Ode to Birchwood

Fishing

What kind of slam poem am I going to write?
A poem without rhymes just doesn’t seem right.
I’ll tell you a story of one day of my life,
The story will prove I’ll be one heck of a wife.

Here’s a story it happened last June,
In Birchwood Wisconsin, the home of the loon.
An 8 hour drive to this paradise,
It happened just once, but I’m hoping for twice.

The story I tell, is a dad and his daughter,
The memories they made out on the water.
An early morning companion my dad he was wishing,
Someone who would wake up with him and go fishing.

Fishing you’d think, it isn’t so girly,
The crack of dawn comes mighty early.
There is no need for an hour of prep,
The fish don’t care if your hair has any depth.

Bait in hand, your pole in the boat,
Kick the motor on, that baby ain’t made to just float.
The race is on to your favorite spot,
Pullout the Garmin and stop at the dot.

Bait on the hook, set the bobber to depth,
Cast out your minnow; let it drop to its death.
The unknowing bobber is floating on top,
You stand at the ready waiting for it to drop.

The moment has come when it’s taken the bait,
You give it a jerk; you don’t want to be late.
The bend of your pole, proves you’ve hooked into the quarry,
The first fish in the boat is the start to the story.

With the radio playing and sun block applied,
This spot is producing the reason you lied.
The crappie are biting, and filling the basket,
Haven’t caught nothin, if someone should ask it.

You start to get hungry; and notice its noon,
Just one last catch, we’ll go in soon.
Who’ll catch the last fish, it’s onto the bet,
When after a moment you hear get the net.

With the last fish in, you add to the meal,
Their flopping around, but at least they don’t squeal.
Their just in the boat for a short ride in,
Some picture for boasting, then preparing din-din.

Into the fish house, they go in the sink,
You get your knives out, we’ll be done in a blink.
The electric fillet knife makes quick work of the slabs,
While the traditional knife fine tunes both halves.

The grinder takes care of the parts you don’t eat,
Feed them in slow, or they’ll be all over your feet.
Clean ups important you scour the sink,
A fish house with parts left is certain to stink.

Pull out the fryer, lets heat up some oil,
The debate on the breading causes many to toil.
The ingredients mixed and ready to dip,
Wait till their floating and give them a flip.

The stage has been set, for a meal to savoir,
A blessings been given to thank God for his favor.
With dinner cleaned up, we then hit the sack,
The alarm clock will wake us when 5 AM’s back.

Written by Courtney and assisted by her dad Tom for an English assignment. They fished with the Richards Family last year.