Published On: Fri, May 6th, 2011

Nothing fishy about this finny, poetic offering

By: Michael Gora

As one of the original columnists of The Boca Raton Tribune, I’m always looking for ways to improve this newspaper.   We have some great columnists, but there are two types of columns that we do not have, that I would enjoy reading:  A “Fishing Column”, and a “Poetry Corner”.

As a message to our publisher and editor, I have attached the world’s first, combo “Fishing/Poetry Corner.”   Divorce Florida Style shall return next week.


Micheal H. Gora

Deerfield Pier

By Michael Gora


Early morning Deerfield Pier,

Overnighters zonked, asleep on benches,

Or in K-Mart folding chairs,

Belief that night fishing slams, like religion,

Takes faith, and luck;

The truth, the big fish come, when the little come first,

You gotta eat, they gotta eat more, their body weight twice a day,

They never sleep all ways move, and breathe water,

Ever diligent by design, they know, as do smart humans,

Eat or be eaten.


Snook, the prize that’s sought, in season just today,

Draws pros and amateurs to Florida’s east coast from Jax

To Keys, on bridge, spillway, inlet and Pier.

Snook eat, when they eat, when the water temp is right and the moon or sun is bright,

And the little fish are so thick they bite a shiny stick, with hooks.


Got most on big live shrimp, best found up north,

But Deerfield dawn today, tifling a yawn, looking through remaining night,

To catch the shapes in flight, and looking for the big fish feast, the

bait, sardines, BJ’s, and the best, mullet juvies, among the rest,

Where are they?

From northeast, I finally see the birds above the bait, avenging clouds of

Hunger, thirst, dive bombing constantly in search of that which the big

fish seek.

And in the roiling surf beneath, approaching pier come pods of

bait and fish so big a cry goes out from every mouth, “Here they

come,” as bait and line are thrown.


First the Snook, like silver racing cars, and from the side the bull sized Jacks,

Coordinated their attacks, and lines of one and all go tight, and fights break

Out on left and right, and Jacks come flying over head, and my line too

Has on a match, I pray for Snook that tasty bite, for Jacks you see will fight

And fight, but never will they test my bite.


The herd marched on, down the coast, and then began the time to boast

Of numbers caught, and size of prize, the deck is covered with their blood,

and ours, but Jacks, no better was the cry, the sly Snook made it cleanly

By the lines and sinkers in their way and ate themselves to somewhere

else, while distracted, we were, snookered, again.


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