Best Hunting Poems | Poetry
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The Best Hunting Poems
POTD 30th August 2018
The gently swaying branches of the old oak should elicit calmness
And yet a sense of foreboding permeates the midnight air
Wild imaginings? Or did shadows flit across the leaf strewn path?
No time to dwell ~ She must make haste
Long afore the sun breaks on the morrow
A day surely portent of wrath?
Freedom is in her hands tonight
Release from a tyrannical father
A personage demanding unquestioned obedience
Movements morph into shapes ~ her father’s vicious hounds
Bred to kill ~ Caesar and Brutus
~ A chill tingling ripple runs up her spine~
Baying ~ salivating ~ jumping high
~ Raring for release from muzzles and leashes
Tugged hard by camouflaged hands they jerk back disgruntled
Ferociously they sniff at the scent of blood drawing nigh
Dear God … He knows their plan to elope …
They wait in the shadows
Julius ~ his servant ~ she has sensed him
Creeping ~ Listening ~ Following
Stealthily comes her lover careful not to snap the twigs in the brush
Caution yet eagerness in his gazelle like stride
None the less the man marked for death defies a terror inside
And an overwhelming trepidation she cannot hide
She must alert him of the danger ahead
Love thinks not with logic but with the mind of impulse
Caution him she must ~ her father’s hunting gun will suffice
God lend her wings she prays as down the wooden stairs she flies
A scheme to foil a scheme in haste ~ is never easy to devise
With hands fumbling and trembling convulsively
She lifts the weighty gun off the rack
Snapping back the catch taking aim she fires upward
Up into the midnight sky
Ka Boom ~
They hear in the darkness
The errant bullet whistling through the air
Misinterprets its mission
Striking metal it ricochets
Ka Boom ~
Fate changes its pathway of plans well laid
An exchange for saving his life finding another target
in her soft white flesh
Extinguishing her burning shining light instead
Only he seems to hear that heart rendering surprised note in her scream
Unmistakeable in Death ~ a melancholy hopelessness through that unfulfilled cry
Tapering down to the whispering echoing sigh lies the ghostly warning
Turn back! Turn back or you will die!
Heedless to the unshackling of the muzzles,
Mindless to the release of the constraining leads
Sightless to the vicious hounds that to him streak ~ and
Fearless of the cowardice measured by their evil deeds
With his Heart and Soul aflame and bleeding he races
Screaming to his fallen Rose ~ indifferent for his own life
Directly into their line of fire
Oh vengeful Nemesis carry their last piteous cries away ~ tarry naught
Naught for unrepentant men who gloat at a mission complete
Ignorant yet of the tragedy that awaits in the house on the hill
Leaving their hounds to stay by the lifeless prey ~
Reward for the blood of the kill
The Broken Man
The sun sets an angry red
The aura round the moon glows a crimson hue
An unwatered Rose
Flourishes and grows
Atoned by his tears instead
I have always wanted to write a tragic love story – I’ve chosen the Title of the Poem ‘My Heart will Go On’ to highlight that the heart of the Rose, albeit somewhat vengeful, still ‘goes on’ seeking atonement. The melancholy music ‘Titanic’ simply accentuates this tragedy and has no connection to this story - I trust you have enjoyed this piece.
Video Clip: 2 CELLOS Luka Sulic and Hauser
Copyright © Maria Williams | Year Posted 2018
I like many others have lived in our dreams
In this world where I lived amongst forests and streams
Where the Great Plains stretched and our rivers flowed
If you could see through my eyes, how my tribe glowed
Born from my mother of Arikara descent
My father a Sioux warrior, his stature, augment
My growing up was no different than the others around
For the learnings that grew from our ancestors surround
Hunting and fishing, being told of the dangers in life
Cultural indifferences, to fearing tribal strife
But it's what my father taught me every single day
To learn from our lands for through the years they'd display
Tracking, seeking, searching, living from our lands
Every year more learned, growing in understand
From a boy to a man becoming a warrior through my years
Protecting what was ours, allaying modern fears
But the changes that we faced, suffocated our souls
There was only ever one outcome, other man's goals
I like many others, to live and eventually fall
Born from Arikara, Sioux, my name was 'Standing Tall'
A little story from my heart, where the Indigenous will always be.
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2014
He just appeared to me, like wispily curling
One grim and early morning in the very midst of
Decembers briefest days, on the highest slope,
Toiling through my daily round; where, slowly
Driving up past the Whitethorn hedgerows to
Ascend the snowy Heys, I had carefully negotiated
The wide and slowing bend to regain the summit of
Grappenhalls ploughed and upper-ground.
Stopping the car I stepped out to take a closer
Look. There he stood: New born and rather wobbly.
His long blustery mane thick and silky: Liken the
Mythical Enbarr; a wide eyed expression of staring,
Uncomprehending malaise written all over his
Shaggy face...So wondrous was he of this icy world
So rigidly bound.
Perplexed - perhaps, or amazed, at the utter
Desolation of this cruel place and the callousness of
The Fates wounding imposition upon him...when
Thrust forcefully into yonder shattered bowl - shrunken
Hopelessly into the clutches of such an altogether frozen
Little icicles beginning to form upon his fuzzy beard;
A first taste of his mothers hot milk, that, in his
Awkward blundering, he must have hastily spilt
When clumsily fumbling with extended and pouting lips
Upon the swollen teat. The foul weather, so unfortunately
Adverse, of hail and sleet, gathering more momentum -
Didst indeed still prevail...increasingly growing
Steadily even more worse!
Stood his mother there - resolutely, as if grave Epona
Depicted in a hewn chunk of Grecian rock! This
Metallic pan he shivered within: The centre of his
Twirling Universe designated as this one small
Spot...And all it should ever contain therein.
A ripping wind that snarled and savagely bit down like
A pack of wild hunting dogs, oblivious to his obvious
Distress, into newly formed bones,
where, stretched across: Tightly pinched muscle and
Tautly sinewed flesh - involuntarily flinched!
Whilst all the while, not withstanding despondent
Resignation, an aggrieved
Spirit that silently and inwardly bemoans;
Contained here...In his sparkling kingdom of barbed
Wire and an irregular scattering of smoothly rounded
A torturous blast that blew so raw I stamped my feet,
As if a horse myself, and exhaled upon my hands, now
Clasped and sore, vainly trying to reinforce myself
Against the unrelenting cold; a fearsome breeze
Howling in rising crescendos, unopposed,
Through the blasted files of battered trees, whose
Roots clawed in desperation at the thin soils of that
Barren hill, leaving him naked and painfully exposed
To the ruthless torments of a vicious blizzards
Casting hopefully about I sought to catch sight of a
Kindly soul, whom, with an imploring stare or polite
Shout, I could impose upon to relieve the slight laden
Over the plight of the brave little Foal. Oh staunchest
Mare: Thou art Impenetrable like the shield of Achilles!
Grimly determined as if to refute the very elements
Themselves, and dare the brazen God
Of Thunder - to break! And heap upon this forged and
Ferrous land when unleashing his indolent Furies -
The mauve and purple clouds to violently tear asunder!
For, gripped in the maw of such a gnawing ire,
What could you possibly know, little man, of
Comforting warmth leaping across a cheery hearth
When stoked and released from the confines of a
Parlours glowing fire?
Or Vulcans hellish fires bursting forth from erupting
Volcanoes - when spewed out blistering magmas run!
Majestic fires pervading Angels disrupted heights:-
They whom bear witness to the obliteration of an
Exploding Supernovas doomed sun!
Fire or Ice...it be all the same: One scorches within a
Tightening Vice - One within a wanton flame!
Tarried I a while longer, like a man unsure whether he
Was to be completely overtaken by some momentous
And wondered out aloud: What hardened heart had
Deserted this poor creature to this inhospitable
The self same heart that had decreed that he, the
Finest of this rare breed, should open his eyes on that
First morn to find his meagre plate encumbered with
Miseries so devoid, and served with inadequacies of
Such spiteful forlorn; with nought to sate the ragged
Edge of his desperate appetites...save his mothers
Fluids; although, in urgent anticipation, should
Give him good cause to keenly salivate wouldst barely
Suffice the discontented juices, that unceasingly
Complained aloud, to happily digest and
Gratefully dissipate within his hollow bowel.
It was then I suddenly noticed, slowly revealed to my
Aging sight - Barely thus adjusted and focused to that
Opaque light, what looked like a black tarpaulin thrown
Across a bundled pile of straw, still obscured but now
Dumped carelessly in a far corner recessed on the
Furthest edges of this dismal field.
Could this be his drafty stall? Delivered here, unseen
And unheard, upon a bed of dried and bleached stalks -
Enabled Like a baby Messiah amongst the Israelites!
Wherein, comes the crunching night, which coils
Around his cradled form with damp and insidious
Vapours, he reclines against the unyielding Dam -
And valiantly Fights... To attain uncontested slumber
Beneath the refrain of Heavens dispassionate
Firmaments; whose Great Creator counts and records
His given number;
The blazing lanterns, admidst rolling oceans
Of abandonment and disdain, now abruptly parted -
Like the sea of Galilee! Towering waves rolled back
From the denuded and ageless bar:
Pushed out wide - And far aside...
To usher in the immutable brilliance
Of one small horses lone and guiding star...
And if I recall rightly, my little friend, I christened you
There and then...And thereby named you - IRONBAR!
God bless and keep you always little fella...For you
Awakened the poet, however inadequate, within me.
Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2016
I'm not selling a house, i'm leaving my home.
Happy times together, months spent alone.
Morning sickness, baby loss, labour and birth
Planting my seeds in good strong earth.
Mess in the kitchen, prams in the hall
Mud on the carpet, pen on the wall;
First we were two, then 3, 4 and 5
Not forgetting the pets, no longer alive.
Babies then toddlers, starting to talk,
Rolling, crawling then learning to walk.
Feeding my firstborn at 5 in the morning,
Here comes the milkfloat, a new day is dawning.
The scent of lavendar in warm summer air
Makes me think of that first one, big eyes and brown hair.
Planting some snowdrops in a place cool and shady
Done just in time for that quick second baby.
Yellow peony in May for the one that was lost
Daffodils and hyacinths for the boy who came last.
Tantrums and tears, sometimes theirs, often mine
Sleepsuits and socks on the long washing line.
Apples and raspberries, potatoes and herbs
Hunting for woodlice, new homes for worms.
Deep winter snow piling up at the door
Morning sun in the garden, it's spring once more.
So now we are going, new adventures to come
But i'm not selling a house, i'm leaving my home.
7th april 2018
Copyright © Anna Greene | Year Posted 2018
When the last rays of sunlight start to die
scarlet flames burn the sky, as clouds ignite.
And while the birds roost, bats begin to fly
hunting down elusive moths in mid-flight.
Luna hangs high in an ebony sky
spinning dreams into beams of golden light.
And twinkling stars, like fireflies in the night
confetti the heavens, dazzling the eye.
Like gold filigree pinned to the darkness
swirling galaxies adorn the skies above
as shooting stars unzip the black of space.
Yet, Man stands unabashed in His starkness,
for cosmic beauty can't compete with love
an emotion intrinsic to our race.
Aug 7, 2018
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2018
My whole life waits, just this moment, the ink still
wet; for sunrise this clear May morning.
My shaman up already,
hair askance, dancing and trilling his flute
to the crescent moon face,
lit by the blue iron square welcoming
The Sun appears now...my expectations grow...
A foray into the secret riverbank forest, hunting
for Morels with my hobo friend ( by choice,
wishing not to support 4 ex-wives) Clark,
he with his walking stick adorned with colorful
talisman ribbons accumulated from a life spent
wandering....me with my crafted Yucca stick
a friend made for me.
Then...off to pick-up heirloom vegetable plants
a master gardener has nurtured for me to
grow in my community plot, where my friends
are happy to see me.
Amidst all, I'll have Ma accompany me,
(not in the woods) but not far away, her
smile always eager to share in my discoveries,
a comfortable sitting bench at the garden awaits
her, the smell of fresh-turned soil enriches her.
Later, I promised her we would grill at one
of her favorite places she remembers going
with Pop, alongside Minnehaha Creek, the
water gently flowing this time of year, birds
singing and Ducks playing,
The Sun is up further now,
this poem must end,
Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2015
His poems live deep down in the wood
down in an olde hunting lodge
They are brown as the bears head that
hangs on the wall
brown as the dark leaves that fall
silently hiding the salt lick
from fawns who come in
the twilight to call
His poetry growls and grumbles and purrs
like a cougar alone on the rim
of the canyon above the olde
where he writes all his lines
like a hymn
His poems stretch out on the furs
by the fire
and tell of the storms and the waves
that tested the strength of the words
and sent many songs to their graves
for brave are the sagas
the odes that survive
the trek through the woods to the town
and as we go home we gather them up
scattered like leaves on the ground.
Brown,yellow,red ,a few of them green
His poems are places and things we have seen
but not from the view that the truth hunter gives
deep down in the woods ,where poetry lives
Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006
women of dusk and dawn
who love to feast on their senses
in a banquet ripened by love and courage,
chilled to last till the moonlight
bequeaths more hours for stories
about earth's flesh...
oh, let the first drone of music
praise the female spirit voluptuous
as hips sashay in gaiety wildly wet,
empresses hunting for the eyes of god in men
softly flowing in veils of mystery
that hover in the fragrance
housed in chambers of rich legends
and reality: taste their tears,
cuddle the apples of fertile breasts…
yet no one can touch their essence
or own life’s primeval wombs;
women are women like their children
defying any explanation.
Brian Strand 254 Contest
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
There’s an old river course with beginning and end,
now the river runs straight without this river bend,
where the water is still and the reeds do grow strong.
New life has taken over in a billabong.
The mat rush is spreading replacing the sedge,
and old fallen gum trees lean in from the edge
creating a haven in the shelter below
for smelt or gudgeon, and the common minnow.
There’s a ring on the water, so danger is nigh,
and life is now over for one caddis fly.
Dragonflies hover on their predator flight,
so mosquito and midges best keep out of sight.
There is many a song around a billabong
to break up the still with an assembly throng
from birds of the forest, and wading birds too,
so the billabong offer is there to pursue...
... for blue heron and egret, coot and the teal,
and for the banded rail that the bulrush conceal.
In the billabong shadowed by gum and ti-tree,
bellbirds are tinkling; wattlebirds disagree.
An oft-diving grebe keeps on searching for food
for the striped downy chicks of its latest brood,
and a hunting kingfisher waits keen for its prey
from a twig of a gum tree it frequents all day.
There is many a scent around a billabong,
filling the air with the perfume quite strong,
from black wattle and mint bush, or mistletoe
cascading from gum trees where only they grow.
Painted lady butterfly flit upon flowers,
and blue banded bees keep on working for hours
on lilies and orchids, heath, sweet appleberry
and clusters of flowers on a native cherry.
Ribbon weed, nardoo spread out in the shallow,
with buttercup, duckweed; an introduced mallow,
struggling for survival near the water line,
aiding coral pea that does lightly entwine.
The banks of a billabong are dangerous too
with predator snakes not so often in view,
but they are aware, that the growling grass frog
will climb from the water onto an old log.
But tigers and copperhead, red-bellied black
often lay in the sun on an overgrown track,
where the wombat or wallaby travel along
to graze on native grasses near the billabong.
So life still carries on around the billabong
where water looks stagnant, a bond is still strong
with a river now rushing it’s way to the sea,
past the billabong living, where the course used to be.
Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015
"A little bird told me..."
Of all the birds revered by the Celts, the Wren was considered the most sacred. In Ireland, it was called the Drui-en, or Druid bird; in Welsh the word Dryw signifies both a druid and a Wren. Why is it that the Druid is pictured as an apparently nondescript little bird and not as an obviously powerful bird like the eagle?
An answer can be found in a story from the western highlands of Scotland. In a great assembly of all the birds of the air, it was decided that the sovereignty of the feathered tribe should be given to the bird who could fly the highest. The favourite was naturally the eagle, who immediately began his flight toward the sun - fully confident in his ability to win the title of King of the Birds.
When he found himself soaring high above all his competitors, he proclaimed in a mighty voice his monarchy over all creatures who had wings. But suddenly, from out of his wings popped the wren, who had hidden under the eagle's feathers. He flew a few inches higher and chirped out loudly, "Birds, look up and behold your king!"
This story shows the wren as a cunning bird, prepared to build on the achievements of others and to mock their pride by outwitting them at the final moment. The Druid was known as the 'cunning man' - the man who can become invisible like the wren, who can travel on the back of the noble eagle to reach his destination, saving himself energy in the process.
Being small he is unobtrusive and being small he can enter worlds that bigger people cannot. Being proud makes one unwieldy; being small and humble enables one to slip through the eye of a needle or down the root of a tree.
The Breton Celts go even further in according the wren a key role in their bird lore: they say that it was the wren who brought fire from heaven, but that as she flew back down to earth her wings began to burn and she had to pass her gift to the robin, whose plumage also burst into flames. The lark then came to the rescue, finally bringing the gift of fire to the world.
The Druid's house is the wren's nest - a place of comfort and safety, for another important symbol in Druidry, is the egg. The Druid's Egg, made famous by Pliny's remarks, articulates the idea that in order to grow and change there is required periods of incubation - withdrawing from the world to allow the opportunity to reform in the womb of time.
The wren's nest was said to be protected by lightning. Whoever tried to steal wren's eggs or baby wrens would find their house struck by lightning and their hands would shrivel up.
On the Isle of Man, a story is told of a fairy-girl or mermaid who lured youths into the sea. One of them threw a spear at her and to avoid it she turned herself into a wren, but she was obliged to assume her own shape on each New Year's Day. On that day she was at the mercy of her hunters who, if they were able, could kill her. A wren's feather became a lucky charm to preserve sailors from drowning and no Manxman would go to sea without one.
The tradition of wren hunting took place on New Year's Day until the Feast of the Wren was transferred to St. Stephen's Day on Dec 26th. With this tradition the wren has become a god or king rather than a mermaid - for the wren was hunted and killed in a ritualistic way, enacting the idea that the death of a god bestows strength on his killer, a variant of the belief that in the killing of the old king, his powers will be passed on to his successor.
The wren symbolised wisdom and divinity. It is difficult to actually see a wren. At New Year the apprentice Druid would go out by himself into the countryside in search of hidden wisdom. If he found a wren he would take that as a sign that he would be blessed with inner knowledge in the coming year. Finding a creature small and elusive to the point of invisibility was a metaphor for finding the elusive divinity within all life
Copyright © White Wolf | Year Posted 2017
I’ve read a lot about the stars—
sought precious knowledge of deep space.
Wondered when we’ll go to Mars—
pondered if we’ll leave this place.
Some problems here on earth, it seems;
though much here that I treasure.
But is it still a field of dreams,
or merely life in search of pleasure?
Nothing here we really own.
In error the thought we can possess.
We’ve mastered the installment loan;
now we are addicts of excess.
Has it always been this way?
Searching daily for advantage?
Hunting for the easy prey?
Putting them at disadvantage?
Consider then the nascent earth,
rolling forth in its perfection.
Safe for us from date of birth;
lives within our world’s protection.
Shouldn’t we give something back;
become ardent stewards of all life?
Summon strength that others lack;
depart from paths that beckon strife?
In doubt that you might shepherd change
and render chaos into sanity?
Offer truth in fair exchange
as worthy bargain for humanity?
This would be a daunting task—
challenge to the noblest mind—
yet some are unafraid to ask
what they might do for humankind.
Let thus emerge a sacred mien,
that one with purpose can surpass.
For lawns could never be so green
without each single blade of grass.
Copyright © Mark Peterson | Year Posted 2018
~Woody Wood From the Hood~
Deep, inside yourself, you walk a sour way of life,
Carving my name, on every tree with a hunting knife
You log in, then log out
A Birdman So Fickle, he Stinks of doubt!
Blind today, bald tomorrow,
Big Bird, will be your only friend
I can't seem to forget the day, you shed your final skin
Revealing a darker snake, than the one in my garden
Leaving the word betrayal, up to the imagination
Trust not the fool, who thinks his halo is heaven sent
Using a fake ballpoint pen dietary supplement
Thinning out his wings, and losing the symbolic meaning
Aging in a way, that spreads crows feet from top to bottom
Sapsucker revolving yellow as if it was always autumn
Pecking Hard Wood, MR Pecker of all woodpeckers
Forgetting who's the real Home-wrecker
Your dragging pants are no bother, Mr Woodpecker!
I've gotten used to the tree talking and your creative vision
Let's just say, "Gangster to Gangster, I gave you a mission."
Keep rapping and tapping the same old street sign,
Woodstock, on demand, crap out the peanut punch
Whatever suits you for breakfast and lunch
Don't forget dinner's also about me
Peck away with deception, reveal your sullen evil feathers
A disease urine Birdman, doing it snoopy style
A flightless, lightless liar, nothing about him's worthwhile
Keep manipulating the weak, whatever turns you on
I'm not ready to shoot you down with my shotgun
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014
The Bedouins, bequeathed with the sacred beauty of paradise harsh,
trusted guardians of jealous gorges and gifted groves
lead me from the Wadi Musa to the humble ingress of Petra,
saying with thrill, the Jin of your Jihad awaits you White Lion,
we embrace as Brothers of Light and ancient dust,
their camels wise in soft steps
impart wide eyed, gentle blessing to me,
a shrill whisper of teasing wonderment
whisks the sand of centuries strewn small
with a cobra's awakening whisp and hungry hiss,
evening enters the terrible terrain
glowing a cool blue dark and daring
along with it a blowing a zephyr unzips the zodiac of my ancestors,
stars of a billion years sympathize with this soul sojourn,
alone I journey inward like a brave wish wafting
into a heart wanting to disgorge a secret need,
the smell of salt, sandstone and myrrh infiltrate
my mind with a mineral magic animating millenia of sovereign economics,
lamp light revealing the blush and rue of the the Siq's colossal rock hue,
shadows of caravan traffic bespeak exotic trade from distant industry,
narcotics from Kush, Persian rugs, spices and incense of Arabia,
jewels and hides from India, the medicine and silk of China,
beasts and papyrus of Africa, wine, weapons and art of Rome,
slaves beautiful and strong carried from every known ethnic throng,
a river of precious merchandise replacing the might of carving waters,
at the egress of this artery's eternal enterprise
I behold with burgeoning awe the Nabataean Treasury,
it's gladsome geometry a harmony of will, wealth and worship,
warm red cream stone become bone of a peoples' politic,
architecture for their angels and sanctuary for culture,
depository for dreams indebted to desert Deities,
I blow a kiss to the niche of Tyche, Goddess of fantastic fortune,
as I tighten my checkered turbin I hear a soft song
of Hellenic, Semitic and Arabic recipe, stringed hums with chime
and it moves me into the open, bleak basin towards the Monastary facade,
in the black of it's errie entrance a spirit of evanescent education
escalates my enchantment as corners wake to pathways,
murals like waving reflections stream across the walls
I see Moses crack the water stone for salvation
as the Holy Arch spirals an avalanche of absolution from Earth to Heaven,
Solomon and Sheba secure a trade treaty with royal love,
I witness Jesus in the Jordan with John the Baptist
kindly laying him in the steady float of faith,
then the tragedy of John's demise
by the sour ambition of Herodias, the whore of defacto power,
I observe the affection of Joshua Ben Joseph
with his woman of street sense as they endure trial after trial,
scenes of the Pax Romana and Judaen revolts parade
by my eyes as terror, torture and triumph
wear masks of glory and glee,
the Essenes embarking for the Dead Sea defense,
Muslims and Crusaders found not the bounty of this land,
here remains the treasure of Pharaonic voyage,
exiting with renewed moral for love
I look to the top of Zibb Atuf
where I see the thunderbolt of Zeus Hadad and cornucopia of Atargatis
burn sweetly in the night, periwinkle smolder signals righteous passion,
I feel you, my Love, paramount in the depth of every sense I have,
turning entranced to the Roman Theater I proceed to the north east rendezvou,
you are lovely and glamorous on the stage of amplified ardor,
starbeams spotlight your coordinated curves and fertile instinct,
you begin to seduce with a dance, breathtaking, impulsive balance,
moving with the smooth heat and poise of a breath blown candle flame,
a crescent of torches beautifies your frame, crimson silk wings from you,
I stand for a moment on the outer upper rim
gazing, with great heat upsurging through every muscle,
knowing you are jubilant for me by the way you move
I descend the stairs undistracted from the language of your invitation,
your cinnamon skin skims my own as you go round and round
and the crave for your ravishing rub forces my pursuit,
I catch your tender waist as you spin into my hunting arms,
your fingertips feel so right in my hands,
we sway like romance on fire in the storm of desire,
your restive back nestled inbetween my shoulders
my obsessed lips move up your neck in search for innocent sensitivity
overtaking your naked earlobe with a hot mouth and firm pull,
your body, begging to be breeched brutely calms slowly
as I release spontaneous poetry into your ear saying...
When the moon was young
unbattered by stone and age
glowing bold upon Earth newly spun
the first man and sacred Woman
made love of flesh warmly woven
from they're erupting hearts came wild knowledge...
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014
As I seize from greener pasture
Forgive me for taking away nature
lives have always been in vain
stopping them from breathing with pain
I toil never to hold my gun
with tears full of fun
The sleepless night became difficult
Because hunting was my cult
I regret taking away this joy of hunting
But not jolliness of killing
remembering the beautiful butterfly
and the choral singing of birds pass by
I never forget about the forest
even when I went to rest.
Copyright © Amin Tres | Year Posted 2008
Just drop once, when you happen to go by.
A tale they may count, mountains of my country;
Of paradise invaded and forests destroyed,
Of vessels adrift and sailors athirst,
Of savage hunting and extinction of the Dodo.
Witness to history stand mountains of my country;
Bloodshed, war times, hunger and poverty;
Settlers, slaves, coolies or expatriates,
They know all, who defiled in time.
Inert and helpless lay mountains of my country.
Waves of changes struck their homeland.
Forest cried but sweat fell with hope in heart
For making habitation in a newfound land.
Store of knowledge are mountains of my country.
They may tell you of slavery abolished,
Of unification of heart and mind and
The fight for freedom for a respectful life.
Beware, omniscient are mountains of my country
They may tell you of clean or dirty business.
Of unity in diversity or the fumes of hatred
Which burn dark hearts in the sanctity of homes.
Sages are to me, the mountains of my country.
From childhood to youth to parenthood;
Refuge they gave my helpless heart,
Blessed me when crossing overseas,
And were always here to welcome me back.
I love and respect the mountains of my country!
Winner: 1st place.
Copyright © Sunita U.D Palawon | Year Posted 2016
In days of old,
ye knights were bold
And Dragons roamed the land
Sir Lancelot, he was a knight
And Fought with Sword in hand
White horse he rode
With his lance
A shiny suit of armour
Beware this knight, the story goes
He really is a charmer!
Now one fine day, he saw a lass
And whispered in her ear
A shock he got, when she revealed
I’m lady Guinevere
In love they fell
Before too long
Merlin cast a spell
While hunting out one afternoon
The king, black knight would tell
Black knight ‘s plan
When Lancelot was banished
Shed a tear, did Guinevere
When she learned he’d vanished.
Now this legend
Hath been told
A morale doth contain
Keep your lance, tucked in your pants
And save yourself the pain!
Copyright © Roger Page | Year Posted 2010
So bittersweet is this creative art
of writing thoughts through words of poetry.
So many say how peaceful is my heart
that it can shape a verse that's part of me.
They never see the bitter times of stress
my mind goes through for every perfect word:
the hunting down of them to bring success,
so thoughts within my heart can then be heard.
But when I reach the mountaintop, complete
a gem that tells my mind it met the goal,
the stress dissolves into a joy so sweet,
and peace envelopes me, my heart and soul.
Sandra M. Haight
Sponsor: Kevin Shaw
Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016
For good, the Druid woods claimed this girl child for its own;
nymphs named the silk-skinned, raven-black of her, Fianna.
This night, she’s hurt hunting demons in her mother’s grove.
She recalls, her fright at five, abandoned in these woods alone.
Nymphs named the silk skinned, raven-black of her, Fianna,
by-blow of a Moor, left as dross in these weird weeping;
she recalls, her fright at five, abandoned in these woods alone.
An adept now, she aids the Weird in its fight with rising hell.
By-blow of a Moor, left as dross in these weird weeping,
raised by the fey, she was taught good from evil well.
An adept now, she aids the glade in its fight with rising hell;
her blessed-onyx points, caste blackhearts from the dell.
Raised by the fey, she was taught good from evil well.
The Blood moon’s rise brings hell’s minions out in droves;
her blessed-onyx points, caste blackhearts from the dell.
Defilers die by her hand and Druid bow bespelled.
The Blood moon’s rise brings hell's minions out in droves.
Rain caught in the leaves revives; moss clots her blood.
Defilers die by her hand and Druid bow bespelled,
as she protects the oak and ash from whispering hell.
Rain caught in the leaves revives; moss clots her blood.
This night, she’s hurt hunting demons in her mother’s grove
as she protects the oak and ash from whispering hell.
For good, the Druid woods claimed this girl child for its own.
First Published by After the Pause
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2017
I watched them across the water prance,
Back and forth in sprightly dance.
Liveried in emerald green, others had a sapphire sheen.
It was natural choreography, by tiny acrobats
As they hovered through the reed beds, hunting bugs and gnats.
A mastery of flight, a ballet in the sky,
How mesmerising to sit and watch, dancing dragonflies.
Copyright © Gary Smith | Year Posted 2016
My silky ivory coat keeps me warm in the artic climate,
my keen senses search for prey in the Alaskan wilderness-
When I encounter the mighty mount Denali, I climb it,
yes, I am an Artic Wolf and am known for being carnivorous.
I savor the flavor of a great
muskoxen and caribou.
The way the twilight sparkles
upon my prey, I feel the
desire for more-
When darkness hovers over
the land, my pack and I
find that there is more prey
than during the day holding
such brilliant light.
Deep chameleon blue.
Here I am, hunting for the fox that I always fight,
we battle and struggle with each other’s strength-
And as I search for artic hares in the middle of the night,
my leap into catching him is nine feet long in length.
As dusk arrives I anticipate
The reverie delivers the taste
I can never resist.
As I run through my territory
of about one hundred miles
I feel the fervor of the fight.
I am ready for the temptation of killing as it arrives,
and as my teeth growl I soon become prepared-
My claws dug deep in the ground as I begin to thrive,
for I have encountered a black mountain bear.
Through the combat of the
battle I have found victory.
I am alone, with no other wolf
in the brawl.
I relish in the taste of triumph
and surmount as being the
greatest Artic Wolf in the
My famished body has been marked with the game,
my prey killed with one grasp from my mouth-
Then I linger on to my cave, fulfilled and tame,
tomorrow it will be the time to travel down south.
Poetry in an Animal's View
January 29, 2017
Copyright © Lu Loo | Year Posted 2017
Being strong is his only option
Satisfaction is not always the fulfillment of what you want
when you gets stuck in an unwanted situation
Witch hunting and lynsjing
He loses control and it makes him desperate
The bitterness has taken over, as a development of a toxic virus
Bile from the stomach leaves a bitter taste on the tongue
His defense mechanisms are in constant preparedness
It's about making choices and all choices have consequences
A fear of losing his identity, total paranoia
Thoughts like a spider web in destruction
The water is polluted, rape of our world
Twisted lines of madness ...
nightmares, tears and flashbacks
He does not know the rhythm of the music
Brainstorm Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Hamilton
~ 4th place in the contest ~
Sun :) - A-L Andresen :)
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Sunshine Smile | Year Posted 2018
black and white landscape
a colony of penguins ~
standing and waddling
in the oceans depth ~
lives a black and white giant
orca killer whale ~
seal on an ice flow ~
oblivious to danger ~
head butting whale strikes
egg laid by female ~
emperor penguin stands guard
female goes hunting ~
not in Africa ~
elephant and leopard seals
sea is their jungle ~
hourglass dolphins ~
smaller than a bottlenose
keen bow wave riders
home is in the air ~
the wandering albatross
a ten foot wingspan
in the frozen south ~
a species of royal bird
the emperor penguin
the antarctic terns ~
fly over a silver dish
krill is on the menu
thick and warm white coat
a camouflaged artic fox
unseen in the snow ~
top of the food chain
carnivorous white giant
fearsome polar bear ~
Copyright © Tom Cunningham | Year Posted 2018
Against all odds, your destiny,
To live and grow, your history...
You grew and bloomed with all your might
With drops of rain and harsh sunlight
Through crack in earth you came to be.
Passed down from Greek mythology;
Adonis born from Myrrha's tree
In wild boars wounds from Ares fight
Against all odds.
Adonis' blood that flowed freely
Turned into roses magic'ly.
This sad tale of Adonis' plight
Engaged in death, now retains light
As you share love in purity
Against all odds.
*In Greek mythology, roses originated from Adonis, deity of plants and rebirth. Adonis was born from a deceptive union between King Theias and his daughter Myrrha. When King Theias realized that his daughter had tricked him, he chased her with his sword. To protect Myrrha, Aphrodite transformed her into a tree.
King Theias shot the tree with an arrow, splitting it in half. It was from this tree that Adonis was born. Aphrodite took to Adonis and raised him like a son. As Adonis grew, he became an avid hunter. One day while he was hunting, Adonis came across Ares, one of Aphrodite’s past lovers, who was disguised as a wild boar. Ares attacked Adonis and when Aphrodite heard his screams, she ran into the forest and found him dying. The blood that ran from his wounds hit the ground and turned into roses.
In another version of the tale, red roses originated when Aphrodite was running to Adonis’ side, cut her feet on the thorns of the flowers, and stained them red.
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2018
I hear you've been waiting for me
Is this here what you've been wanting
For me to just set your soul free
There's no need for anymore hunting
I'm not the kind whose into romance
But I can make your body and soul hot
Truthfully you don't stand a chance
When I touch you in that delicious spot
Just you sit back relax and breath
Its your very first time with me now
So let me show you what's underneath
Guaranteed I got all the know-how
My job is yes that you I do please
Because babe I know how to work it
If by some chance I happen to tease
Lay back and just let me twerk it
You see loving that is my hustle
I come in so many different degrees
I'll have you working every muscle
Even if I am down on my knees
Know you might not see me again
Just let me give you what you need
This silky skin against your skin
So its ok if tonight you want to concede
Know in the morning if I'm not here
I only came to sexually appease
Afterwards I always seem to disappear
I'm here because I heard your pleas
Like a genie I give you your fantasy
Then come daylight I will be gone
Leaving you to remember the ecstasy
In your memory I will always live on
Copyright © Brenda Chiri | Year Posted 2018
I had an alien for two weeks before I realized how unusual she was.
I wish I could be a mouse in the corner, I had said, and I was.
My alien gave me a cracker, patted me on the head, and reminded me
Once again, how important it is to keep her earth-visit quiet from the masses.
I nibbled on the cracker nervously, wondering how long I would be stuck
Wearing this smelly fur suit, dragging this ugly super long tail?
Praying that Shark, my killer cat was out hunting somewhere else.
Poof! I was back in my normal body.
What other talents do you have? I asked my alien friend.
Not in words because aliens from the two-galaxies-over talk in thoughts.
I am a tripartite, she tele-pathed to me.
Her body immediately transmogrified into three separate, untouching-pieces.
Before I could close my shocked wide-open mouth, she had transmuted back into one complete alien.
Can you disappear? I asked her.
That was the last I ever saw of her.
Some days, however, I feel that she is here, invisible, watching me,
On those days, I wonder if I am going to find
Myself munching on a cracker.
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018