Granny's Place poetry in prose

Granny wiggled a little as she settled her hefty body into her over padded easy chair. Granny enjoyed her comfort and rest as she read her hand-worn Bible, and her paperback romance novels stacked in jumbled piles around her chair. At times, she delighted in brief visits from her rowdy grandchildren, playing and throwing toys, running through the cluttered house, generally making a nuisance of themselves, and finally getting on Granny's nerves. When Granny had had enough, she called their parents and told them to come and take her grandchildren home. Yet, while they were there, she managed to find some time to gather each one to her ample lap, lay their pretty heads against her faded granny gown, fold her fleshy arms around their tender bodies with a gentle hug, whisper sweet love notes to their tiny ears, and allow love to bloom in that plush easy chair like the red roses in Granny's front yard.

The Boy Fisherman

 The small boy swung his line and hook, and dropped it into the placid pond, spreading tiny ripples over its velvet surface. His gaunt face looked up from under his torn straw hat at the wide water before him crowded all around with a thick growth of verdant trees and underbrush. Dragonflies flitted over the green water and only the soft croaking of unseen frogs broke the silence. The solitude of this peaceful scene made the boy feel as if he had entered a piece of paradise, that nothing could ever go wrong in the world again.

The ragged boy pulled the end of his line up just enough to make the line taut. He used no cork on his line. He caught fish by feeling with his skinny fingers. He could detect the slightest jerk on his line, and when he did; he snapped the end of his cane pole up just enough to set the hook in the fishes' mouth. Then, he just pulled the flopping fish out of the water and swung it to his thin hands. He collected his fish by transferring them to another line in the water tied to a wooden stake he had pushed into the moist, black earth.

Toward noon, the smiling boy pulled his long, shiny string of fish from the water, threw them over his bony shoulder, and ambled along a narrow trail toward home. He had caught mostly half pound sun perch and an occasional catfish.

The dark trail followed the curve of the pond for a stretch, and as the boy trod along; he happened to pass a splendid fisherman equipped with an expensive rod and reel and a fancy, red tackle box. The boy could not help but notice that this opulent fisherman had caught no fish.

"That's quite a string of fish you got there boy," exclaimed the well-dressed, portly fisherman. He grinned but the boy could see the envy in his eyes.

"You just have to know where to fish and what bait to use," the boy retorted.

A flash of anger crossed the fancy fisherman's face, but he did not respond. He simply turned his empty gaze back toward his line in the water.

With his back a little straighter and his head held a little higher, the boy quickened his step along the leaf-strewn path as it turned from the plentiful pond toward his cozy home. Only he and his Godly mother were left of their family in their small house by a winding country road. Some nights, he and his weary, but prayerful, mother had gone to bed without supper; but tonight, this scruffy boy would provide a lavish feast of fried fish, and Ma would also cook some French fries and hush puppies.