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Best Hunting Poems | Poetry

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New Hunting Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Hunting poems are below this new poems list.

Family Hunting Camp by Welch, David
Translation of Fridtjof Nansen from HUNTING AND ADVENTURE IN THE ARCTIC into poetry, by Tom Cook by Cook, Tom
Arrowhead Hunting by Iannone, Don
Ivory Hunting by Ellison, Jack
ON MY WAY TO THE HUNTING CAMP IN THE SKY WHERE MY SPIRIT CAN REIN ON HIGH by cooper, jack
Wolf Hunting by Wesley, Vaughan
'Goodwill' Hunting by Missing, Roof
Love and Hunting, Part II by Welch, David
Love and Hunting, Part I by Welch, David
HUNTING by Nugent, JW

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The Best Hunting Poems

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My Heart Will Go On

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 It embeds 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 Weeps The sun sets an angry red The aura round the moon glows a crimson hue The Broken Man Sobs While On her Grave An unwatered Rose Flourishes and grows Atoned by his tears instead
Footnote: 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


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Arikara Born

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


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IRONBAR

He just appeared to me, like wispily curling 
Chimney smoke, 
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 
surround!
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 
Stones.
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 
Crippling chill! 
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 
Event, 
And wondered out aloud: What hardened heart had 
Deserted this poor creature to this inhospitable 
Environment? 
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 
partially unconcealed, 
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


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Moving On

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


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Beauty Can't Compete



As the last rays of sunlight start to die scarlet flames burn the sky where clouds ignite. And when 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. (Italian Sonnet) Aug 7, 2018


Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2018


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Waiting For Sunrise

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.

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,

my destiny 

awaits



5/2/15
7am




Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2015


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Where Poetry Lives

 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
hunting grounds
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
that inspire
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


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FEMALE SPIRIT


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 Resubmitted 1.02.2017


Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014


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The Billabong

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


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The Wren

"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


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A Single Blade of Grass

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;
becoming stewards of all life? 
Summon strength that others lack;
depart from paths that summon 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


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Woodstock

~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

Go ahead!
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

~SKAT~


Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2014


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Make Love To Me In That Ancient Place

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...

J.A.B.


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2014


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the last word of hunter

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


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Mountains of my country

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!

11/07/16
Contest: Mountains
Winner: 1st place.


Copyright © Sunita U.D Palawon | Year Posted 2016


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A Knight of Passion

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
Came alight
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


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Bittersweet

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 ~2nd Place~ Contest: Bittersweet Sponsor: Kevin Shaw Judged: 09/11/2017


Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2016


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Daughter of Oak and Ash

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


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Dancing dragonflies






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


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I Am An Artic Wolf

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. 

     My teeth-
         Razor sharp.
            My eyes-
                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 salmon-
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.

       My teeth-
         They clench.
            My eyes-
              Intense.

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
Alaskan territory. 

       My teeth-
          Superior.
            My eyes-
               Acute.

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
Jamie Pan
January 29, 2017






Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2017


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POLAR ANTHOLOGY

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


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Guarenteed I Will Please

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


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Crimson Rose

Crimson Rose 

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. 

8-2-18

2.

*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


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Cat

Lounging licking leaping
Prancing pouncing peeking
Corners closets crouching
Tail twirling twitching
Sniffing sensing sneezing
Hissing huffing hunting
Pretty purring preening
Curiosity kitty killing
Nine long lives living


Copyright © Rick Zablocki | Year Posted 2013


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Guardian Of The Environment - Indigenous Peoples

For several thousands of years
you upheld the sacredness of Nature
avoiding wanton destruction 
of plant and animal life
taking only what you needed
since their sacredness was 
just as important to you
as the sacredness of humanity

When harvesting wild rice for food
you let some fall into the water
to produce crops for the future
Surrounding a pack of wild sheep
while hunting in the mountains
you let a male and female escape
so by their reproductive process
they would ensure the
continuation of their species

You saw yourself as part of Nature
living in harmony with it
and not plundering it with greed
Your religion was to respect Nature
viewing all plants and animals
as parts of its magnificent fabric
Abuse of a part of it was
an abuse of the whole

Your way of life 
provides valuable lessons
that can teach mankind how 
to deal with today's ecological crisis
that threatens the survival 
of all life on the planet
You were the genuine
Guardian of the Environment



I have always admired the way of life of the Native American Indians living in harmony with Nature before the advent of the Europeans. By extension, this applies to all indigenous peoples including the Amerindians and Polynesians. This piece is dedicated to them. 


Copyright © john beharry | Year Posted 2013