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Best Elk Poems | Poetry

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The Best Elk Poems

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Crying River

Crying River (The Untold Ballad) 

Undercover waters of rain dash
Cold children, no smiling splash
Tragic sobs, epic force of the mountain rain
Beautiful as it may seem -shallow basin 

She cries a tune, 
Mocking the Maple lands, a beautiful tune
Crooked Cornwall, she steams with the moon
Oceanic dreams, monsoon season, she swoon's
Frozen, dead, ice skating rink
Her wind, Pretty Chains O Lake 
Wet and Wild, the Elk drinks from her garden
Water falls from the lids of Jordan
Beautiful as it may seem with open curtain

When the ocean succeeds away from the sea
She's wide awake during winter's rain and breeze
Lost in the mud's of Bellaire's heartache,
River Blues, ice cold snap, bayou stirring up
Racing rivers crying by the western gutter
Silent, bells chime in the Black Mallard waters
Streams, blowing and drying dew droplets
Little rapid tears, everything spotless
Sugar, Swan waves down by Devils Creek
Listen to the thunder bay rolling deep
Beautiful as it may seem, she weeps

A northern world with streaks of falling rain
Pretty running white hair pane
A weather vane, snow dangles above her domain 
Beautiful crying winds
In the Eyes of Michigan


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014

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Campfire and Tall Tales

Campfire And Tall Tails Friends and sons come walking into the campsite all dress in camo from their long day’s hunt Around the crackling campfire, they all gather and sat to warm their much-needed cold wet bodies Keeping warm with a bottle of Jack Daniels or Black Velvet, and a can of Mountain Dew being passed around Adding more wood to the campfire so it would last through the night With the sons poking sticks into the embers and watching the flame spark, pop, and dance in their sight, while others roast marshmallows at the end of their sticks The men are fixing their evening meal for all to feast on They all gather around the campfire and sit, Teasing and telling stories of their day’s adventure out in the woods, Of a long, exhausting hike around the mountain, With a vision of elk with a large crown of horns The stories are told big and small of the one they saw and had in their cross hairs, but a calf with its mother who walked in front spoiling their shot Or a bee that stung their hand when they were ready to pull the trigger When they‘re all done, they crawl into their sleeping bags so they can do it all over again the next day, Watching the campfire and teasing and telling their stories 10/29/2014

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2014

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One Winter's Night

I stood on the balcony one night,
The land was bathed in luminous light,
The air was filled with winter's chill,
Frost had covered the window sill.

I stared into the sky above,
My heart had swelled full of love,
The galaxy glowed with bright stars,
Lights so heavenly, from afar.

The night shone bright on every hill,
Yet, everything was quiet and still,
Through the valley no wind did blow,
The little village blanketed in snow.

What joy the Yule is going to bring,
At the break of dawn, the town will sing,
Making this, one eve to remember,
On one magical night of December.

But, in this fantasy land it is late,
And this seasonable panorama is great,
I want to take this long walk alone,
Through unchanging scenery, I wander from home.

I'll take a candle to light my way,
Upon the ice, I could walk until day,
I made it up a deep, glittering bank,
In the glistening snowflakes, my feet sank.

A million diamonds now covered the land,
I pulled my mittens on, over my hands,
The snow could never melt in this cold,
The Northern degrees of stories once told.

I will enjoy the winter as in days of old,
The still photographs of the past unfold,
A thermometer shows the drop of degrees,
The thaw of the snow I hope not to see.

Mirrored is my reflection along the river,
Quartz crystals of ice, makes me shiver,
Icicles hang from a cabin, near the woods,
Silently, wolves and elk in the forest, stood.

Reindeer and rabbits run through the snow,
A memorable sight in the lovely moon's glow,
An owl calls out from high in a tree,
Imagine all this, as a keepsake to see.

Tomorrow the snow will make the children sing,
To the hills, a toboggan they will bring,
Soon, we will hear his sleigh bells ring,
And, all the Christmas bells will be jingling!

Written by : Kelly Deschler
For Leonora Galinta's contest - Christmas Epic

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

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Hares Hill

Posting early on a dozing suburban 
Mays warming morning rises and 
Gently wakes.
The dewy hares move through the
Earthy till,
Small dry twigs the nesting pigeons

Blue-high sky clear as an Ocean
Layers the heat upon red brick 
Roads built over stubbled tracts
Deeply rutted from the ploughs
Where once great fields of swaying

Covered by neat gardens of square 
where blackbirds scold and tumble 
Between the breeze;
Rushing madly through the tangled,
Variegated fauna,
Dashing around lines of neatly 
Planted trees.

Quietly strolling the waking hour 
Comes brightly,
Tripping like the splashing, pebble
Washed stream:
Wistfully recalling the woodsman, 
Elk, and otter,
As it flows away,
Forever lost in dreams.

Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014

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In The Forest Den

Deep in the Canadian wilderness she gave birth to four pups,
     It was a large dug out hole at the base of a tangled tree;
Her mate for life was out hunting with the pack for deer or elk,
          Some wolves remained to protect and guard her.

She was a mottled grey and resembled a domestic dog,
     Perhaps a german shepherd or a sled dog but much bigger;
Her paws were huge and she had thick fur to protect her in the cold
          But she was so gentle with the pups snuggling them.

As dusk fell she heard her mate's mournful howls in the distance,
     She knew his howls, growls and barks from all others;
They were mated for life and this was their first litter of pups,
          The pups were blind and defenceless without her.

The pack had been more than thirty-eight wolves until recently,
     But farmers had trapped, shot and poisoned many in fear;
And trappers had killed others for their beautiful thick fur,
         So these pups were so important to the packs future.

And then he was there in the den with her and nuzzled her neck,
    He was taller than she and stronger a truly majestic creature;
Crouching with his ears straightened his facial expression was love,
         She moved over so he could join them and all was peace.

                                           In the forest den . . .

April 1, 2015


Submitted to the contest, 100 In A Row - 5
sponsor, PD

Seventh Place 

Written for the contest, Canis Lupus the Wolf, 
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton

First Place

Copyright © Dear Heart | Year Posted 2015

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Colorado Harvest Moon

A brilliant harvest moon hangs beneath the ebon Colorado sky.
Scudding clouds dare not darken its lustrous glow - tho' they often try!
Silhouetted against the moon are geese winging to warmer destinations,
Mysteriously guided by That Master Compass in perfect V formations!

The moon spreads a coat of silver on lakes and rushing streams below.
Yonder, majestic Pikes Peak gleams with a crown of freshly fallen snow!
White tail deer peer shyly from the shadows of golden aspen groves.
Magnificent elk graze in yon valley 'neath the harvest moon in droves!

Lovers, young and old are spellbound by the harvest moonlight's trance.
Mr. Moon has a special knack for setting the tone for love and romance!
They hold hands strolling along moonlit trails to reminisce and dream,
Their glowing faces brightened by the harvest moon's mellow beam!

Families bundle up against the chill to enjoy hay rides and wiener roasts,
And toast marshmallows over roaring fires, telling tales of scary ghosts!
Wizened "hooty" owls emit their throaty moans adding to the eerie scene!
The moon beams benignly o'er Colorful Colorado giving to all a sheen!

When autumn winds begin to blow and trees stand bare and so austere,
We welcome the warming glow of the harvest moon in our hemisphere!
Alas, tho' the harvest moon graces our skies only in the autumn of the year,
The Creator will delight us again come next October - that you need not fear!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

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My feet are cold; my tiredness lingers;
My back aches from stooping so low.
Dampened by the frigid water below,
I breathed warmth into my numbing fingers.
Again, I dipped my shovel into the coarse gravel
Of the stream dredging up with a gurgle
A mixture of pebbles and sand;
Into a bucket I poured it, firsthand.
In this wilderness I'm not alone, there's bear.
Mindful I am of the sounds around me;
A churning stream, rustling leaves, an elk groan,
Snapping twigs, anything that would put a scare
Or raise my hair. I looked around for a tree,
Somewhere to flee before darkness set in.
Not far from here, I spied a log cabin.
Into this stronghold I placed my supplies;
Nature's calm was just a disguise.
I latched its massive door; and bolted each shutter.
In its stone hearth, I started a fire;
Basking in its warmth worries melted like butter.
Outside, darkness enveloped the cabin;
Strong claws raked its walls peeling away its skin;
Relentless growling resonated through the dusty din.
Suddenly, I awoke huddled next to a glowing flashlight.
Shivering against the muddy walls of a beaver's lodge, 
I could hear the bear feverishly ripping 
Through the muddy grass, and the disjointed timbers 
Above me. Deep beneath the surface darkness arrived
Just, as my flashlight flickered, then died.

Copyright © Jonathan Bellmann | Year Posted 2012

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Warrior's Sorrow

When I sit my horse on hilltops, I find,
I cannot see the buffalo no more.
As whites have come and made the plains unkind.
Soiled all wondrous things I saw before.

For many winter's, warrior's sustained.
Freed our people to seek warmer winds,
And moved as clouds before coming rain.
To share Mother Earth with our naked skins.

Clouds dark, grow higher than eagle's wings,
As we feel the coming depth of sorrow.
Each moon we see dark smoke and what it brings,
Cries and death songs will echo tomorrow.

We join in ghost dance with its paint of black,
And seek visions from warrior ghosts of old.
We hear the iron horse on its metal track,
And know its fiery heart is burning cold.

Whites who come take each mountain they climb
While bones from buffalo and elk grow deep
Warrior's blood will  know the end of time.
Mothers who suckled us with milk, shall weep.

Copyright © Frederic Parker | Year Posted 2015

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A Deadly pack

The restless wolves begin to howl
A rallying call for the hunt
Watching closely,  ravens caw
As hungry wolves growl

Then the pack starts off in a trot
As the alpha male leads the  lot
The hunt is on, the ravens follow
Hoping for some scraps to swallow

The elks in the distance start to run
 But wolves can run all day
A  nearby river glistens in the sun
A chance for the elk to swim away

But gray wolves are excellent swimmers too
And  they pursue their prey to the other side
The elk, now tired begin to slow
And powerful jaws deliver the death blow

The wolves now feast on their new kill
Supreme hunters of the plains
The ravens too get their fill
 As Canis Lupus howls again


Copyright © Joseph May | Year Posted 2015

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Autumn Stroll

A woodland path in the dappled sun, hushed and quiet!
My soul is gratified as I meander midst its colorful riot!
Another glorious autumn has burst forth in all its splendor!
The Creator displays a vista no mere artist would dare render!

Gentle zephyrs stir eddies of colorful leaves along the way.
A myriad of wild flowers greet me with their brilliant display.
Trees that a short while ago offered welcome summer shade,
Now lift barren arms as if in prayer sans their leaves of jade.

Not a cloud mars the pristine blue of the Colorado sky.
A skein of geese wing southward sounding their plaintive cry.
Stately Colorado spruce 'neath which deer now gambol and browse,
Will soon have garlands of snow adorning their spreading boughs.

The shrill blare of an elk startles me from my reverie,
As he calls for a mate with his ever sovereign plea.
I pause on a nearby knoll to view yon shimmering lake,
Teeming with graceful ducks, guarded by a magnificent drake!

Foolish poets and artists have strived to portray each season.
They have tried and failed because of a very real reason.
Only He Who is the Master Artist and ruler over all,
Will ordain the beauty of the seasons, especially the exquisite fall!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011

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Listen to poem:
VOICE:  Ahmad Razvi

I write a few words every day A few words Sometimes not even words Just to remember what it feels like Elk ilk This is a pen This is paper These are little drawings Raw wings Only a few you can arrange and rearrange Rear gear and then the meaning changes It's a miracle Clam realm I write some of them To not forget Forge fog I arrange name mane If I don't write I might forget my name. If I forget my name Forge my poetry Pry me open Pen my words Worthy am I Write my me. *** January 14, 2017

Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017

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Where The Antelope (Used To) Play

Where the antelope used to play is now shopping malls and plats.
Man in his insatiable greed has encroached upon its ancient habitats.
Not so very long ago on the plains just a few miles out of town,
Were herds of these graceful creatures that now have dwindled down.

Also, pushed from the verdant plains are the mighty buffalo,
That grazed upon the lush, green grasses not so very long ago.
Upon these sacred grazing grounds are now concrete parking lots,
And densely cluttered cookie-cutter houses on quarter-acre plots.

Where have all the magnificent wild turkeys gone,
That used to preen and strut about at the break of dawn?
Even the lowly prairie dogs, their burrows they've had to flee,
To accommodate covetous developers who've gone on a building spree.

Of the wily fox and skulking coyote, there are fewer to be seen.
They were forced from their hunting grounds and have fled the scene.
Desperate flocks of grouse and pheasant have also taken flight,
To raise their young elsewhere, escaping mans' spreading blight.

Deer and elk that once peered shyly from almost every copse;
Their environs now occupied and overrun with tacky shops.
'Twould be novel if man would recall that these creatures were here first,
And consider them when pursuing their unquenchable expansion thirst!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2010

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The Black Hills wept for Thee

The Black Hills wept for Thee

East of the Black Hills of South Dakota, 
On the Pine Ridge Reservation,
Live a proud tribe of Oglala Lakota. 
Part of the Great Sioux Nation,

On saddled chargers rode half the Regiment,
of the Seventh Cavalry.
A tune they played on behalf of the Garryowen, 
was such a sight to see.

While climbing through Prickly pines, they spied,
near the summit of Porcupine Butte. 
Spotted Elk with Hunkpapa Lakota tribe, 
the chief of the Minneconjou.

Five miles West through the cold day they walked,  
the Lakota and soldiers of the Seventh, 
Where Wounded Knee creek's icy waters balked,  
between hell and heaven.
The Colonel ordered all of the tribe's rifles confiscated,  
while the braves danced the ghost dance.
For rumor had spread of a new religion, long awaited,   
that would turn the tide of chance.

Then suddenly came the report of rifles fired,   
as the women and children fled to a ravine.  
From the heights the thunder of cannon, now inspired,
close quarter fighting and lead, now convened.
Who knows where Providence went,
on that cold December morning.
Both guilty and innocent, now spent,
lay dead with little warning.

Bodies of the fallen now sprawled across the snowy plains, 
with faces frozen in a moment of violence.
One mass grave with all, is all that remains, 
of tears and laughter forever silenced.      

In the days that followed medals were pinned to chests,
who proclaimed victoriously.
Though God only knows why, ignoble and divest,
life taken in vain, ingloriously.

In the shadow of the land of Sitting Bull,
was now told the tragic story.  
Passed down from Mother to Daughter were recounted,
days of lost glory. 

“Let us put our minds together to see what life we can make for our children.” 
-Sitting Bull

Copyright © Quoth TheRaven | Year Posted 2018

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Back There

What is man that he should make much of his years though they bend him like a heavy snow? - Black Elk

     As we look back 
through the prism 
    we have built
     we take not of what 
happened before darkness 
     ends the tale forever
Catching a glimpse
     of almost - forgotten years 
which have passed quickly, 
   waves striking an ever changing shoreline
   As we gaze through this 
    we take note of 
We've learned much 
in the crucible of experience
   An uneasy time 
        awaits us
Letting the vapors of night
      surround us 
we find that shadows 
speak for themselves 
something within us 
    still dares to ask
questions with no answers

Copyright © Matthew Anish | Year Posted 2011

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Among Elk

Up before dawn, a feeling has drawn 
You into the mountain and trees.
Till the silence within, upon the whispering wind
A chime of bugles tease the breeze.
That majestic call, that is heard each fall
Since before our forefathers birth
And for those who take time, through rim rocks and pine
Listen and value their worth.

Each note high and low as each bugle ballad goes,
No two ever the same
They are all unique and if a chance to critique
Upon our hearts they claim.
We are put into state and can hardly wait
For the dawn of the upcoming morn
To glimpse hoof print in stride or a patch of hide
Or a tip of antler horn.
Just out of reach, lessons he’ll teach to those who play the game,
The tension and pull of a phantom bull, a soul never to tame.
While waiting and yearning, eyes straining, ears burning, 
Ringing till you can’t hear a thing,
To early to late, can’t hardly wait,
Patience like a bee sting.

Like a ghost in the night they filter through site
They tease and bugle and  brag,
As tell tale sign, weave and wind
Through timber, rocks and crags
Where a sapling tree, used to be
Now a twig broke scarred and torn
Velvet left there and shed of hair 
To tell the rut has been born.
Strong elk scent, down wind is sent
 From their bedded layer    
They are up once again and start to transcend 
 Letting us know they were there.
A little to late can change a state
Hopes almost fell,
But all rise again when a bugle begins
For among elk, we dwell.

Copyright © A. Kathy Moss | Year Posted 2005

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Is it stress

Is it stress,
or loss, despair and survival
we must discuss.
                        Stress is just the symptom
of a universe intent to destroy the individual
before it births new life. It sends the dogs
after us, after the holocaust, in the tattered ruins
of our city.
                There is this despair and expectation
of destruction, but somewhere there is still also
simple sky blue,
flowers among railroad ties,
true love between sexual partners.

Is it sex,
or love, companionship and reliableness
we must expect.
                        Sex, nothing but laying my head
at your ****, can interest me sometimes. Your legs
lead to a pleasure that seems infinite and smells
            So there is this tenderness, a connection
like a suction to the biological that is ephemeral
as snow on the ground,
one elk in aspen,
death and nothing less.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015

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Seashells By The Seashore

A_Abalone by the sea floats to shore then adored
B_Bonnets of the world make my heart unfurl surely not bored

C_Conch alive how their song can jive
D_Dove Shell rings my bell not like bee hive

E_Egg Shell poached with the quail
F_Flamingo Tongue_Cyphoma Gibbosum lives by Opposum Dale

G_Goblet of gold stories of you many which are untold
H_Helmet of the sea seahorses shield from Stingrays stinging bee hold

I_Irish Baking Dish let's fix those Tuna Fish
J_Janthina what a shell purple with great knish

K_King's Crown Shell not on the shore unless mangrove nearby
L_Limpet shell star colored like stars in the universe that fly

M_Money Cowrie_Cypraea moneta_once used for money 
N_Nutmeg Shell_Cancellaria Reticulata it's articulata, honey

O_Ostrich Foot Sea Shell looking like a spiraling universe
P_ Purple Turritella spiraling like universe in color submerse

Q_Quest on seeking shells, name it quit or quint and be different
R_Red Moon Sea Shell similar to the clam but red color current

S_Starfish decorates earth's seas
T_Tiger Moon those cat's stripes I see

U_Umbilical Egg Cowrice with your spots
V_Veluntina with your pink hew but not dots

W_Whelk definitely not a woods roaming Elk
X_Xenophoridae shells so varied not spelk

Y_Yellow Helmet exotic shell
Z_Zesty be one's hunt and name a shell Zell...

Shells by the sea shore, fun to find and collect galore
Can you name them all now or do you need to learn more?

Written: March 03,2013

Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest:ABC/Any topic
**I am a nearly seventy year old mother, grandmother, and great grandmother..I enjoy going to the seashore for vacation..I have always enjoyed picking up seashells and wondered if they all had names..Well, there are over 15,000 different kind of sea creatures that live in those shells and some have not been named..

You've got to be kidding

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2013

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                         I ramble and marvel on the alluring paradise I reside
                    Tall green pine trees spear to reach to the heavens gratified
                         A Few scattered pine that have lost the will to survive   
                      Sounds of the wildlife the forest obscures and they thrive
   The wondrous mountain range with tall timber surrounds me, enticing to explore
                Lush green, brown grass and enchanting flowers in bloom I spoor
           The crystal clear rivers and ponds stocked with a rainbow of fish in sight
                     The clear blue sky with scattered clouds and birds in flight
                  Through the high brush, I saunter enjoying my paradise, below
                    I catch sight of a couple, midway in a wallow in the meadow
                                           Feasting on salal and brush

                                              I rush to the underbrush
         At a distance I hear the bugle of an old elk calling and gathering his harem
              I wonder if I should challenge the old elk but his way up on the rim

                                                    By: Eve Roper

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2015

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Ode to Spring

Fair Spring, a lady, palely loitering,
    Whose brow is decked with flowers and with dew,
Whose bosom births youth’s essence which does bring
    Unto the barren glades, a glory, new,
    Where have you been for every heart had pinéd without you?
Where have you been, when winter with its shroud
    Had wrapped the world with thorns of frost and snow,
And when the strength of Cheimon’s hoary cloud
    Had swallowed worlds and bound from head to toe
    Each aging tree, and froze the rivers which once, swift, did flow?
Fair spring, I’ve grieved and skulked in mortal grief,
    And wept for endless days. I craved your breath
To make once lively every faded leaf,
    And save the sprightly buds from early death,
    And blossom effervescent flowers from the earth, beneath.
And birth sweet fruits, ripe with rich, temp’rate blood,
    And kiss the earth’s wan cheek and ever store
With ripeness every stalk and shoot and bud
    And with pure sweetness every apple’s core,
    And turn to foaming bubbles and bright verdure, winter’s hoar.
The spirits of the worms all beam with pride,
    And all the swift-heeled elk run round the leas,
And mid the blossoms, nightingales hide,
    And sing a tune that gently, long the breeze,
    Wafts through and through: an ode to you, your beauty, ne’er to cease.
Oh, spring, at last, I bear a mighty beam
    For seeing your first budded rays, which bring
Upon the glades, gold wealth and honeyed dream.
    At last, the winter fled upon his wing
    In fright of all your powers, for you came, at last, fair spring!

© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov

Copyright © Gleb Zavlanov | Year Posted 2014

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Oregon Coast Vacation

Oregon Coast Vacation My heart yearns for a place of peaceful desire A place where the impulse of adventure will entice Florence, Newport, and Yachats Oregon Coast where the tall pine grow Where rivers and ocean are turquoise gradient of paradise A place where the impulse of adventure will entice Camping, hiking, dune riding, and sightseeing bringing you back to childhood Where rivers and ocean are turquoise gradient of paradise The gentle swells of the waves rise and fall; smells of brine and wet-wood Camping, hiking, dune riding, and sightseeing bringing you back to childhood Cool twilight of the day fades drawing shadows obscured by trees The gentle swells of the waves rise and fall; smells of brine and wet-wood A lovely quiet haven for elk, deer, bear, owls, pelicans, and sea lions Cool twilight of the day fades drawing shadows obscured by trees As we gaze up towards the universe twilight; kisses settling in with tranquility A lovely quiet haven for elk, deer, bear, owls, pelicans, and sea lions Could not deny ourselves the intervention with nature’s beauty As we gaze up towards the universe twilight; kisses settling in with tranquility Florence, Newport, and Yachats Oregon Coast where the tall pine grow Could not deny ourselves the intervention with nature’s beauty My heart yearns for a place of peaceful desire 2/17/2016

Copyright © Eve Roper | Year Posted 2016

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Under the sufrace
a Fall stream elk hair caddis erupts
Fish leaps, ripples again

Copyright © Shawn Sackman | Year Posted 2009

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Soul Stance River - 3

Night one on the new river, the campfire is spirited
and the future appears hospitable,
everyone has their rations, everybody is resting their pride
for on an expedition epic to each man and for a republic as well
souls must stand sober to undomesticated circumstance and calamity's call,
Dickson and Flyod are on watch duty tonight, in the elms they sit and listen,
disaster and death demand our respect, the mission necessitates that we be prey,
I trust that Sea Man, my Newfoundland dog will be watching them,
with his final moments of strength before sleep Clark, as cartographer
has begun making his meticulous map in the mild candle light,
the compasses look like brass arrows 
aimed into a sketch of ghostly renaissance landscape,
as my mind begins to collapse into the corners of subconscious creation
I ruminate on the journey of Marco Polo, his reception into the court of Kubla Khan
exotic enlightenment exchanged between the tapestries of curious threats
and the gravity of Indian relations pulls my attention within the sphere of brute diplomacy, 

For several days I've been hiking the interior woodlands
alternating the cohort daily to provide total exercise, to subdue monotony
and also to perpetuate the fearless fascination that they'll need
to revere the suffering and ensuing success of the mission,
it is not unusual for us to hike 40 miles a day,  our Kentucky rifles and senses clean
rendezvouing with the crew and camp near dusk delivering game, grunge and odd wonders,
we are all deft huntsmen, in the east hunting was a passion as well as a necessity
all of the recruits are outdoorsman,  tough, roudey and rude but also smart as prarie hawks
Clark and I are Virginian Gentleman,  prepared to kill with cause and to lead with clear authority,
it is crucial that we supplement the keelboat's food provisions
with fresh meat, fruits and vegetables whenever feasible,
on board there are tons of soup, pork, cormeal, flour, beans, salt, pepper and lard,
many barrels of whiskey have been brought along for emotional nourishment and as gift,
every evening each man receives his four ounces, and every night they absorb the gruel of toil,
this afternoon I was surveying the land for agricultural fitness
and collecting botanical specimens such as the dogtooth violet, dovesfoot and cowslip flowers
Peter Cruzzatte, the best big game tracker of the bunch
shot and field dressed two meaty deer and a fat elk,
he is stealth as sin in the Sunday wind, our bellies thank him,
no natives have been seen yet,
while observing and hunting we have found thin trails
that simply lead into quiet expanses,
this tighens the nerves a bit
we are anxious to establish affable feelings with the numerous tribes, especially the Sioux,
the English trapper Bobcat Pendleton whom we met two days ago
said that the Yankton Sioux held territory about two hundred miles up river,
he also indifated that the Sioux weren't skin dressers
that they'd play hard,
he said the Sioux Nation weren't interested in speeches and medals,
they would demand tribute,
beads, amo, whiskey, tobacco, 
Clark and I are prepared to impress, one way or the other,
tonight the river is lying still, like a woman with a wish in her heart,
the moon is high and golden plump, nestled in a ripple of smokey clouds,


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015

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The Mountains

The wooded path came to an end
Next to a sparkling pool
The water deep and clear as glass
And icy, icy cool

I looked to see the waters source
When looking up I found
The crystal waters, from snowy peaks 
Made hardly an audible sound

Amazed that standing before my eyes
Was a monolith in the sky
The hugeness of its mammoth rocks
A miracle of time gone by

The covered peaks of the mountain height
Raked the merciless white washed sky
The cool gurgling current was leading the pond
Through a peaceful meadow nearby 

The verdant green of the valley floor
Gave sanctuary to the elk and deer
And they grazed in luxurious abundance
Content, without a fear

With the waters murmuring over well worn stones
I heard a plaintive song
The winds that blow through the crevices above
Makes music all day long

Then from a craggy precipice
A high pitched wailing call
Like a mother cougars' maternal sound
Announcing her new cub to all

What a beautiful world, everything seems good
My day has been truly blessed
From a morning walk into the wooded hills
To an unending wilderness!

I slowly walked on a winding path
Through a meadow of flowers knee high
And the sun beyond a far off hill
Was making colors in the sky

Eternally grateful I turned and looked back
Some clouds now covered its height
The rays of the sun produced a buttering glow
As daylight surrendered to night.

Copyright © George D. Miller | Year Posted 2015

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Native American collage

Native American collage

Traditional tribals that followed Sioux religion,
Had spiritual beliefs
performed controversial dance ceremonies,
Waken- the great spirit
was one universal source,
Mother Earth birthed all
animals, plants and humans,
Black Elk sheltered all,
The sacred hoop said unity,
Circles symbolised oneness,

Invisible Great spirit was Sioux God,
Thunderbird powerful spirit of sky,
Underwater spirits that controlled all commons,

Humans wanted to communicate,
Shamanic practices 
to interpret dreams and trances,
Performed rituals for vision,
With visions and dreams
they could talk to spirits,

Native Americans 
far more believed in,
Death and rebirth,
Curiosity on afterlife
a human's breath,

Native American collage,
Is all that's holy and mysterious !!

Written Sept 4th, 2015
For contest by Frank Herrara

Interesting to note that American govt. Banned their practises in 1800, still we are trying to solve this puzzle of life and afterlife- through now called science.

Copyright © Dr. Upma A. Sharma | Year Posted 2015

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Nature's Symphony

I needn't don a tuxedo nor pay a dime to enjoy a pleasing symphony!
In my own back yard or lying abed at night I hear nature's harmony!
The rolling bass of thunder, the strobe-bright lightning on a stormy night,
Plus the rain pelting my windowpane, anoint me with pure delight!

A chorus of crickets in the holly bush lull me to sleep in Morpheus's arms.
I'm awakened at dawn by choirs of robins, not by strident clock alarms!
The vagabond winds soughing through the ponderosa pine join the recital.
Cicadas add a blend of percussion with castanet-like rhythm so very vital!

A quartet of mourning doves serenade me with their soothing coos,
(Interrupted by a pair of raucous blue jays injecting their atonal views!)
I hear the water's hymn as it trickles o'er ancient stones in a nearby rill,
And the delightful choral melodies of golden finch as they sweetly trill!

From afar I hear the clarion trumpet call of elk echoing in the hills!
The merging of these harmonic voices is one of life's gratifying thrills!
How I relish the exquisite orchestration of His creatures in glorious recital.
Oh, that I had the poetical acuity to give this symphony a deserving title!

Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved

Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011