Best Venison Poems
My door is open
I welcome you
To my Highland lands
Off heathers and hue
Cross the bridge
Of centuries old
To my castle of grey
In it's regal fold
Stand with me
In the great hall of my past
Like generations
Us Fraser's will last
Climb spiral stairs
To a turreted tower
Look out on my lands
As the northern lights shower
Turn to the left
Look out to the fields
They stretch for miles
Many harvests they yield
The moat leads off
Into a river so pure
With it's salmon ladder
Caught to mature
Lets take to the horses
To forests of pine
They carpet the glens
In greenery fine
Centuries old
Camp fire and cheer
Weeks away
Chasing the deer
The welcome we received
When we reached home
Venison and pheasant
From our Highland roam
Off the great hall
To the room of the past
Where tartans and paintings
My ancestral past
Open great fireplace
Lights up the room
Claymores and armour
In past battles bloom
The evening draws
Arrival of guests
To feast on the roam
For the food we are blessed
Midnight approaches
Bedtime retire for all
As i look out my window
In awe at it all
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/scotland.php
There is happy ado on the old farmstead as Yuletide draws nigh!
Wondrous things to savor as gales blow and snow begins to fly!
The tempest rages for days - they will surely be snowbound,
But a blazing fire warms the Victorian home - love and cheer abound!
Since early in July Pa has had his eye on a special evergreen tree.
It now graces the parlor and they dance about it with glee!
Brightly lit candles adorn branches of the perfectly shape fir.
'Neath lies The Babe - The Magi offering frankincense, gold and myrrh.
The boys have hefted armloads of wood from the oak tree grove,
For Ma and the girls to cook delectable fare on the wood-burning stove.
Titillating aromas waft from room to room in the gracious old house,
From the roasting goose, venison and tender prairie grouse!
Rusty the dog and Simba the cat lie snuggling nigh the fire.
The family gathers 'round the old pump organ for an impromptu choir.
Bellowng off-key, Pa leads them in carols, all ln spirited mirth,
And later by the hearth, Pa reads the story of the Savior's birth.
The ancient grandfather clock tolls ten- the kids are shooed to bed.
Ma and Pa place presents 'neath the tree in old Santa's stead.
With a twinkle in his eyes, Pa steals a kiss 'neath the mistletoe!
The excited kids scarcely snooze listening for Santa's Ho! Ho! Ho!
NOT FOR THE CONTEST
Anchored by its feet hangs the carcass
Butcher removes brisket and strings it
Chuck steak diced for stews and pies
Dark well matured silverside rests
Entrails give the dogs a royal feast
Flank minced for spaghetti bolognese
Gullet chopped into stock pot simmers
Hanging meat swings as the butcher works
Icy still from the blast chiller
Juicy steaks thickly cut are parcelled up
Kebabs skewered, placed on display
Loin of beef neatly lined up
Minced steak patties for burgers
Neck used in both stock pot and stew
Offal set aside for pate and pies
Perfectly roasted beef ready to carve
Quick flash fry of rib eye seals in juices
Rump not too trimmed dribbles on grill
Sirloin anointed by a king sizzling
Tongue gently braised in gravy or stock
Utensils casting shadows on the wall
Venison from red deer's makes tasty things
Wing rib rubbed with hot spices waits
Xhosa cattle graze in pastures green
Yellowed meats set aside for soup
Zibeline hides scrapped and cured, nailed up
8/27/2015
contest Any Poem written in August
Remember,
when hearts become wrinkles,
as pages not wrote,
thoughts were once Shakespeare’s,
on crumpled pages of note.
Poet’s, pages unwritten,
one day is guilt smitten,
for dries up many streams,
of, accomplished poet's dreams.
I have a little critic,
for whom I write Didactic,
Didactic, for my critic.
“I do not thank they get it.”
They only whet my skill,
as different notions spill.
Love lyrics for heretics,
rhymes for their crimes.
With Tennyson, I eat venison,
quite often, out on the hill,
always, I get my quill,
never failing to get my fill.
Thoughts in time, become vapor,
not unlike, crumples of paper.
A wasted memory is a crime,
even a weak one like mine.
Your crumpled papers,
do soon become vapors,
if critics have their say,
as poetic thoughts remain in disarray.
“Record them today,
for Carol, Mi... la... day!”
Dedicated to Carol
In Honor of Contest:
Pieces of Paper…a Poet’s heart
By John Moses Freeman
I think that I may be indecisive.
But now I’m not really quite sure
I can’t seem to make up my mind
I've never had this problem before
I used to see everything in black and white
Now I can’t decide and nothing is right
I was going to buy some venison
But decided it was a little deer
Maybe I’ll get some new glasses
So my clouded judgement is clear
26th April 2015
Fish madam?
Price Edwards a Welsh man taught me how to poach eggs fish and rabbits
The recipe for poached eggs is universal
Poached perch is.....Take fillets and cheeks saute in butter with a dash of mead
Poached trout........Wrap in aluminum foil with herbs.. throw in small fire
Poached rabbit.....Debone saute in olive oiland butter...add mushrooms and leek
Poached venison I’ve never tried
Anthem for a Veggie
Never gonna roast no chicken
Never gonna braise no steak
Never gonna grill no lamb chop
Eating meat, I’ll not partake.
Never gonna fry no sausage
Never gonna boil no ham
Never gonna barbecue burger
Feast only of the fields and Yam.
Won’t feast on Yuletide Turkey
Won’t feast on fatted goose
Won’t kill no moorland partridge
Saving pheasant from a noose
Won’t skillet no wild venison
Won’t stir fry country hare
Won’t eat any creature that lived
Because it’s wrong and so unfair
The young doe so alive
Brought down by one shot
Way back, several years ago
The hunters could not find her
Venison they desired to eat
Then her carcass lay at the edge
Of an open field next to the deep woods
Slowly
Vultures, crows, bobcats, ants
Ate their fill
Now only dry bones left
Still baked by the sun
My writing has hit a dry spell
Like those dry bones
Baked by the spring sun
All dried up, turned white by the sun
While I sip tea sitting in my cabana, enjoying the nature
I watch two deer playing joyfully as the sun shares
My lovely neighbors are barbequing
Venison is on the menu...I have tears
Writing Challenge 5, March 2019, Four Lines-Poetry Contest
Sponsor Dear Heart
3-24-2019
The Farm ©
Fields of mustard
sway in a light breeze
off the river
farm dogs return
dusted in yellow
the clapboard gray of
the farmhouse
weeps old memories
generations of pea farmers,
hunters, fishermen and cooks
heady fragrance of cooking food
saturate the senses as
the screen door slaps shut
the matriarch sings out
‘tea party!
and the city folk sit ‘round a table
laden with baked chicken that was
pecking out a meal in the yard that day
fried venison steak and mashed potato
green beans and corn hanging from the vine
just minutes ago
her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff
dreams are made of
Later they sit on the warped porch steps
listening as the geese honk their way in
to the seed rich fields and
their nightly respite
bats fly across the moon,
frogs call out their secrets,
a loon wails its loneliness
old stories are told
Trisha Sugarek
Moths and Machetes
Treasures and passages, peaceful as land, sky, and sea
Heartland of hope, harvesters and helpful hands
Abundance shows America as plateau of plenty
Natives in November remembers, family came first
Kindness swells, like tidal rhythm of breath across this land
Sacred words are heard, a symbol of gratitude and caring
Generations grace the day with family, and friends as guests
Indigenous folks can never forget... extending help
Visions of brighter days, of venison and veggies are stored
I learned of Thanksgiving, migrating to America's welcoming shore
Now is reminder; shall I thank ancestors, or Source above
Gratitude reigns for all, one nation under God.
*
~When retired Redneck take a vacation,
Needs not AARP’s senior discounts,
Motel tarpaulin costs are his passion,
A Redneck needs not large bank cash amounts.
~Give him some worms that squirm and North Fork Creek,
With wilderness trees, he’s very well pleased,
I’m Redneck quite sleek , have my own technique,
Head where wildlife frees, in mountain air breeze.
~My food still on hoof, venison is great,
There’s fish a plenty, may ride my Jenny,
Don’t need a debate, I’ll call my love Kate,
She’ll rough it with me, loves to fish you-see,
~Get Jenny some grain, I’ll clip her long mane,
City dudes are vain, drives Rednecks insane!
For and in Honor of: Carol Brown
And Contest: It’s Time For Vacation
(This is a fictional poem)
When my friend and I went deer hunting, I accidentally shot a doe.
If you're wondering if I got away with it, the answer is no.
It was a bad day for me to lose my glasses.
The game warden saw us and he kicked our _____.
We got the crap beat out of us even though it was two against one.
After beating us to a bloody pulp, he put a second hole in our butts with my gun.
We had to sleep on our stomachs for weeks, it was terrible to go through.
We went through all of that misery and we didn't even get some damn venison
stew.
This year dear old Santa Claus
says his sleigh will be drawn by a horse,
for when the crafty old denizen
discovered deer can be venison
he planned to use it as his main course.
From the bottom of my heart
I thank you honey bee
for all that liquid gold
that's bought and sold
Your precious honey from your tiny womb
Yes God bless thy fine honeycomb.
But sorry for stealing
your liquid of healing!
And thankyou baa baa bleating sheep
for your warming fluffy wool
The cold makes the babies weep
and they could die of the cool.
Mother hen to you thankyou
for protein packed trays of gratis eggs
and forgive me, for delicious drumstick legs!
And mooing cows sorry for taking
your calf's milk we too love drinking
for cakes have to be baking
Ah, and apologies for loving those tasty fish fillets
Coated and fried in those fine sizzling skillets
And thankyou little silkworm
Silken dresses have been the norm
Deers thankyou for musk, and venison for the meal
Apologies to calves for partaking of their veal.
Ah thankyou God for all that food
If we thank Him not we're ingrates rude.