wait
and wait
and wait
(bug flits around considerably, like a…bug)
FLASH!

By JunkChuck

Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.

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