Quetico Laker

Spring action, Shallow runner
Shore cruising, Silver stunner

Stick bait, Troll edge
Descending crank, Work ledge

Late summer, Heavy rig
Deep beauty, Reef jig

Paddle Louisa, Loon calls
Roaring thunder, Distant falls

Open bail, Drop line
Sweep up, Drag whines

Muscular fight, Gator rolls
Tugging war, bended pole

Thick mono, Rod stout
Extended net, Wiley trout

Fish onward, Little cleo
Hooked three, Massive trio

Honey hole, Anchor stay
Sharp knife, Long fillets

Reflector oven, Backwoods baker
Foil wrapped, Quetico laker

Mike, I've known a couple men in my life with great range. One jumps off cliffs with a hang glider and kayaks Class IV and V in canyons where you reach your take-out or die. He's also an ice road trucker, but he sews and gardens and cans. You're a rough and tumble guy who catches the biggest bass on the board, but you write poetry too. Tres cool!

quote missmolly: "Mike, I've known a couple men in my life with great range. One jumps off cliffs with a hang glider and kayaks Class IV and V in canyons where you reach your take-out or die. He's also an ice road trucker, but he sews and gardens and cans. You're a rough and tumble guy who catches the biggest bass on the board, but you write poetry too. Tres cool! "

Some people have called me an enigma. Most people don't believe me when I tell them I used to work at a Fortune 500 corporation, had a high rise office at the world headquarters and wore a suit and tie everyday as a telecommunication engineer and project manager. Most people see me as more of blue collar type of guy. When I worked at Piragis, they had a loon calling contest and I was a loon calling judge. Before the competition they had me read one of my poems before the start of the contest. I wrote it 15 minutes before it started. They introduced me as the local Poet Fisherman :)

quote QueticoMike: "

quote missmolly: "Mike, I've known a couple men in my life with great range. One jumps off cliffs with a hang glider and kayaks Class IV and V in canyons where you reach your take-out or die. He's also an ice road trucker, but he sews and gardens and cans. You're a rough and tumble guy who catches the biggest bass on the board, but you write poetry too. Tres cool! "

Some people have called me an enigma. Most people don't believe me when I tell them I used to work at a Fortune 500 corporation, had a high rise office at the world headquarters and wore a suit and tie everyday as a telecommunication engineer and project manager. Most people see me as more of blue collar type of guy. When I worked at Piragis, they had a loon calling contest and I was a loon calling judge. Before the competition they had me read one of my poems before the start of the contest. I wrote it 15 minutes before it started. They introduced me as the local Poet Fisherman :)



"

Ha! Good story, Mike. So, you're an engineer? I write for a couple engineering magazines and have profiled hundreds of engineers over the years. I also once wrote poetry, but would have starved if I'd continued. Here's one the New Yorker called "brave, original, and disturbing, all the more to its credit." I like the line, "morphine of routine":

Bloodworthy

There’s just that dusk to my pale day
when I reach home
and reach for a knife
to cut those baby pink potatoes
as the oil first hisses.

And just like that,
the edge slides
over the slick flesh
of my meal
and into me.

I squeeze my lids to stall the witnessing.

“Must we bear blood’s exhortation?” I wonder,
but already it bores beneath
the press of flesh on flesh
and it waits on me.
For me.

Red of reds.
All other colors flicker before it.

I was born through blood.
It oiled the way to that first, ragged suck of air.
And now I am borne by blood.
It is the pulse of me.

My skin falters.
My hair thins.
My blood does not.
It is loyal.
Prick me as I die.
It will run, red of reds.

And what do I wrap around me as I wrap around it?
The morphine of routine.

And still it beads on me, cleaves to me.

How can I meet blood’s yielding opacity?

So I wash it down.

Interesting.....a little different than my style. I'm not even sure what style you would call or classify my poetry as, I have never seen anything similar. I guess you could just call it MY style. I try to paint a picture with my words by using a minimum amount. Most of my poems have 80 words and 10 stanzas. I can paint a decent picture or tell a good story with 80 words.

Maybe someday I will put them all into a book? I have screen play for a movie in my head that I haven't put down to words yet, might try that as well. Two kids, about 13 years old, back in the late 70s, jump on a Greyhound bus by themselves in Dayton, Oh. and travel for 2 days to Great Falls, Montana where they stay for a month and have many adventures during their travels on the bus and in and on the mountains. I think I might have to wait until my mom is no longer living before I write it :)

Do it, Mike, and don't wait!