Best Hunted Poems
i sprint through the forest escaping the dark of night when i see it, the tree, the tree that sways apart from itself, grass still most with the dew of dawn i lean and indulge into the greenery, disregard overpowers me as i find myself unaware of the tree's fatal intentions, i look into the tree trying to find something beyond it, something more, and i do, and there she is, hideous, revolting, murderous, human, once i saw her i only got two steps before the razors entered my body, but i keep running until the loss of blood consumes me, my last thought was, "humans, what do they not kill, destroy, take"
Night has fallen
dark and deep
creatures stir that had been asleep.
A light from passing cars flash into the dark
yellow eyes peer from the night
a scurrying movement catches the eye
then all is lost under the darken sky.
One of our furry friends goes on a hunt
looking for a meal
that is hiding in the nearby field.
Watching closely is another pair of eyes
seeking its prey
under that dark and cloudy sky.
The feline friend crouches low,
moving stealthily
eyes fixed
as an unsuspecting rodent scurries by
knowing that a meal is about to be served.
All the while in the dark of the night
another pair of eyes
gleaming yellow in the pass of the lights
watches as its meal is about to be had.
Silently without a sound
the pet approaches its prey
when out of the night the hunter
becomes the hunted
and dies in a most sudden way.
Hunting the prey
he got hunted
and was killed.
We still face the test of absolute truth
As creatures of the wild roam on a vast field
The sun burning through their earthy pursuit
Within this mind, a darkened haze concealed.
I watch their shadows, deepening a leer
My fingers grip waiting for the light of dawn
While mossy scent pervades on woods’ frontier,
Restraining a planned scheme as moon grows long.
Daylight wakes and I seek the open trail
Across the range, a moose nibbles on weeds
It’s curve -like silhouette fine like handrail
Now, desire for prey claims a game sullied.
Then noises ring, and noises ring again
Deafening the echo of silent glen.
............................
Seven Stones in the Crown & other Gems
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
by nette onclaud
We are being Hunted!
Our sons,
More than our daughters
Our mothers,
Less than our fathers
By the hunters,
We've been made into a sport,
at their discretion,
Not served with protection,
But, sent
Straight to the grave,
By Black & White transport.
We stand at their command.
We stop.
We drop.
We comply.
We die.
Still...
Hunted....
& Endangered....
Not safe,
Living in skin,
Righteous within,
But viewed as a sin....
Therefore hunted,
Once again.
Going to church... Hunted.
Going to work... Hunted.
Having dinner... Hunted.
Enjoying life... Hunted.
Because how dare we
Not fit the stereotype.
Hair, styled.
Temperament, mild.
Lips, smiled.
Body, undefiled.
Degrees, compiled.
And,
Still profiled.
Still endangered.
Still hunted.
R.I.P. Mr. Crutcher.
Hunter Becomes the Hunted
World War 2 is still relevant in 2014. Widow of a Kriegsmarine Captain's U-boat still misses her husband. How she wishes he'd had a shore posting and not gone to sea. When he died in his steel coffin, he left a wife and a child. His last resting place is now known off the Cornish coast with two other subs.
All crew killed, sunk by a deep British minefield, 70 foot down. The subs were after coastal convoys, open ocean hunting was too dangerous. As it turned out so was near the shore.
Today in the clear blue water lie three shattered U-boats: U-325, U-400 and U-1021.
Two are hundreds of miles where they should be. For decades family members knew the wrong location. Now the mystery is solved. All sunk by Type 17 mines. The widow's flowers float on the sea where her husband died. His remains and his crew lie dozens of metres down. The sub crews varied from inexperienced to war vets. At rest together.
The uncle of one submariner still grieves and says we never learn from past events, do we?
A.W. Nutter
The landscape lay virgin and white
Warm breath fogging the morning air
Resting during the day, hunting at night
Hunger driving you from a secluded lair
The sun revealing diamonds in the snow
Making it hard to follow the deers progress
Testing the tension of the homemade bow
Survival depends on killing the defenseless
Instincts scream, do not cross the field
Demons are searching, they never rest
Foolish child, you must stay concealed
Shelter was provided deep in the forest
The deer fail to notice death approaching
As the arrow seeks out one creatures heart
Falling to your knees you silently start praying
God, capture this animals spirit as it departs
Body of the conquered, provides fading heat
Darkness fills your eyes, stars explode into view
Nothingness follows, consciousness in retreat
Life slowly returning, everything looks askew
Your feet are dangling slightly off the ground
Involuntarily shivering from lack of warmth
The creaking of old timbers the only sound
As your body gently sways back and forth
Barn door swings open, true fear walks in
Retrieving a steel bar from a dark corner
Void of compassion as he listens to Satan
This once loved man became a stranger
A rough hand caresses your ribs and back
Demon laughing as you try to move away
Enjoying your agony waiting for the attack
A mocking voice says, welcome home stray
Stalks, many sightings
Cheetah leaps out, full throttle
Gazelles graze, piece reigns
The nation is thrown into grief.
Our national flag is flying at half mast.
Everyone is wearing a sack cloth.
The dangling axe fell on us.
And the mighty has fallen.
Our hearts are filled with dread,
And our eyes as heavy as lead.
Nigeria, Africa’s number one soccer nation,
Has been given a run for their money by the Ghanaians.
Culminating our early exit from the African nations cup.
The green and white jersey that we adore,
Have been dragged in the mud.
These are not the Eagles we have been celebrating.
Or are these Eagles suffering from bird flu,
That they cannot glide.
Their spirit was willing but their flesh were weak.
When we were young, we were strong,
Now we’ve grown but we are weak.
The reputation that took us years to build,
Have been destroyed over night.
Because we went to fetch water with a basket.
The baby has been thrown away with the baby water.
The Midas touch we used to have have been used on us,
Because we could not strike while the iron was hot.
The hunter has been hunted.
And we have fallen from frying pan to fire.
Football has kept us together as a nation for many years.
The Ghanaians has put a knife on what kept us together.
And we have fallen apart.
Once beaten, twice shy.
We hide our faces in shame.
No one is to be blamed.
What is sauce for the goose is also sauce for the gander.
Every dog has its own day and it was not our day.
A soldier lives to fight another day.
And never says never because quitters are losers.
The big question is,
Shall our bones rise again?
Or have we withered like the cursed fig tree.
Only the bowel of time will Tell.
Not entered in the contest. Just my warped mind in overdrive!!!
You think she is fierce?
Imagine what it must be
That made her jump in!
Night casts shadows on hollowed ground
An eagle flies, painful the screams;
While reddish crown lifts, armed with grit
That its rafters fight bleak of dreams.
Wisps of clouds, like puffs of smoke
Rage on stents of bushy trees
Its royal pose and nest fledgling,
Are caught up in a claw's tight squeeze.
Soon mighty eagle flees by night,
Wings swooping to escape arrest;
To gather might for life ahead
Unfolding freedom at its best.
Dated 10/22/2015
Screwed Vlll Contest
Sponsor: rob carmack
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~Dedicated to the endangered Monkey Eagle of Asia
which may become extinct due to unlawful hunting.~
I've spent the evening hunting, as I'm wont to do
and choosing for tonight an older lass,
I hold the shop door open while she passes through
and as it closes, watch her in the glass
Her face is plain, no trace of paint unlines her skin,
her matted hair is gathered in a bun
Beneath the shabby dress, her frame is overthin,
still, I've decided she's to be the one
I drop my gaze just as she steps into the street
Of which route she will take, I've made a note
My heart begins to pound and I increase it's beat
by fingering the blade beneath my coat
When moments later, I begin to follow her,
the horror I keep hidden shakes its cage
The monster I restrain by day begins to stir
and begs me to unchain it from its rage
She leads me on for leagues but I am not deterred
In fact, I'm quite encouraged by the treck
All bets, I'm not the first this dicey whore has lured,
which gets her one slice more across her neck
She hurries up the walkway of a sodden shack
and after she has shut the sagging door,
I peer in through a dirty window at the back
and see her place her parcels on the floor
No sooner has she done so, when a tiny child,
- her son - appears and dashes to her arms
and it is then, the thrashing beast I've let run wild
is battered back by blaring new alarms
I stand, deflated by this unprovoked retreat
and panicked, try to stoke the rage again
but find my homicidal urges can't compete
with what has just awoken in me, then
A crisis of one's conscience, for one moment, will
illuminate the choice twixt wrong or right
and as it was my BEAST, not HER, I chose to kill,
your cobbled streets are safe.
At least tonight....
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Written: June 4, 2021
Contest: Imagism Poetry
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
A nights rest seems just to the fact of a bleeding heart with fresh wounds inflected by a dagger of many blades, the lies and the regret turns a soul to solid stone. The need to trust and love outsmarts the master mind behind the shade of mystery. The crazy is placed in the pot to boil and send sweet aroma to the tables where the heartless rest, the race to the finish line must start before it ends. Hurt and pain are the real winners at the table of fools and desperate thieves who fights to get a touch of power and greed. The push factor pulls you instead to the danger that creeps up at the shadows who misses home. Flattery presents itself as a common ground between strangers and the unseen. Freedom lowers itself to finger grasping reach and the form of being even is hunted and stripped of dignity.
Hunted
by Don Johnson
Brisbane-Australia
On a bitter cold and moonless night,
there came a gentle knock at the door.
Only half heard Joe did stir from sleep, alight,
to meet a stranger exhausted and footsore.
The hunted man did look in doubt,
quick eyed he searched this place.
Then he asked "Any traps about?"
Joe whispered "Not a trace!"
Joe made a meal for this hungry man,
of corned meat and damper too.
They drank strong tea from a pannican, ....tin cup
in dull light of the lantern's hue.
Before the dawn could break he rode away ,
this man with the haunted look.
Long gone he'd be by the light of day,
when the Traps did wake the cook. ….....Mounted Police
"Our tracker says he came past here, ......Aboriginal Tracker
it's here we lost his trail.
The bounder flogged his overseer,
we'll take him back to jail!"
These police it's then they rode away,
with tracker and packhorse too.
The tracker searched and couldn't say,
why no tracks, just a blank he drew?
But word did come on the grapevine,
of our convict's good escape.
From the men of the first fleet convict line,
good men make no mistake!
In the 1880's there were thousands of ex convicts
who associated with the deported from Ireland, Irish rebels and local
Bushrangers in Australia - Their natural enemy the rich landowners
and the English/Irish Police.
Spring duck
With no luck
Was struck
He fell
From a shell
What's to tell