Long Hunt Poems
Long Hunt Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunt by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunt poems by poem length and keyword.
Connoisseur Of Ethnic Cuisine
Theme seems apropos during Holiday FancyFeasts despite the plethora of – in my opinion witching hunting - reputable male personalities suddenly accused of sexual harassment after substantial time. Yes granted so the unexpected name dropping felt like a bomb shell towards chaps, this baby boomer mwm would never suspect, point the finger, or accuse, especially one former Norwegian bachelor farmer from Lake Woebegone.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Though anonymous and hardly
a substantially sized mwm baby boomer
(which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks, yet hoop full
to get attention from some well fed dame
many popular rotund gourmands l'chaim tame
their hungry beast – wa hood put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel,
I still revel in writing while
on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
to introduce myself quite lame
with NON GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet t'would be pleasantly syrup prized
if interest
from potential mistress didst exclaim
desire to enjoy a repast, though
said hypothetical gal need
not be a high society dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.
A lone wolf, she listened to the jagged parts of herself
That made her a scamp, a scallywag, a jammed up wood elf.
She had been on her own in the mystical forest for days.
She heard the whispers of the owlets, their wisdom a praise.
She renamed herself Karlow, to fool the hunters chasing her
Vowing to never return to the evil king from Kingdom of Murr.
She was a shape-shifter. She transmogrified during yesterday’s hunt.
She changed into an elf, right in front of them, naked, to be rather blunt.
Karlow was tired of the harem; it smelled of perfume and lotion.
She had stayed hidden, not wanting to be summoned at a king’s notion.
She wanted to learn multiplication, geometry, algebra, and vocabulary.
She had her sights on running an orphanage, fudge factory and dairy.
Night-greeter, a virile young male elf found her to be delightful.
She did not want to talk; he recognized this, for he was insightful.
So he gave her some space, but he watched her carefully from afar.
For he had never seen a beautiful elf before4 who arrived on a star.
arrowhead
an arrow head pierced through
the lace stained veil she used to cover her heart
as the sharpened stone tore through the parts
that took so long to heal
she can’t help but ask herself
how could she let him steal
the life she had just began to rebuild
with an arrow in one hand
an a bow in another
he shot into her like heroin
a small wound, spiraled into addiction
a cycle she seems to stay trapped in
he’ll lend an occasional bandage
just to keep her around
what man wants to hunt someone he’s already found?
the native man knows he found a cherished prize
will he keep her around?
or will he let her go with the arrowhead left inside.
Intended as a soliloquy
Could this man have been a killer?
In dark pursuit of ones demise.
Steadfast vengeance as my pillar
Consumed resolve, no compromise.
No greater gift, there is but life
Yet blood stained hands I seek to claim.
A placid lamb now armed with knife
Purloined harmony has enflamed.
Now here I tread upon the hunt
Within a stones throw of my prey
Eye for an eye he must confront
I close my own for strength this day.
Lost memories do flood my mind
Those better times before the grey.
Family joy long since declined
Emotions spilt in disarray.
He’s seen me now I’ve broken stealth
Instead of fear I see his mirth.
I can’t claim back what was my wealth
Yet I return him to the earth.
What creature have I just become?
Bound to bitterly seek revenge.
I sought rapture, instead I’m numb
My daughters death I have avenged.
1st August 2016
*fictional however I sought a
motive that would induce a
parent to kill.
Space Rock Climber was born to the void
On an asteroid named for its ores and metals
Orbiting the sun one year after another
Morning never comes
Day never breaks
Silence goes on forever dead
A 10 year old son abandoned by parents
Who moved back to their home planet, Earth
The boy climbs rocks for a living on a rock
Food ran out two years ago
The climber turned to stones and minerals
Surviving on dirt sustenance alone
Rocks stay in place forever with their flavor
Easy to hunt down in craters
Black skies scream at the stars
Lack of atmosphere, depleted air
Low oxygen, no spare tanks, parental lies
Laid out on the platform of dark horizons
No one lives for long in outer space
Parents should not leave their children all alone
Like so much liter waste and weightlessness
He forgot their names
Embraced the great beyond as his domain
They had no room on board the ship they said
If only he were a little lighter
Perhaps he would fit between the gold and silver
Shipments of such commodities are revered
Rock climber has no name
It is not needed in this environment
Temperatures run from the sun
From hot to cold as is expected
Climate fluctuates that way in space
The young man stays the same
Stands on solid ground
Time sets no limits on the day
As the asteroid tumbles on
No doubt it has directions figured out
A barren rock is not a proper home
If he could remember, he would forget
It's for the best
Abandonment is not healthy for the mind
Mom and dad left him minors tools
Smiled and gave advice
They told him to climb high ridges
And wave good-bye
It is a trial out in space
Cry’s go unheard and serve no purpose
The vacuum of the void defines survival
This is the only world he knows
Rock Climber goes up the granite inclines
To find minerals for his soul
He grows too old to work
Then something happened
As luck would have it a collision just occurred
An asteroid hit his little world
Hurled him and his rock back home
Finally he would see the Earth
Enter the atmosphere in a hurry
Just in time to tell his mom and dad
Don't worry! Don't burn alone!
I'm here so we can have a blast together
"Please turn off the blinding lights"
Must close my eyes to see the brightness of my future.
My today's reality dims the spirit of the hunt.
Overcasting shadows and shaded grays of life's blunders;
of many passions, many desires, and many shall-not-wants.
Cannot dread what madness awakes with the rising sun.
Early birds catching worms; the hustle and bustles of rush hour traffic.
Of life keeping me on the run; a rat race full of chaos and havoc.
Challenging games of lady luck; trying to turn a quarter into a buck.
Dipping into what we call... "White Magic".
Yet I'm full of hope and answered prayers, my life's a blessing I cannot complain.
Even though another day, another half dollar, another of the same.
Rolling with the punches, turning cheeks, to do or die__are noted statements and claims to fame.
They are merely facts of life and nothing to be glorified or blamed.
Far down deep in the darkness of my mind__ illuminating brightness of my visions.
Tasting the sweetness of success. I shall drink of it from a golden cup.
Not of the dreams I won't ever give up, but of my many decisions.
There, I dance the jig on star studded stages__ with standing ovations;
to the sounds of silence and in dark illuminations.
Illusion of Intrusion
The illusion laced with confusion how, so many think they know, only too get lost in the hunt for the perception of ease.
Please, the one that matters most.
Protect and hold your true feelings close, while taking another dose.
Only to brag and boast, giving a toast to the night air, to stare. Wondering is anything ever fair.
Yet, you find yourself still ready to declare sentiments, for those that are no longer there.
Now, it's just an unsettling feeling of lust. Whispering those words, who do you trust?
Denying the things that unfold, behold the things that have turned cold. This intrusion; this illusion of truth, that has left you bitter, with one night stands. Sadness falls, wasteful is the game.
Shame, when there are more losers than winners. Leaving things the same way you arrived.
Survived, when taking aim at ones heart, where all things start and shall remain.
Encompassed by the wants and needs.
Freed to take heed of all adversity, even when stricken with uncertainty. University of clarity, which has risen within view, to pursue that which is real. Instilling that which is faith, hate when there was doubt. Hope when there was pain. Love still remained, embedded within these veins.
Darius Howard
Centuries ago, women suspected of witchcraft
Almost always met a fiery end
This brutal practiced seemed daft
As rules for proving witchcraft would never bend
Women with a mole or a scar
Is all the proof they needed
It was really quite bizarre
As common sense was never heeded
Torturous methods were used to force a confession
This of course would seal the woman's fate
Witches seemed to be their obsession
No mercy came at any rate
Echoes linger where injustice once thrived
As history turns its faded page
For many justice is still deprived
Are we moving from or toward a darker age?
Is it so wrong,
that were I forced to choose one side,
I would choose the darker one?
And then I wonder,
Are there just the two,
are they distinct after all?
I think it would change everything.
I’d let my eyes open without fear,
without any expectations for what I might find.
I’d sweep pages off the table,
and let them do as they’d have done
all along without me.
I’d let them fall.
Maybe I don’t know what I’m saying,
what I’m asking, what I’m wanting.
Maybe the implications would strike me
as something more unbearable
than any obligation ever could have.
But black and white are both so boring,
and I feel like sitting down for awhile
instead of looking tall.
I had a dream where there was only light
at first, and it was beautiful for a while.
Then it grew hot on my skin,
And I knew I had to shut it out,
or it would burn me up,
until I was nothing but ashes.
So I closed the window.
I pulled the curtain shut.
I locked the door.
I closed hands that had always been open,
and let them fall.
I closed my eyes and stopped looking,
and opened up to something else,
something easier.
Maybe it was only my body,
myself (that funny illusion).
The phone kept ringing,
I hung up the call.
The light was gone,
and with it all the notions of the good
I’d collected up on dusty shelves,
that'd been screaming at me for years...
But I’d given all I had,
and now all I wanted was everything back.
The night, the day.
The ticking clock,
that seemed harmless
now that I’d stopped watching it move.
Just when I needed nothing,
I could finally have it all.
To all the good things,
the pretty things,
the pleasant, and the virtuous things,
to all of them
I send my condolences.
From now on,
I’ll not seek them out.
From now on,
I won't hunt them down.
But whenever our paths should cross,
as I'm sure they will,
and I'm found with open hands,
I'll be happy when they stay awhile
without me having to reach at all.
The summer grass of Montana waves in the heat of the noon,
Where the valley of the Little Bighorn waits beneath the silent moon;
The cottonwoods whisper along the river, the winding waters flow,
Unknowing the storm that gathers close, the impending grief and woe.
A nation of lodges spreads wide on the plain, the Sioux and Cheyenne and the brave,
Gathered in freedom to hunt and to live by the river's cool wave;
With Sitting Bull's vision of soldiers that fell like grass in the gale,
And Crazy Horse riding to shield the camp from the encroaching trail.
Down from the ridge comes the Seventh Cavalry, banners of dust in the air,
Led by the general with yellow-ringed hair, riding away from despair;
Divided the forces, the columns unlinked, marching to strike at the heart,
Believing the foe would scatter and run before the first shot could start.
The valley awakens to thunder of hooves, the crack of the repeating gun,
As Reno makes contact and crosses the river beneath the fierce afternoon sun;
The smoke rolls thick through the timbered brush, the panic and chaos arise,
And troopers retreat to the circle of wagons, amid the dust-blinded skies.
Then Custer presses the northernmost rise, seeking the flank of the camp,
Hearing the drumming of thousands of feet and the earth-shaking tramp;
Out of the coulees the warriors pour, countless as stars in the night,
A tide of resistance, fierce and unyielding, entering into the fight.
Arrows like rain blot the bright summer sky, the rifle-fire echoes around,
And riderless horses run wild through the smoke across the blood-spattered ground;
Circle by circle, the trap closes fast wholly engulfed at the foot of the sun-blasted hill,
As the sound of the shooting begins to recede and the valley grows eerily still.
On Last Stand Hill the blue uniforms fade in the dust and the heat,
A tragic collision of empires and fates, a moment of bitter defeat;
The shadows stretch long as the twilight descends, wrapping the slain in its shroud,
While the victors look out o'er the silent expanse, unbroken, defiant, and proud.
Now the grass grows green on the battlefield slope, where monuments whisper of old,
Of the stories of courage and sorrow and loss that history forever will hold;
Where the waters of Bighorn still wind through the plain,
Lies a monument carved where the spirits remain.