Best Rutting Poems
“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” By John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Autumn comes with light rain and fallen leaves,
Shorter days, chills but lots of blessedness.
As pretty doves shelter under the eaves,
We sit on benches admiring the lake,
Some birds fly, geese long gone to better climes
And humpback fish swim, twisting like a snake.
How I love this season with such good times.
Up on the hill, a stag deer roars its call,
The rutting season has truly began.
Such is the exciting time of the fall.
Barks attract the young bucks to join the clan.
Youngsters prepare their main annual fare,
Halloween is near, trick or treat beware.
Categories:
rutting, autumn,
Form:
Sonnet
Warm days and cold nights
a clash of bucks rutting wild
snowflakes scent the wind.
Autumn paints the leaves
cascading colors tumble
crimson carpets stone.
Ripe for Halloween
an eery pumpkin patch gleams
the moon glows orange.
Written Oct.21, 2015 for "Autumn Haiku - Poetry Contest".
Categories:
rutting, autumn, beautiful, color, imagery,
Form:
Haiku
You,
A creature so unlike a dinosaur,
Pallid, weak and frail.
No fossil in the stony flesh of Mother Earth,
Unlike trilobite, leaf or snail.
Worse yet, no one searches for your trace,
Or recognises that you're missing,
They're all wrapped up in studying,
Fornication, fondling and kissing.
No biologist, paleontologist, anthropologist,
Searches for your presence, growing frantic,
To find at least one before the Great Extinction,
The last of the true Romantics.
T'is true they're not searching for you now,
Without rutting their interest is small,
They'll learn one day that the old ways were true,
And again you may hear hopeful calls
Categories:
rutting, imagination
Form:
Verse
Warm breaths morph into a November ghost,
a spectral mist that swiftly dissipates.
And barren trees lament the loss of leaves
as Autumn approaches where Winter waits.
The wind whistles through the twigs and branches,
rattling the bare bones of the naked trees.
And sings a soulful dirge for Autumn's Dead,
as the rivers and creeks begin to freeze.
Frost accumulates upon window panes,
creating canvases of abstract art.
And Fall leaves crunch and crackle underfoot
as rutting bucks challenge their counterpart.
A spent sun slinks low in a steel grey sky,
as Summer's late bloomers wither and die.
Categories:
rutting, 10th grade, 9th grade,
Form:
Sonnet
Darkened skies
That cloaks the night, slowly fade away
And the melodic songs of birds, are heard
Heralding a bright new day
As the earth begins to feel the warmth
Of a sultry, soft sun’s heat
Morning mists envelop the ground
Like a pure white silken sheet
From beneath the shroud, rustling is heard
As small creatures leave their lairs
Scurrying around, on their hunt for food
That will be their winter fayre
Berries, nuts and soft ripe fruit
Abundant on bushes and trees
Will be harvested and stored away
To sustain through winter’s freeze
Dawn’s crisp frost begins to melt
And a tapestry of colour is seen
Of lustrous reds, orange, yellows and gold
As nature changes from summer’s green
There’s a nip in the air,
A chill in the breeze, rustling through the trees
Creating a kaleidoscope snowstorm
Of gently falling leaves
Treading majestically through the leaves
Is a magnificent, male, red deer
His melancholy, soulful, mating call
Tells that rutting time is here
It echoes to the river, where a hint of a splash
Forms rings, as the salmon rise
And from their homes in the bank, sand martins dart
To feast on insects and flies
While across in the meadow, profuse with blooms
Rabbits and field mice run free
As butterflies dance from flower to flower
To the drone of bumble bees
And in a patchwork landscape of fertile fields
Both sheep and cattle laze
Sleepy, from having eaten their fill
Of the lush, fecund, grass they graze
As I take a stroll through these idyllic scenes
It leaves me breathless, with no words to say
On how anything can ever, be compared
To the beauty of an autumn day.
Categories:
rutting, nature, seasonsautumn,
Form:
Rhyme
October is....
crop-laden fields gleaned of their bounty,
laid bare by the sharp-honed blades of man
and machine.
October is....
trees shedding rich-hued, chameleon coats,
standing naked against sharp winds and
sightless night skies.
October is....
wildlife feeding, foraging, rutting; some migrate,
some store up, and others make ready for a long
hibernal sleep in den or other woodland refuge.
October is....
falling leaves and field chaff laying a carpet among
the barren trees. Each of our crisp footfalls yields the
aromatic fragrance of nature and decay.
October is....
winds unimpeded, washing down upon field,
woods and home, drying and searing the earth,
but with cold.
October is....
the fallow soils, annealing themselves as
a sign of accord with fall's acquiescence.
October is....
our sun, still present in its arc,
withdrawing for a season and a time.
October is....
night skies exhaling frigid breaths of air;
the chill envelopes us in a crisp, palpable grip.
October is....
the moon marking its sentinel course
across a mute and fathomless purple sky.
October is....
families in cozy shelters, having prepared and
stored up to abide safe, sated, and warm.
October is....
nature and man acknowledging the imminent
quiet, reflection, and dormancy of winter.
10-1-13
Categories:
rutting, earth, life, seasons, sky,
Form:
The Roosevelt Elk
The Roosevelt Elk
A beautiful, majestic creature, that walks with head up high with pride that stands as tall as a horse, with a rack of antlers with many points that looks like a crown on top of his head depending on how old he is, that he uses as a weapon against his foe , which are shed each year
Even though he has a heavy scent of musk he can pick up a scent carried hundreds of yards away if the wind is blowing his direction
His coat is thick and soft, with longer hair on the chest and shoulders of sable color, with a light brown body, and a cream-colored rump and no tail, their coat make it a habitat for fleas, because his coat is thick and soft it enables him to sneak through a thicket when he hears your nylon or denim clothes rake against a bush
Feeding on grasses, plants, leaves, bark, and including highbush cranberry, elderberry, devil's club blueberries, mushrooms, lichens, and salmonberries
He engages in ritualized mating behaviors during the rutting season to have his own Harem, that involves in posturing, urinating, tossing turf and fighting with his antlers, and bugling, a loud series of vocalizations which establishes dominance over other males and attracts females
A beautiful, majestic creature, that walks with head up high with pride that lives in the wide-open land with tall grass, under the canopy of Douglas –fir, cedar, and old growth stands and beautiful wild flowering azaleas
By Eve Roper 10/9/2014
Categories:
rutting, animal, imagery, nature,
Form:
Prose
The Haggis lives a solitary life
On mountainsides and braes
Foraging, for slugs and snails
Is how he spends his days
But come the rutting season
A change in him you’ll find
He’ll go out searching, high and low
For others of his kind
His plumage changes colour
From brown to scarlet red
A pair of tree like antlers
He sports upon his head
Then if a female he should sense
On hind legs, at full height
Lets out his raucous mating call
In the Scottish summer night
The pair perform their mating dance
In amongst the heather
Then when the dance is over
Go at it, hell for leather
In just six weeks the brood is born
And unlike any other
They suckle at their fathers breast
And not that of the mother
When the weaning’s over
They’ll go their separate ways
Foraging for slugs and snails
On the mountains and the braes
If you find yourself in Scotland
And you hear a raucous cry
Still your heart, be not afraid
Tis just the Haggii
© 22-01-2009
Categories:
rutting, animals, fantasy, children, funny
Form:
Light Verse
You often hear those fellas who go bragging in the pub,
about women and their conquests, and how they’re the sexual hub,
they spruik about their exploits like they are a gift from God,
of course I end up listening to, the peas from in one pod.
Yeah, they’re out to beat each other with their antics in a bed,
thank God there’s not a woman here, to hear what has been said,
‘cause I’m sure they’d laugh their guts out at the drivel I have heard.
and I never speak off exploits. I say nothing… not a word.
In some ways I’m just like them; these mates who choose to brag,
I’ve had some nights out on the tear, and played the rutting stag,
but I would never tell those mates of mine about one night I had,
when I met this ‘bird’ in Melbourne, who’s looks were not too bad.
We got talking at the bar and so I brought her drinks and tea,
and after downing seven ouzo’s she was making eyes at me,
then she added some suggestions that quite openly I read
as a kind of invitation that she liked to share her bed.
Now those mates of mine with what they said is really second class,
and I know from my experience their acts would barely pass,
but let me tell you in the morning when it’s light I’m taking note,
of a photo on her dresser, that brought a lump into me throat.
I admit that I was worried with a need to understand,
so I asked her if this photo was her out of town husband,
she laughed and said “No, silly!” And snuggled up again,
but I had to clear the coast… “Is this your boyfriend then?”
She shook her head “No, not at all”, then nibbled on me ear,
“Who is it then?” I asked the lass, to minimize me fear.
She was upfront, she didn’t lie, and there was no perjury,
she kissed me gently then she said “It’s me, before the surgery.”
Categories:
rutting, humor,
Form:
Rhyme
Countless generations lapsed since height of Greco-Roman mythology conceived, birthed and populated vast canopy of sky and expanse of terrestrial firmament, whereat obeisant propinquity quintessentially remains stalwart this day and age as guise dolls dote demonstrably come Valentine’s Day, when Cupid plucked from the quiver, notched in bowstring and launched Eros tinged arrow induces love struck swain to swoon upon a lassie fair, whence fecund female feast proliferates progeny.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
bona fide hormonal hankering didst since Adam and Eve a wake
aromatic, balmy, and captivating as effect from drinking sassafras
kin powerful pulsations viz diving rod erect phallus
creating con fusion pro bono er to enter lips engorged mass
Pussy swathed qua tangle of coiled, kinked, and thatched course grass
Willy wonka with vestal virgin hair line gonadal zone **** embarrass
twig and berries rutting, rusticating, routing and romancing intent
to deflower re: piercing hymen
with nary immune to perdition or déclassé
hello kitty edenic tropic of cancer coital compass
emitting pheromones culling asper a bong
clapping banging brass
intractable supremacy reproductive sport
waging whore with contemporary take
verboten fruit sexual pang thrust forward
omnipotent magnetic thirst to slake
unstoppable passions flared unfazed as annals
depict how hot coals feet did rake
despite hollow religious strictures obloquy,
the serum filled genitals did quake
infiltrate historical manifestations, naked humans
prey zing clear or opaque
deities of yesteryear demonstrable
bas relief showers copulation doth make
primal urges imbued *****sapiens
e’er since first man saw lady of the lake
triggering libidinal longing inducing salivation sans love struck drake
multi-tiered mouth watering orgasmic gastronomic carnal cake
Aphrodite spellbinding storied sport thrives inducing heart break
imbuing human guys gals feverish enthralled dizzy catnip behoove ache.
Categories:
rutting, adventure, age, animal, body,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
Sad scarecrows stand neglected;
as day shrinks and night pervades.
And Autumn inks colored leaves
before Winter's cold invades.
Trees blush scarlet and crimson,
responding to Jack Frost's kiss.
And foggy breaths of air morph
into clouds; breezes dismiss.
Rutting sets the bucks on edge;
rivals clashing head-to-head.
While their pungent odor lures
compliant does to be bred.
The ground crackles when treading
on newly dead and dying.
And thin, skeletal branches,
reach up to grey skies crying.
Raindrops freeze into snowflakes,
forming frozen puffs of cloud.
And Autumn's stripped of color;
buried under Winter's shroud.
Categories:
rutting, autumn, beautiful, imagery, nature,
Form:
Quatrain
K1087 and K1089 of Canto 109 of the THIRUK-KURAL: Thagaianangkuraiththal
(In the transliterations, the capital vowels stand for the repetition of the same vowel: eg., “A” for “aa”)
K1087: kadAak kalittrinmEl kadpadAm* mAthar
padAa mulaimEl thuthil
As veil o’er angry eyes, Of raging elephant that lies,
The silken cincture’s folds invest this maiden’s panting breast. (Transl. G. U. Pope)
The cloth that covers the firm bosom of this maiden is (like) that which covers the eyes of a rutting elephant. (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
The ornamental frontlet covering the elephant in rut;
The maiden’s veil of fine cloth covering her breast. (Transl. T. Wignesan)
(*kadpadAm = ornamental fillet or frontlet for blindfolding an elephant.
*kadAkkaliru = an elephant in rut.)
K1089: pinai*Er mada*nOkkum nAn*um udaiyAdku
anievanO Ethil thanthu*
Like tender fawn’s her eye; Clothed on is she with modesty;
What added beauty can be lent; By alien ornament? (Transl. G.U. Pope)
Of what use are other jewels to her who is adorned with modesty, and the meek looks of a hind?* (Transl. Drew & Lazarus)
(*I find this Drew-Lazarus translation most elegant, indeed. T.W.)
In tandem with the hind’s artlessness/simplicity of mien and innate modesty, what stratagem of extraneous adornment can add to her beauty? (Transl. T. Wignesan)
(*pinai = hind; nAn/nAnu = modesty, shame; madam = female simplicity; thanthu = scheme, stratagem, artifice.)
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2017
Categories:
rutting, beautiful, emotions, first love,
Form:
Epigram
One winter eve I walked out with my dog,
The way was dark, unlit by moon and stars,
My flickering torchlight failing in the fog,
To pick out tree roots,crevices and rocks,
To cause a stumble, and a muffled curse.
Whatever else was lurking in the trees,
Silent and still, in my mind grew worse,
As an unfolding midnight dream turned sour.
I knew the the path. We trod it every day,
So filled with pleasure and delight 'til now.
My step quickened. I could not shrug away
A feeling of disquiet and unease,
Palpable amidst the encircling gloom.
Nocturnal creatures scarcely made a sound
But it was magnified, a crack of doom,
A falling twig, or rustling dried-up leaves,
Predators unseen, darkly eyeing prey,
Their evil presence almost within touch,
Waiting the chance to carry me away,
To drag me to some foul and putrid nest,
Never again to see the light of day.
With tensions high and senses all alert,
Out of the dark, a touch upon my leg.
Startled and fearing, a step back I lurched,
And then relief. It had been but a nudge
From Ross. Perhaps he sensed and shared
My fright, but then, from out the stillness of the night,
A fearsome roar. My feet turned into stone.
Blood curdling, heart stopping, the monstrous sound
Echoed around us. Frozen to the spot,
My breathing stopped. I could not turn around
To flee. And then again it came, so close, it seemed
To set the very trees a-quivering.
What beast was this, what wild and hellish fiend ?
More furious bellowing, on and on
And on, and still I could not see the source.
Turning to run, the path had disappeared.
Crashing through entangled briars, ditches,
Fallen trees, scratched and bleeding, soon I feared,
Mud-soaked and stumbling now, that i was lost.
Still I heard the creature, somewhere behind,
Roaring, bellowing, angry with the night.
I fell into a muddy ditch, half blind,
And scrambled through the slime, hoping I might
Emerge at the wood's edge, so close to home
But, helpless, I was sucked into the mire,
Down,down and deeper down, now filled with fear,
Breathing in mud, heart pounding, lungs on fire.
No hope, no light ahead, my end was near.
I reached the bottom. Now let truth be said.
What did I find? I'd fallen out of bed !
And that, dear reader, though I am not one to brag,
Was my encounter with the rutting Lyth Hill stag !
Categories:
rutting, adventure, fear, horror,
Form:
Rhyme
The coming of fall
Brings hazy cool mornings, as fog hovers between the mountains
The feel of soft flannel finding my bare skin
Footprints left among the dew on green grass, reminding me of walks on seashore sands
The sun reflecting off colorful leaves, making them sparkle like jewels hanging in the trees
Overhead, a passing flock of geese squawk saying hello, as they make their way to their winter home
A faint hint of smoke hangs in the air from a nearby fireplace burning against dawns early chill
A Buck deer's rutting cry echoes from somewhere in the distant valley
Gentle breezes stir crispy leaves as they fall around me like giant tree tears
Evening air turns warm touched with the last breath of summer
As the early sunset whispers its golden promise of the coming of fall
©Donna Jones
Categories:
rutting, nature, me,
Form:
Free verse
IF EVER I HAD A COUNTRY - LXXVII
IF ever I had a country proud of its wall-less porous boundary
And if ever by no mistake of the Supreme High Command of the International Militaro-Business Conspiracy I were appointed the CHIEF TARIFF IMPOSER and Eminence Grise of and on all the self-righteous realms rocambolesque republics and renegade run-of-the-mill rotten rotting rostrum-raving riven ribald rascally rickety refugee-raised democracies
Mark my words I’ll put an end to the raping of my dearly-beloved national integrity by
One, importing all available rutting Queen Bees of the "Killer African Bees" and have them breed with local wasps of high pedigree in the front-line of battle along the Southern Border under every tree where I’d let Red Ant-Hills multiply free
Two, import Myanmar Pythons with a taste for digesting young fresh human flesh, mixed with the local brand of Everglades alligators, down the Mississippi and the Colorado River sprinkled liberally with the Grand Canyon brand of the Rattle-Snake with their tell-tale warning-rattle nipped off, together with the silent army of Black Widows clad in their enticing mantilla webs, as a second-line of defense against the illegal refugee
Next, if they still keep coming I’d roundup all the lazy good-for-nothing thick-maned Bisons of the prairies and have them lined up for a Charge-of-the- Heavy-Brigade stampede by whipping their asses to the sound of the Land of the Free
And if this doesn’t stem the tide of illegal immigrants, drug dealers and tourists with empty pockets, I’d call on the faithful Black and White striped Tribe of Appalachian SKUNKS with my tonitruant bugle, line them up so that their posteriors faced Tierra del Fuego and let them squirt to their hind-hearts’ desire even at the risk of driving the entire population out of the country
Yes Siree, this’s what I’d do as the Eminence Grise and Chief Imposer of Tariffs of My Beloved Contree
And this even if I never ever had no country worth saving for the ennui of a penny
(c) T. Wignesan - Paris, June 11, 2019
Categories:
rutting, america, drug, humor, immigration,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue