Best Hunting Poems
Hunting for treasure poems;
Midst summer morn~
I am adrift in the wilderness.
All of a sudden~
a European euphony soars
like a midnight sonata
in pianissimo and decrescendo.
I run to chase the symphony~
and to my delight,
a lilac light leads
a perfumed path
to a wondrous woodland.
And there I find
a precious poem~
written in the purple petal
of a wildflower.
12 July 2020
Hon. Mention
STRAND COMPLETELY NEW (8)any theme any form
Contest Judged: 7/12/2020 9:20:00 AM
I hesitate to get my cool clean drink this morning.
Something is different. The cold air is the same.
The water is still, I do not sense danger.
There is a lack of sameness however.
I look at my brother and shake my head as he
Starts for the water. He hesitates, his ears come up.
He is listening. I realize for the first time how many points he has.
I had another brother with points like that. Proud, until he was not.
He paws at the ground and gives a rough cough.
I give him a sharp glance. He looks down, shyly.
Not as proud, and I feel ashamed of myself.
He is my little brother. Do I dare let him go first?
The last time I did that, I lost a brother.
With a cough, I let him know I will go first.
Something is wrong; not danger, but something.
Man? I am not sure. If man, a young one.
I step out and take a cool drink. Put my head up.
Sh! Did you hear that?
A loud noise crashes through the meadow.
A searing pain goes through me.
The last thing I see before my eyes close
Is my brother's white tail as he hops over the fence
Back toward the safety of the trees. He does not look back.
I smile, knowing I saved at least one of my brothers.
"Wondrous" this dynamic group,
That concocts their hearty poetic soup,
Then sit, then wait, always polite,
For comments that the others write.
But lofty are artistic goals,
As we bear our hearts and expose our souls,
And catapulted into heaven,
When we receive that cherished rate of "seven".
A "six" is like a pesky "B",
Like the one I got in chemistry,
Then pondered of my studious failing,
My heart and spirit, reeling, ailing.
Hunting sevens each new day,
New techniques, a different way.
Isn't life's adventure such,
We hunt our sevens way too much?
Comfort, silence, laying low,
I type this poem, a gift, although,
Should you love these words I write,
A seven will help me sleep tonight.
The rolling, hollow, baying sounds cascading from the fen,
'cause there's a bobcat up a tree and the dogs are loose again.
The cat suddenly settles, and the hunting pack goes quiet.
A man whistles to call them, but these rowdy dogs won't buy it.
Like men in a private club, they quietly wait by the tree.
The cat observes his options, wondering how he will get free.
A twig snaps, there's movement. and the dogs return to full bay.
The cat jumps down into the marsh, and finally gets away.
the hawk drifts slowly
implacable savagery -
lost a few feather
I.
In the orange land,
the sidewalks race wild with them,
postured like statues of royal gardens
the marble lions
amongst hibiscus limbs.
II.
I like the smell of them,
earth warmed dirt
and fallen honeysuckle
baked
beneath the Florida sun.
III.
I poke with
one tanned fingertip
where the flesh
cocoons around their
soft belly,
it is like
the open sesame
for lizards.
IV.
The open mouth of a lizard
has no bias
it dangles on ear lobes
like Coco Chanel
classic in style.
V.
When separated
the tail becomes an asp
wrestling with the truth
of it's loss.
I’m hunting high and low,
For someone I am yet to know
I can sense the beating of her heart,
But I know not where to start
She will bring me joy, bring me peace,
And maybe the loneliness will cease
So here I am,
Is she within the reach of my hand
Has she been here once before,
Is she the one who left me wanting more
Have we met in a passing glance,
Our eyes meeting in a chance
Has she passed me in these halls,
Never entering into these walls
Or is she merely just a dream,
A fantasy my mind has created just for me
Never the less,
I shall continue hunting for her,
High and low,
I shall never give up hope
For a life without love,
Without passion
Will have you cold and lonely,
As you walk into the sun
The End
By Greg P
Twas the night before deer season
and all through the town
all the hunters were campin';
there was no one around.
The guys weren't all snuggled
and warm in their beds.
Instead they're in sleeping bags
dreaming of mounted buck heads.
They hope to get out early
and see a huge buck!
To hear something besides a squirrel,
I'll wish them good luck!
The schools are all out for
the whole of the season.
The mothers will go crazy
for that very reason.
It causes time to be mixed up
and all in a haze.
The game warden's wife
hasn't seen him for days.
So get all your gear out,
and decked out in camo.
Shine up the ole rifle,
and fill it with ammo.
Before I finish up,
I'll give you one tip.
Don't mess with that warden,
don't give him no lip!
It's almost time to head out,
and listen hard for a grunt.
Happy deer season to all;
have a safe and fun hunt!
Puritans gather in Congress' hallowed halls, faces glum
Trampling truth, blowing horns, banging drums
Of blazing envy, wrath, and sloe-eyed sleaze
Pelosi-Schumer's moralizing minions on their knees
Digging up dirt on disapproved-of nominees
Judgment fled to Pandora-box divorce decrees
Careful, all you righteous pols, so sure the public will be pleased
Most voters care about the economy, not investigative sleaze
-- And whenever decent folks flee, the door opens for the military
I heard a story once about people up north.
Where there’s long days and long winters
And the snow piles higher than houses.
They hunt wolves in winter,
Finding ways to do it safely.
Horrific and brilliant methods.
Take a knife and dip it in blood
Freeze the blood on the blade,
Do this over and over
Ten times over.
Until the blade is deep beneath a thick coat
A winter coat of deepest red.
Leave it in the open blade pointing up
Saluting the sky
Taking a bow before the grand performance
The great seduction of the beast.
Curiosity can be wonderful,
Curiosity can be devastating.
A hint on the wind
And the scent makes itself at home
Amongst happy memories
Eating dinner with family.
You come out of the trail
Seeing this small tower of red
Amidst this ocean of white,
You remember this shade of red.
It wasn’t the first lick that killed you
But it sealed your fate to be sure.
Those that live by the sword die by the sword
Those that thirst for blood drown in their own.
Niceties we say to excuse our guilt,
You never stood a chance against this trap
It looks like food
It smells like food
And it even tastes like food.
Your tongue swarms into every crevice
Made by the swirling vapours
Of your hot breath excited
Panting with desire and hunger.
You lick and lick and lick
And endless fountain of your favourite flavour
You denied yourself nothing.
The blood just kept coming,
First from the frozen blood
Thawed by your warmth,
But then it switched and you didn’t notice.
Did you?
Can’t pinpoint the second but sometime
Your tongue met the steel
Blood now spouting from many sources
And you swear it’s the best day you’ve ever had.
You died in a garden painted red,
By the fleshy brush jutting forth
From your strong jaws
Bathed in your own paint.
I just listened to the story,
Dumbstruck.
I’ve never understood
A wild animal better than now,
I’ve been betrayed
By my longings too.
Curiosity can be wonderful,
Curiosity can be devastating.
Sunrise, a
lighter shade of gray
replaced a starless black.
Pines stand sketched -
one dimensional and sad,
shrugging - not knowing
if the day is
worthy of a smile.
While a robin adds
another twig to its
tightly woven hopes
as instinct whispers,
Worm hunting is always better
on a rainy morning.
GOOD QUILL HUNTING
8/2/2023
Deep into the caverns of my mind
I sauntered,
To perhaps discover treasures, I
wondered.
Something divinely sparkling and
shimmeringly sweet.
For other souls to cherish and to
soulfully keep!
In these caverns, it's dark and so
mystically still!
I anticipate a bright new poem just
waiting for me on a gleaning, turquoise hill.
Poetry so much like the grandest of ballets.
A new poem, to pen then,without undue delay!
Written: September 07, 2023
______________________________________________________________
I can't sleep at night, so I stay alive.
I am awake, and I search and strive.
I'm no warrior, just a bumbling scrambler.
Restless nights render me a rambler.
I crave a paladin, a light to guide my way.
Yet, gloom reigns, and all hope wanes away.
Into a cloud of tedium and torpor of a tongue.
I long for silence, for optimism to be wrung.
Capsized in an abyss of frustration,
For solace, a catalyst in this desolation.
My gloom clings to such a symbiote spawn.
Snarled metastatic root quotum-dot drawn.
Hush, my tired soul, and let illusions fade.
In this darkness, all that is a masquerade.
Seek not the light, for it is only a gleam.
Rather, apply the recess to deem it a dream.
In the gloom, where shadows dance and play.
It is a quiet oasis where anxiety withers away.
I need faith, resilience, and perseverance.
To explore this squalid earth sans inherence.
When the full moon rises,
and the stars start to glow.
Down to that old creek bank,
is where I like to go.
A few leaves still hanging,
shaking in the breeze.
Holding on for dear life
to them persimmon trees.
Out across the gully,
other side of the bridge.
Coon hounds hot on a trail,
just over the next ridge.
Surrounded by nature,
I am filled with delight.
Deep in these Ozark woods,
on moonlit winter nights.
A cool wind a blowing,
winter’s flurries around.
The only sound to hear,
the bawling of a hound.
Down to that old creek bank,
Is where I like to go.
When the full moon rises,
and the stars start to glow.
It seems like we thrive from the adrenaline flow
While hunting the morning of the very first snow.
For all the mornings that we practically froze
When we can't feel our fingers, or the tips of our toes.
Yet, we still hunt day after day
In anticipation of the moment we can finally say
'I GOT A DEER' with a cheerful shout.
As we jump up and down and run all about.
We think it's skill, but it's mostly luck
That feeling we get when we get our first buck.
When we talk about the hunt, or the antler size
No one knows the real truth, 'cause everyone lies.
It's remembering our first hunt, as a girl or a boy
When we felt the excitement with a heart full of joy.
It's the fun that we have with our family and friends.
It's the sharing and experience that we hope never ends.
So, go deer hunting...just do it some day
Then you might understand what I'm trying to say.
Hunting deer is special to me
So, try it sometime and you'll find out and see.