Best Trappers Poems
There was left no middle,
of the path. It was a washed-
out theme and
negative numbers.
No bounce in the steps.
You were cowering in terror
of tomorrow. The fear
overwhelmed the alp.
It was a family feud,
from ashes to bones.
The mixed cadence was sending
the wrong signals to the walls.
The voices now come on the street,
for traditional wars, in
change of seasons. It
was raining out of turn.
Satish Verma
IDEA TRAPPERS
I take a semblance of a hen
A hen conceives an egg
And brings forth an egg
The conditions have to be right
Or else there could never be eggs or hens
If that be the end of a story
Even so
The hen after the pain of delivery
The hen does brood the eggs
In hunger and thirst
In patience and focus
And the fullness of time brings forth a son
Sons of chicken many stroll
Or else the story isn’t ending either
This analogy of an egg
Did come trotting in mine heart
That many a times
Elusive ideas do flicker
So does such an idea distantly faintly seem
Or else a trap of revelation waylay
As a bird afore a snare beckoning
A bird in a tinge
A forebode of a danger drifting
Looking this way and that way
And off it takes off
Even ideas too are wingy and windy
Else the story is being told
A good grasp of an idea is ideal indeed
Ideal for a capture embrace
Without grey
This is metaphorical
Hen brood eggs
And as so
An idea has to be conceived first
An idea has to be developed first
In ideal conditions
A seed will germinate
It will sprout and spur
The afore conditions is a pointer
To the futuristic vitality of a seed
And generations, perhaps
Capacity is a function of preparation
Science has it – nature abhors vacuum
And ideas to be generational
Have to face test of time
And as aforementioned
This is the said brooding of an egg by a hen
And many days fleet
In thirst and hunger
Implying determined sacrifice
For a good many
Having skipped a vital phase as it is
Seclusion it is
Or quietness let’s say
Find themselves enmeshed in quagmire
Dire frustration and loss of direction
And speeding drags the victim deeper afar
In the mire of doubts and apathy
When good ideas fall in ideal soils
Is there assurance of a generation to ensue
And vast forest there lay
And many chicken and hens perhaps…
The cabin was smelly and warm, made toasty by three old trapping buddies. Dick, the coyote man, Mark, the mink maestro, and Always-alive Raccoon Roy.
Raccoon Roy lit up his cigar, and offered the boys one. He had been handing these sixty-five year old boys cigars since they were eight; as he had twenty-four years on them.
“I can tell you which county a coyote comes from, just from looking at the pelt,” Dick said.
“I can tell you where his last scat is, just by looking at a trapped mink,” Mark said.
They both took a puff and studied each other.
“I can tell you who trapped it, by looking at its head,” Dick said.
“I can tell you what month it was born by touching its fur,” said Mark.
They glared at each other.
“I can tell that you two have not changed a bit,” said Always-Alive Roy.
They bragged, and they laughed, and they trapped for three days and three nights.
A last hurrah for Raccoon Roy, as it was his final hunt, him being eighty-nine, and having only a month left due to a horrible disease called cancer. A terrific reminder to the other two that they were still the same boys who had met in kindergarten sixty years earlier, and they should trap together as long as they could.
I’m a trapper! How are you?
I’m a trapper, too.
Then there’s a tragedy of us!
Heh, heh!
Aren’t you too close… your loophole…
DON’T SHOUT!
You know, the tiger is staring at us!
FREEZE!
Take a look!
Let’s look through a crack.
There’s a gang of buffallo murmuring a prayer.
Look at that brook
The tiger is trying to…
Then?
What a good opportunity …
For us, isn’t it?
Hmm… How about your loophole?
Of course ! I will stand up
And prod the tiger in the back to get its attention…
Then you…
Please lie doggo
Until I come back! Trust me!
FREEZE!
DON’T TURN YOUR HEAD!
HANDS UP! GUNS DOWN!
Thank you so much!
Don’t you remember, I’m a trapper too.
Wizened elf researched the fly trappers as well as he could.
They were wreaking havoc and destruction in the deep north wood.
How do you get them to stop? He asked, looking them up at will.
Unfortunately, you have to push them out a bricked over window sill.
We don’t have those wizened elf lamented, now worried.
He heard the mice below, some of them now had scurried.
There has to be another way, he said, reaching for another book.
He has no great solution, I guess, I say, giving him a sad look.