Fishing For Soul

Poem By Werner Schmidt

Two fishermen with burning bush mops of hair
row in a faded blue, white and red fishing boat
on the ocean in the other world.
One could say that their boat is afloat on that
blue we call heaven or sky
where milk and honey are deadly
and wine flows like water.

Their job? To fish for the souls
of all who die below their boat -
on this earth, in its waters and holes
in its skies, and any astronauts elsewhere.

Once you start getting permanent
aches, pains, niggles and such
like second-hand knees after one
measly marathon, you are reminded
that the soul fishers are hooked on you

They tug, pull and play patiently
on a growing collection of hooks
for years and years, and not without tears
to get a soul from this world to theirs.
Remember, the distance between here and there
is immeasurable, almost like rod's length.


When each caught soul breaches the
otherworldly surface for the first time
the fishermen give it one look
as it flips and flops -
gasping for creativity.

At this point the fishers often say
their voices rising:
"Freakin' hell!
How many times do we have to tell you
to become yourself and live?
This time you tried on a dead prophet.
Last time it was corporate profits.
Sheesh! "

"Throw him back.
No, no, gently, gently
and leave the scar -
don't want him to forget again."

Comments about Fishing For Soul

There is no comment submitted by members.

Rating Card

5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of SCHMIDT

Sea Spot Run

You appear to be a cut and paste
of black mermaid's tail
with the chest and face

The End Of Days...

... should have been 70 AD/CE, remember?
Or no,150.
Or no, sorry, finger error, it was supposed to be 380.
Or no, no, no! It is going to be exactly 24 September 20XX, after

Stuck On You

Steam rises from my cupped hands.
Sickle Moon dances on my black rooibos tea.
Dirty, orange City Night Sky.
Trying not to blink. What am I looking at?

To All The Girls

He enters a black forest.
Perhaps because he tried to read Freud.
Narrow path. Some sort of enchantment.
Is he flying or falling?

A Red Heart Rises

over a suburban garden.

She lays a landscape A4 sheet in front of me.
For you, Daddy.

Treading On The Tail Of A Tiger

is a bit like tiptoeing
on the toes of a tyrannosaurus.

I wish I could choose