Long Hunters Poems
Long Hunters Poems. Below are the most popular long Hunters by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hunters poems by poem length and keyword.
I'm the human version of the Energizer Bunny.
People laugh at me but I don't think it's funny.
I put on this rabbit costume and the zipper broke.
I'm stuck in this rabbit costume and that is no joke.
I'm trapped in this costume that is pink.
I've been trapped for three years and I sure do stink.
When I ask people for food, they give me carrots.
I hate being a vegetarian, I can no longer bear it.
I must get out of this costume and I have a damn good reason.
Hunters have rifles and tomorrow is the start of rabbit season.
I'm sick and tired of being a laughing stock to humanity.
Please get me out this costume before I lose my sanity.
...Johnny just shrugged, took out his Bowie knife,
and started carving off meat for a meal.
He built a fire and roasted back-strap,
it tasted strangely like pork, and like veal?
He ate until he could swallow no more,
since he knew not when he would find a trail,
even roasted more pieces to take along
for the hours when his strength might fail.
Before he left, he looked to the beast,
said,”Who would believe what happened here?
They’ll all call me mad if I tell this tale,
unless I get myself a souvenir.”
So he went to work with that same big blade,
then set about on a trail, rather long,
it was another day before he heard
old internal combustion’s sweet song.
When he emerged other hunters came round,
said,”I see antlers, but that ain’t a moose?”
So Johnny showed them the Wendigo’s head,
and good lord what a fright was let loose!
Huge, manly men, all armed with big guns,
shrieked and ran off when they viewed the beast,
Johnny said,”Guys, there’s no need to run!
I assure you, he is quite deceased!”
This all repeated when Johnny came home,
most were scared, but others cried it was fake.
Professor’s ran some tests on its DNA,
shook their heads, said,”There must be a mistake.”
Eventually Johnny grew tired of them,
and returned to his job and his life,
he’s got the Wendigo skull in his basement,
he’ll even show you, if you ask real nice.
As for the creatures still lurking out there,
they have a new fear, and they should.
To this day Wendigos run for their lives
when they see Johnny walk into the woods.
Dear trafficker,I am on the run
With face emitting fear
Worn in clothe surged into rag
By the scissors of rape
linen scars
With the screech from angry nails;
narrow escape.
Do not ask why I run
Like a prey dodging the hunters’ gun
from thick darkness I run, in search of sun
I am but a derelict
Worn in tattered smock
As the whirlwind stirs frustration
and my hopes remain forlorn
I would relish the scary street
Here is better than your hell
No more shall your contractor waylay my ardent strife
Fruitless life
Sweat in shambles
Still I boast of no life
I wouldn’t come,
Without the credence from your tongue
You said the pastures are green
and life is but a melodious song
Meanwhile you had it planned all along
To make laborers from our clan
The poorer we are, the richer you become
I am only sixteen,
Devoured by manly mantle
For sordid pleasures
My pride will they rumple
and vowed that I shan’t see the morrow’s dawn
If I dare relinquish the place of a pawn
As heeds the rivers’ wave and tide, the coxswain
So do I heed commands that deepens my pain
I am stocked
Can’t move forward, nor to the back return
I am disheartened
With no hope of a glorious turn
In the street corners I shall lay
Where wanton mosquitoes fly
I lay in the spring of tears
Till heaven hears my cry
Trafficker as I lay with earthly stings
I know you are somewhere
Feeding on chicken wings
I run for a place to lay my head
If it means to bunk on grass in exchange for bed
I would anything, than stay in my mistress’ den
Where I am a meal to many men
Daemon! You orchestrated my fall
You took my harvest and careless if I perish
You said papa will be fine when I work
This is all for papa and you know
Why then is my story so
Tell the kids in Togo's loitering street
and all the troubled ones in Africa
When a man like this beacons
Please resist his soothing tongue
For he is darkness in array of light
As he would cajole, to cast on you a lasting plight
He is a coward,
whose fortune depends on our sweat
and in greed, would he have some souls to-let
Trafficker, don’t from your evil schemes relent
Till justice come, and then you’ll have no chance to repent.
A young friendly hippopotamus
lived by the river, across from us
Then one day five hunters came
Looking to shoot big easy game.
*
They put five bullets in his head
And now our friendly hippos dead
They should bow heads in shame
The lodge will never be the same.
*
To kill that beast a heinous crime
They should do some prison time
The rangers came arrested three
But two hunters escaped scot free
*
They ran into the bush to hide
Walked straight into a lion pride
They paid a price, they did offend
'Cos Karma got them in the end.
Written 11th November 2020.
The muscle of the gazelle
formed around the lions tooth.
The fangs of the snake
reflected in the eyes of the newt
The awareness of the stag
grew as far as the hunters perch stood
The heart of the moth
does not believe its ash
will dampen the flame
that towards it’s drew;
Love comes with a duty of grief
Grief accompanies truths we wish not to be
Truth becomes accepted, begetting a future we couldn’t see.
The future sires today’s
when unreliability is allowed to breathe.
Breath finds respiratory arrests
under a consuming authority.
Authority imbibed by the tempting
pollutes its purity.
Purity survives
as long as its dream
carries through its sleep
Sleep decays and restores
as if time is both predator and prey;
primordial polarities.
Time is born of perceptions
that stalk forms of order to feed.
Chaos remains as a formation of order,
albeit one without,
creating laws out of order,
faulted by interruptions
we recognize as every understanding
we wish to achieve.
Persistence of staring down the abyss
creates the fragility we need.
Necessity may be assumed
as solipsistic greed
But regardless of it all,
Worth finds payment
When your love
Convinces you
To take on the duty of Grief.
Wouldn’t it be odd to skip that fare,
As if
There was
Nothing for it to mean?
We remember
That night of horror
When the future was stamped and the cogs were slain
When the execution ground shone red with blood
The blood of the helpless cogs
We remember the horrors
Gunshots like fireworks
The cries of cogs like wolves in the night
As devil's favourite demons feed on raw flesh
We remember the depressed winds
The howling of the tortured winds
The breeze of grief. Of cold steeled grief.
As the cogs kneel with tears in their cheeks
Hands grasping the blood stained shield
Songs of hope in their trembling lips.
Fire! The only noise from the blood crazed hunters
As more cogs fall on the blood soaked floor.
Mother's in pain
Father's groaning inward
Siblings gathered around the dining table
Waiting for the blood filled dinner plate.
We remember the silence
The blood thick silence
The howls of the winds
As it whispers "gory" "gory".
We Shall Not Forget.
Confined in a building day in, day out,
their freedom was withheld; they couldn’t bear it
not a soul was even close to happy even though safe
every individual was depressed, and sleep was slow in coming
The days were lengthy and unfilled; their dismal outlook was not dismissed
The hours of darkness were long and the pillows chilly; After going through
such aloneness and sadness, Why go on living without faith?
The island of angels had many man made things from boxes with windows
and tubes that went boom when blowing out smoke to a large wooden dock
which even the Miwok hunters and fishers never knew of when the expansive
island was still empty and its beauty undisturbed, the magnificent bay full of fish
Today the island is still beautiful and very peaceful but exclusively occupied
and the coves open to sail boats many of which are tourists or picnickers who
Appreciate the scenery along with the peace and quiet of the bay but what is peace
Without the serenity of this island called Angel?
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
Don't point accusing
Fingers at me
For you point one finger
At me
Four fingers
point back to you
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
Don't cast the first stone
For you don't feel
My grief
Either do you
Know my joy
Who wears the shoe
Knows it better
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
Don't crucify me
For am not for
Your play
Your motives are clear
Like you never thought
I could realise
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
I wonder how you know
I was wrong
And speak words
So sow to my
Ways
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
Why you worry
About my way
Or Is African not
Routed by hunters
For am not the
First or last writer that
Write poems about the
Life in the third
World
Don't judge me
If you can't feel
Me
Then you need a walk
With me
To the jungle
Where life itself
Exist to terror
Day by day
Night by night
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
Don't block me
My ways are best
Known By me
Your ways are best
Known by you
Don't judge me
If you can't feel me
At list allow me to feel
While you keep
hating on others
All time, don't forget
Life is all about everything
You and I
Don't judge me
For is obvious
That my kind
Is who I am
So when I feel
Try to feel
What I feel
Before you open
Up on me
To mock me
Don't judge me
For l love to
Live freely as
Nature permit
when I do
What I do
I expect at worst
Your compromise
As a good friend
Don't judge me
Ecotone
I did not plant the prairie tickseed that appeared among
The cultivated flowers of my garden and quickly dominated.
It seemed to say, “We live, still!
My house sits in a tension zone, an ecological “no man’s land” where
Tall Grass Prairie and the Cross Timbers, vie for control.
Here the vagaries of weather assure that all who enter are mistreated.
Seasons turn through the Zone as Fall, Winter, Spring,
And the Heat. The moisture-prickling Heat, like a visit from
The in-laws, comes early, stays long and wearies the endurance.
Rainfall is the fickle arbiter of the Zone. It befriends the trees
Almost; the grass too much. Legions of plants, playthings
Of climate, contending over millennia for land suitable to neither.
They were not untended. Cultivation by wild fires, twisting winds, floods
And drought, performed acts of purification and renewal; encroachers purged,
Minerals recycled, seeds scattered, and the arena reset for the endless contest.
But gone now are blades of Blue Stem and pickets of Post Oak.
Red subsoil overlaid with Bermuda sod is my “Sooner” system;
An inanity to the Zone kept on life support by irrigation and fertilizer.
Bermuda minders are hungry yet grow heavy with time
And plenty. They seek order amid uncertainty, and
Shelter from risk, yet cast their lot in a tension zone.
Their dis-ease stems from attempted breakouts of the Cultivators
Struggling to wrest free of human controls. (They who are said to have
Ears to hear a wildfire in its death throes claim it hisses, “We live, still!”)
They are not alone. Homes of the coastal naïf become
Mere tender for Chaparral fires as those of a floodplain
Are flotsam for the river.
Like mallards returning to the same pond
After each thinning by hunters, the unwitting
Rebuild as the Cultivators whisper, ”We live still”
Copyright Paul Thomson 2017
A good friend of mine, fancies Vampires very much.
She told me the other day, that she didn't read
Vampire novels with a romantic theme or with
Vampire hunters
Yes, a purest. So I was inspired to write this for her.
I would buy her flowers most each and every day
And sit alone late at night, for her to come my way
Hoping for a little kiss, she'd give my throat a prick
Cause Romance and Vampires just don't really mix
I though I could convince her, that my love was for real
But knew she only liked me, for the blood that she could steal
I wanted her to love me and I wished I knew a trick
But Romance and Vampires really just don't mix
I guess I'll have to live, with bite marks on my throat
Hoping one day, that I may rock her boat
Until then, I will except, I'm what she does for kicks
Cause Romance and Vampires really just don't mix