Invitation to submit poetry.

We'd like to invite anyone reading here to submit poems for posting. You may send your poems to Frank Vehafric at fvehafric@comcast.net.

If you submit a poem or two and are interested in having direct posting privileges as a blog team member, simply ask, and it shall be done.

Fishing The Lower Deschutes

Fishing the lower Deschutes
The canyon green with sage
And mock orange
The river, glassy and dark
At the fly shop in Maupin
They don’t like the color
Of the water this week, and it’s true
We don’t catch fish
I try three or four flies
Stoneflies, and a few Dave tells me to use
But I can’t name
I’m learning how to cast
Happy to get the fly on the water
Instead of in the trees
Once, just shaking out my line
The fly dropped near the bank
And I got my only good strike of the day
But I was so unprepared
He was off the hook before I caught my breath
We missed the salmonfly hatch by about a week
And the May flies were just coming on
I should have been nymphing
But dry flies float and I watch them on the current
And the fish strike where you can see them
The river is glassy and dark
Like I said
Who knows what goes on down there?
When we’re done for the day
We fix steak and baked beans
After dinner, Dave has a rye on ice
I can smell the whiskey across the fire
Amber, in the glass
Dark, like the river


by Frank Vehafric

Kenai River in July

Side by side we stand, my brother and I,
waist-deep in our Gore-Tex chest waders;

Rushing waters stacked fin-to-fin with hordes of teeming salmon,
shoreline stacked elbow-to-elbow with well-equipped, excited fishermen,

Casting brightly-colored fly upon fly upon fly
to the slow-moving mass of flesh making its way upriver.

Homeward they migrate, unwavering in their determination,
past the open mouths of bears, the sharp talons of swooping eagles,
and the millions of hopeful hooks,

Oblivious to our presence and to the egg-eating rainbow trout
that follow patiently behind them on their pre-programmed pilgrimage.

A sudden flash of silver and my rod doubles;
“Fish on!” I shout, and the sea of fishermen parts to give way to the battle.

Beneath the surface, if fish could talk,
mine would be yelling “Human on!”
as his finned friends gathered ‘round to watch.

Humored by my efforts yet worried nonetheless,
he makes a valiant run, ripping the backing off my reel;
first a bee-line to deeper waters, then a powerful thrust
followed by aerial acrobatics and violent shaking.

Still unable to dislodge the fly from his mouth,
he realizes that this is no game, that his adversary is serious;
launched by a powerful tail,
he rockets skyward once again,
glaring defiantly as if to say “bring it on.”

Engaged in a battle of wits and brute strength,
this handsome sockeye and I fight it out.

No wonder they call it “combat fishing,” I think to myself,
perverting the meaning of the phrase.

“Amateur!” is all the fish can think to say,
with mocking distain for my lack of prowess at this new game,

As if my knuckles, bleeding from the fast-spinning reel handle
and my excited cries of “Holy %&@$#, get the net!” didn’t give me away.

But the experienced fly-fishermen who surround me are gracious,
and perhaps even a bit jealous -
as I finally land the shimmering, silvery eleven-pound sockeye.

If not for brother, older-wiser,
master of the art of fly-fishing and expert timer of the salmon runs,
we would not be here -
snow-capped mountains
reflecting on the waters of the vast Kenai,

Catching one magnificent, muscular salmon
and hard-fighting pink luminescent rainbow after another,
and already planning our next Alaska adventure.

-Paul Heldenbrand