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Life, Writing & Photography 
...a Collection of Personal Discoveries
Created & Developed by Greg German


 
The As A...    Poems


 

 

As A Catfisherman I Sit On The Dull Edge

 

of a long time,

just inside

the design of a nap.

I think him onto the hook.

When he bites--it feels

the way a dog looks stretching

after a good sleep.  I tell myself

a well-rooted stump

has taken the bait, and believe that

until convinced otherwise.  I test

my nerve.  And if it holds

and wants to pull my feelings

up stream, I bite down hard

on my heart--anticipate

what will happen if he gets

away.  Now, I'll do what I

think best.  And if I catch him,

I'll stare at him.  I'll look

at the size of that thing.  I won't

wonder if there is one bigger,

and I won't come back tomorrow.

 

Originally Published in
      Fresh Water Anthology, 2002   

 

 

As A Duck Hunter I Crawl Between The Wires

 

and leave the fence

behind.  Fog, wool batting

cross-stitched between rain

and snow, has quilted itself

over the pasture hills, heavy.

Each step inland delivers me

into the same December faded room.

No one thing knows that I am here.

Secretly, I peek above the dam ---

check the water for ducks.  I forget

my hands are cold, my jeans

soaked to the knees; wings flare

and fold.  Two mallards,

their green heads comfortable

in the water, float toward shore.

Burnt gunpowder, a metallic tasting smell,

is in the air.  Ice bickers for space

in the mist.  Almost nothing has changed.
 
Originally Published in
     Wolf Head Review, 1999, V. 5, # 1

 

As a Deer Hunter I Walk The Hallways

 

of your home.

Between the trees,

among the weeds,

along the river's

edge.  Track you.

Wait for you.  Listen

to the mist

mingle

with the snow,

tangle in the branches,

forcing stubborn leaves

to fall.  I find you

in my sights.

Your black eyes

glaring, staring

through your breath,

feeling fear

from a sound

you never hear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As A Trapper I Take Care Of Business

 

and search for a good stick,

the size of my wrist,

the length of my arm.  Or longer.

Something a beaver has finished

and given back.  Or a limb

from an old branch

not too long on the ground.

Something I can use

again when I reset this trap

along a steeper bank,

its wire drowning-slide

in deeper water.  Something

solid I can bring down

between his pit-black eyes,

hard, and hold him under

until he's still as the leafless

trees waiting along the bank.

I stare as far as I can

upriver, and then downriver.

Water strings around my waders.

This is a heavy coon

and I claim to be no god.

 

                Originally Published in
                      Black Dirt, 1999, F/W, V2, #2

 

As A Bass Fisherman I Stand Alone

 

along the edge of the pond

at the corner of evening

and night—my attention

caught, my momentum

stopped by the orange

of the day’s last dim

light.  And the pull of one

nighthawk that dips

and skims, maneuvers

with air-smooth cadence

through shadows, toward home.

Cool spills across the pasture. 

Cows and calves ignore me. 

The final red-wing blackbird

settles through cattails

to its nest.  Conflicts

of mosquitoes

congregate along shore. 

No one thing matters more

than I am here.  No one thing

cares.  Darkness nudges

between the hills.  Two bullfrogs

dual deep throated grudges,

divide the silence.  Almost taken,

I cast my last hope up

and out, across the water.
 
                  Originally Published in
                         
Avocet, Spring, 2000

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