All I do is fish.
A poem by David John Lovell.
I work hard everyday, but everyone else claims to work harder, they spend the weekend mowing the lawn, but all I do is fish.
The women in the office chatter, they talk about their clothes, their hair, and how last weekend they cooked a lovely dish, and they scowl at me when I enter for some printer paper, because all I do is fish.
The boss keeps his distance, he talks nicely to the other guys, but treats me like a bad smell, he senses there is something different in me, but I just keep myself busy, stays out of the way, gets on with doing less than everybody else, because come the weekend all I do is fish.
You may be somebody that works hard, mows the lawn, cleans the car, perhaps take the wife or husband into town for a nice meal, maybe you take the kids to a park, play ball games, give the pooch some exercise. You may decorate the kitchen, fly a kite, visit somebody you hate for the sake of peace and quiet, well, I will bet that if you were to wake up at the waters edge, and feel the sun warming your face, and felt the power of a hard fighting unseen force thrumming through a rod, if you can close your eyes and just imagine, just briefly, you would make a wish, that come the weekend, all you did, was fish.
A fisherman born.
A poem by David John Lovell.
I'm not a wealthy man, but I'm not poor, and my clothes are old and worn.
But I have no need of a widescreen TV because I'm a fisherman born.
I get up early everyday for work, putting on shoes that are old and worn.
And I have a cup of tea before setting off to work, and I'm a fisherman born.
At work I serve the customers, and some of them look forlorn.
But I cheer them up with a laugh and a joke, because I'm a fisherman born.
When I'm fishing at the waters edge and at one with natures dawn,
I am smiling, away from the daily grind, just being a fisherman born.
And when I'm gone and my life been lived, and my reflection is no more,
These words I write will be all that's left, of me, a fisherman born.
Fisherman's blues (a poem for Keith).
By David John Lovell
I look forward to another year, enjoying fishing at the lake, the rods will be out, I've got all the gear, and I will be eager for a take.
The sun will climb higher, warming the days, as we move into the spring, the leaves will anew, the birds will start to nest, how wonderful, I wouldn't change a thing. On into summer, my tackle box open, so much weaponry for me from which to choose, many fish will be caught, much tea will be drunk, and I will be listening to the radio, my favourite show, Keith Arthur's fisherman's blues.
WAR AND PEACE.
A Poem by David John Lovell
I've done my wars, swapped gun for rod, I now go fishing and discovered my God.
I've done my wars, swapped bullets for hooks, no war manuals to read, just my fishing books.
I've done my wars, no more choppers to fly, no tour of duty, just fake flies to tie.
I've done my wars, no more weapons to arm, just a button to press, on my bite alarm.
I've done my wars, don't argue with me, I don't want to know as I sip my tea.
I've done my wars, no more the front line, just rigs to attach, to my fishing line.
Now lay down your guns, come fishing instead, they're the Devils death toys that leave brothers dead.
If you're a street kid, then lay down your knife, get rid of your drug culture and fish for your life.
Now listen to me for I speak the truth, come fish with your brothers, and discover the proof.
