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Gone Fishing

Gone Fishing


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Triple Crown Awards' 2017-2018 Gallery Honor

“Just the thing for readers with a burgeoning interest in poetry—or angling.”—Publishers Weekly

Nine-year-old Sam loves fishing with his dad. So when his pesky little sister, Lucy, horns in on their fishing trip, he’s none too pleased. All ends well in this winsome book of poems—each labeled with its proper poetic form. Together the poems build a dawn-to-dusk story of a father-son bond, of sibling harmony lost and found—and, most of all, of delicious anticipation. Charming line drawings animate the poetry with humor and drama, and the extensive Poet’s Tackle Box at the end makes this the perfect primer to hook aspiring poets of all ages.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780544439313
Publisher: HMH Books
Publication date: 03/24/2015
Pages: 128
Sales rank: 194,747
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 7.40(h) x 0.50(d)
Age Range: 6 - 9 Years

About the Author

Tamera Will Wissinger has fond memories of night-crawler hunting with her father before fishing trips. She splits her time between Florida and Chicago.

Matthew Cordell knows all about fishing trips from his South Carolina childhood. He lives with his family in Gurnee, Illinois. Visit his website at

Read an Excerpt



Tercet Variation

Dark night.


Dad and I hunt worms tonight.

Grass slick.

Worms thick.

Tiptoe near and grab them quick.

Hold firm.

They squirm.

Tug-o-war with earth and worm.


Worms galore.

Set our bucket near the door.

Next day.

No delay.

Look out, fish — we’re on our way!



Free Verse Poem


For fishing tomorrow

it’s just us two.

Not Mom, not Grandpa,

not Lucy.

It’ll be like playing catch or

painting the garage.

Just Dad and me.




Switcheroo Poem


I love my fishing tackle box — it’s green and blue and gold.

My grandpa gave it to me when I wasn’t very old.

I need to get it ready for tomorrow at the lake.

We’re leaving in the morning just as soon as we’re awake.

One tiny click and now my treasure chest is open wide.

A shelf with lots of little spaces holds my gear inside.

My silver sinkers, wiggle worms, my floating frogs, my line.

My shiny spinner lures, my bobbers, hooks—there’re 29.

The shelf is on a hinge—it hides my secret space below.

It’s where I keep my special treasures out of sight—OH NO!


. . . Where’s my compass?

Where’s my map?

Where’s my lucky fishing cap?

Where’s my stringer?

Something’s wrong!

This princess doll does not belong!

. . . What is this?

A throne?

A crown?

A polka-dotted circus clown?

A tiny bottle of perfume?


I smell Lucy in my room!



Dramatic Poem for One, Quatrains

Oh, Sam—you’re here. Come on, let’s play!

I’m fishing for pretend tonight.

It’s fun to use your gear this way.

Hold on, I think I have a bite.

Your map’s a paper fishing boat.

Your compass is the steering wheel.

I think our boat could really float.

It would be fun to fish for real.

Your stringer makes a tiny lake.

I didn’t crumple up your map.

Your compass works—it didn’t break.

I sure do like your fishing cap.

I didn’t snoop—I made a trade.

Stay here, sit down, don’t go away.

Don’t you like the boat I made?

Your fishing stuff is fun—come play!

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