The Last Cast

It may come as a surprise to many of you that despite our rough exteriors, tough edges, and anti-social demeanor, we are poets at heart. But, of course, a fisherman has to be. After all, a fisherman is really a hopeless romantic who is incidentally full of hope and determination and passion. Under all that gear, mud, scars, and cigar smoke are two simple poets. Searching for the greatest fish. Casting the perfect cast. Hoping until all hope on this watery world has run out and all that is left is a rod and a cubs hat lying upon some stone in the dessert. And so, we would like to debut a poem about the possibility of never fishing again. You may be asking yourself, why would the Riverbums write a poem about the Last Cast? A poem that inevitably sums up the feeling of what your last cast may feel like. That feeling of never being able to fish again.

Therefore, we would like you to close your eyes (after you read this of course) and imagine you have been in a wheel chair your whole life. God comes down and lays his hand on your shoulder and says, "My child, I know you have been crippled your whole life and will never walk again. But I am going to grant you a minute. A minute to use your legs. To be free." After doing so, you stand and realize you have 59 seconds left. Do you just stand there? No, you RUN! As fast as you can, as far as you can. All the while soaking in the glory of the moment. Knowing that in just a few seconds you will fall down and be crippled again. But, you do not waste that moment. You live it, until you cannot live it, anymore. For we never know which cast is our last. Death is inevitable, accidents are possible, and old age sucks. But, we can always savor that last cast...is this my last cast?...or is this my last cast?

The Last Cast

Written by: Dad

Each pressing feeling of fall, the colors now reminiscent

of pursuing winters, nurtures my growing suspicions.

The sharp reminder of fewer catches brought by cooling waters,

and colder winds with natures submissions.

Once, one spring’s anticipation now looms as frosty fears.

Shall my feathered tackle now be found of

thirst and coated dust and distant years?

Will it flow? Shall the fish swim or soar without me?

Could this be, must it be, as it shall be, one day past?

Oh that final flip, jerk n spin.

Will I ever know…or just remember,

that last cast?

 

Until next year, we'll see ya on the other side of the river.  We hope!

Cast Away,

AC & Dad