In the Wake of Barnegat Bay

clamming

Clamming on the Barnegat Bay

Marsh grass swaying to summer’s breeze music,

Wafting smell of sulfur…cattail decay permeates the air,

Skeleton legged egrets skate over muck and mire,

Silently stalking, without trace or print,

Fisher of frog and killie and eel satiate the craw,

Atypical beauties gliding amongst driftwood and jellyfish.

Gulls chatter wakes the quiet of the rustling reeds,

Circling, cawing in haphazard patterns above the sea,

Groupies to fish laden boats anxious for port,

Unafraid…swooping to touch the hand that feeds,

Scraps of innards, heads, tails treats for the monochrome crew,

Relentless in their acrobatic aerial pursuit.

Sullen skies harvest chilly rains, whipping winds churn the bay to froth,

Whitecaps endlessly roll across turbulent waters,

Crashing to port and starboard in a symphony of wind-swept spray,

Biting hardened faces, skin soaked..raw with each pull of the rake and tong,

Muscle aches, such minute reward, so honorable the sacrifice,

For bushels of clams…the elusive cherry stone.

Brutality of summer’s heat nor winter’s cold deters,

Boats of wood, chipping and weathered, flat-bottom or “v”,

Designs dreamt in the mind of another century,

Purpose built, purpose born, rugged men, bred for the rigors,

Calloused, barnacle laden, weaned from the land, cast to the sea

Baymen one and all, men to their briny cores.

Bay of cedar and Atlantic salt, treacherous inlet throat,

Darkened by sources of origins mixed,

Nectar of life to fish and fowl, baymen and boater, lovers of marine,

Beauty whilst beast when stoked by storm,

Life giving…treacherous for the ignorant and uninitiated,

Wondrous, mysterious…Barnegat Bay.

~~ D. R. DiFrancesco ~~

* I grew up along the Barnegat Bay, in New Jersey and worked as a commercial clammer for a number of years.  This type of work is not easy by any stretch of the imagination, but it certainly was honest work and taught me the value of persistence.  This is an absolutely beautiful area to live in and now that I live in the desert, I realize how much I love and miss the bay and ocean.

Fisherman’s Welcome

Feather floating noiseless to the sand far below,

To rest on dunes erupting in granulated waves.

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Their spartan populous withdrawn by storm and tide,

Only to reappear like immigrants in distant lands.

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Screeching cries of gulls flock shatter silence,

Angels tipped in black searching for the days next meal.

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Insatiable appetite wills winged soldiers onward,

Scavenging for fish or for crab or for worm.

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Fisherman’s friends are the dunes and the gulls,

A beacon to the nearness of home.

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The boat is a shepherd towing gulls in it’s wake,

Swooping low to put eyes on the catch.

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Port is in sight, but this does not deter,

Showing neither fear of man or of sea.

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A nod of the head and a knowing smile shared,

Eases pain from their back breaking chores.

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Loved ones await braving inclement weather,

To welcome the unsung with open arms.

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The next home-bound crews will be greeted in like,

With the dunes and the gulls as their mates.

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This is how it must be and how it always has been,

For granted these men do not take.

~~ D. R. DiFrancesco ~~