Hellboy has encountered the following paranormal entities (and alike)...
Aliens
Beasts
Creatures
Demons, dragons, devils
Erinyes, elves
Fairies
Gods, giants, ghosts, ghouls, golems
Humanoids, huntsmen, hydras
Idiots
Jerks
Killers
Leprechauns
Mutations, mummies, monsters
Nazis
Oracles
Phantoms
Querents
Ra, Heliopic Brotherhood of
Shapeshifters, spirits, skeletons
Trolls
U - n/a
Vampires
Werewolves, witches, worms, warlocks
X - n/a
Y - n/a
Zombies
tigress queen
slithers through moonglow
enthralled by lush wetland’s view
feline eyes guard trails
as gentle roar warms pack’s night
cuddling her cubs with ardor
yet ready to slay huntsmen
when nature’s fairness, defied
Contest of Martin Brown: Ottoanka Challenge
3/06/2019
“If I Were an Elephant”
Too many people look past my beauty,
Look too intently at my ivory.
The huntsmen I fear,
Of wildcats I steer clear.
They all want what I am made of,
Not what I am - not my wisdom, my peaceful demeanor.
I stand tall, I stand proud
I am closer to the stars, I admire each passing cloud.
My young I shall teach to be strong,
Though many look at us all wrong.
I am tall, I am proud,
I will not tilt my head, you will not see me bowed.
The Haggis is an elusive wee beastie
with sweet tasting meat and two hearts
to defeat. To catch one and feast upon is
a well deserved treat.
Even the most skilled
huntsmen are lucky to catch a glimpse, as it
scurries so fast with its two hearts beating
fast.
Oh the Haggis indeed has a quick witted
heed. It evades all known traps leaving the
huntsman grasping at straws and enraged
through his flaws.
Up the mountain side north
peak the wee beastie retreats, to a den in the
clover once more its all over.
The cooling Savannah mud,
Where jungle beasts recline,
Refreshing their leathery hide,
And innocent eyes wink,
Unconcerned by matters of survival,
While Man struggles to find a solution,
To save a species sentenced to die by greed,
Barbaric huntsmen wanting a trophy of murder,
The magnificent horn of the majestic rhinoceros.
Form: Free Verse
His stature upon Pwyll he did impress,
In woolly grey clothing, a huntsmen’s dress,
Then spied the stag; he looked at Pwyll and claimed
‘I know thy name, O prince, but greet thee not!
Thou stole my kill and thou should be ashamed!’
Pwyll knew his deed was wrong; a dreadful thing,
He asked the huntsmen’s name to make amends,
The huntsmen said ‘Arawn, the Annwvyn King’
The prince then asked, ‘Lord, how can we be friends?’
The King then told a tale of war’s duress,
‘Pray, rid my lands of this oppressive lot!
Pray, rid my lands of Havgan!’ he proclaimed.
‘I will gladly,’ said Pwyll, ‘and friendship bring
I’ll bring Havgan’s wars to their bitter ends!’
In days gone by amid the stone
An old poet spoke of the sky
To follow the laws of nature
Or our kind will surely die.
He spoke old words that still seem wise
As the grey-eyed wolf looking back
How the strength of all supports one
And breath of one feeds the whole pack
The poet’s words taught the huntsmen
To be choice while stalking his prey
Take enough to relieve hunger
And return another day.
Now as I lie here in my bed
A thought occurs that won’t let go
These stories I’ve heard many times
And still they are simply Just So!
JF, 28 January 2011
They still wander with caution and fear in the remote swamps and grasslands
of India and Siberia, and these carnivorous animals are the beautiful tigers.
They are trapped, poched, killed and their soft furs are shipped overseas for huge profits,
but their sad end is drawing near, unless some caring human really gets involved and acts.
Their life span is shorter in their natural habitat, struggling for food and those caged in zoos
have a longer life expectancy...they never experience those hunger pangs in early noons.
They are an extremely hostile species, ready to devour anything that has flesh and blood.
Does anyone wonder why they react so indignantly, don't they fear of being taken and sold?
When tigers are attacked, they fight back and killing they prevent their threat of extinction.
Do we all realize their animosity for the huntsmen, who chase them and shoot them down?
Let's all feel some compassion for them...let's save them and give them freedom and dignity.
Let them roam freely as they did once in South Asia, living in full accord with humanity.
The huntsman kneels to examine his prey
A lovely young lady, who’s gone astray
The arrow of love was pierced in her chest
She woke the next morn after the nights rest
She gazed from the ground at the forest ceiling
And felt upon her breast a cool touch of healing
When the huntsmen, drained from the chase,
Saw the maidens stare, he felt his pulse race
He lifted her up from her mossy bed
And as he carried her, the hunter said
“My arrow was blessed in the heavens above,
Whomever it struck would be stricken with love.”
“And in the forest the moon shone upon your face divine,
And from that moment, you had to be mine”
She wrapped her arms about his neck
And out of the forest they continued their trek
When the maiden spoke it filled him with cheer
As she told the hunter what he needed to hear
“I saw you in the forest, searching for game
I knew that I loved and that you’d feel the same”
“I wandered on your path so we might meet
Then I felt the arrow, bittersweet. ”
“And so my dear, your arrow was to no avail,
I loved you then and I always will.”
The picture on the wall of a tapestry,
that is hanging there for everyone to see.
Beauty in the colors woven from edge to edge,
trying to tell the story that is captured so free.
This picture hanging on the wall is made for you and me,
by commemorating an older reminiscence of richly hung scene.
Observe the paintings done by masters of each scene,
fine colors of woven pigment preserved without dishonor.
Frayed around the edges, faded to less than new,
never losing its pre-conceived artistic al view.
The looms of time have woven their landscaped venue,
telling of huntsmen, of horses, of ladies dressed anew.
Tapestry, old with molding and tattered age,
covering a darkened hall in bared and worn thread.
Copied, a robust relief perfected by a weaver,
dyed colors, from an eastern rainbow pallet's stead.
No telling what one can eventually conceive,
by looking at the softly woven colored hue.
Hung at one time to keep out the cold and breeze,
now adorns the walls of a masters hidden milieu.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.