Long Trappers Poems
Long Trappers Poems. Below are the most popular long Trappers by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trappers poems by poem length and keyword.
FRED
Fred the farmer he bought a new tractor
The milk maid he wanted to attract her
He said you wanna ride
So she jumped in beside
Said tis slow can't it go any faster .
SAUL
In ancient times the killer Saul Porters
Was better known as the 'beast who slaughters'
Folks heard a victim shout
Saul was seized and knocked out
They hung him and cut him into quarters.
JOHNNY
An old gunmaker called Johnny Aled
Was testing one of his guns in his shed
The firing pin jamned
He said I'll be dammed
Shook the barell and it blew off his head.
CHARLES
A two timer by the name of Charles Fring
Was with a hooker in bed doing their thing
Thought he'd switched off his phone
Then heard screams and a moan
Twas still on and his wife heard everything.
MING SO
A hammer thrower from China, Ming So
At the games it was her turn to throw
She swung it around
Her feet left the ground
With excitement she'd forgot to let go.
RANDY MONK
There was a randy old monk from Biscay
With others wives liked to romp in the hay
With a smile and a grin
Said free loves not a sin
His Abbot didn't quite see it that way.
WOODCUTTER
There was a woodcutter from Tralee
Showed no mercy when hacking a tree
But the tree fought back
And in the attack
Broke his jaw, lower back and left knee.
TRAPPER
Into the woods he went hunting for bear
By sheer bad luck disturbed a grizzlys lair
Ran down the hill in fear
Smell of bear was quite near
Caught his foot in another trappers snare.
Written 25th August 2019.
Gray wolf follows in the snow
Gets angrier as degrees begin to fall
Ice makes a coat of armor on the fur
As their leader he joins the pack in action
The hunt begins not simply out of malice
Wolves kill because of hunger when they kill
No food for weeks creates a monsters nature
Temperatures below zero makes them fierce
Howls break the chill through deadly silence
Sharp white teeth come out with growls at night
Reminds them of life's fragility when food is scarce
Savagery sets in with Winter frost
Weaving through the pines they stalk
Trappers rest innocently without a guard
Wood fire warms, comforts those who trust
God watches over everything at dusk
The attack begins by moonlight calm
Wolves jerk their heads from left to right
Ripping out hearts and lungs
Gray wolf is first to dine tonight
With raw power by design on steady footing
The camp site smells of coffee mixed with iron
Drenched in blood, wolves devour everyone
Peaceful sleepers never knew what hit them
The busy Moon forgot about the Tide.
She left it out all day upon the sand.
And when it found itself alone topside,
there mischief was immediately at hand
It washed the muddy Rocks until they shone,
then dragged in trash to mess them up again,
it chilled the chubby babies to the bone
and tugged their pudgy feet to pull them in
It rearranged the peaceful ocean floor
wrapped all the kelp into a tangled wreath,
then turned up all the driftwood on the shore
to tickle little creature underneath
It tricked the Fishermen it came across
by pulling at the lines they'd cast about,
took cages that it saw the Trappers toss
and let the little Crabs and Lobsters out
It called to Clouds that hung around the sky
then strained to meet them halfway in between
and splashed them until they began to cry
but just to make it rain, not to be mean!
It fooled with every Fish that floated by,
it sprayed the Seagulls when they flew too near,
it pooled in spots it KNEW the Sun liked dry
and played with all the boats along the pier
It twirled the baby Squid until they laughed
then passed them each a sponge to blot the ink
and after they'd been taught this master craft,
it swirled away like water down a sink
The Tide adored its mischief and it would
have gleefully put more toward its spree
but for the Moon, who for the greater good,
rose none too soon and let it out to sea!
The busy Moon forgot about the Tide.
She left it out all day upon the sand.
And when it found itself alone topside,
there mischief was immediately at hand.
It washed the muddy Rocks until they shone,
then dragged in trash to mess them up again,
it chilled the chubby babies to the bone
and tugged their pudgy feet to pull them in.
It rearranged the peaceful ocean floor
and wrapped the kelp into a tangled wreath,
then turned up all the driftwood on the shore
and tickled every creature underneath.
It tricked the Fishermen it came across
by pulling at the lines they'd cast about,
took cages that it saw the Trappers toss
and let the little Crabs and Lobsters out.
It fooled with every Fish that floated by,
it sprayed the Seagulls when they flew too near,
it pooled in spots it KNEW the Sun liked dry
and played with all the boats along the pier.
It sueezed the baby Squid until they laughed
then painted funny pictures with their ink
and after it had taught them all this craft,
it swirled away like water down a sink.
It called to Clouds that hung around the sky
and asked to meet them halfway in between
then teased them until they began to cry
but just to make it rain, not to be mean...
The Tide adored its mischief and it would
have gleefully continued on its spree
but for the Moon, who for the greater good,
came up at last and let it out to sea!
Not long ago
Say, about 300 years
Two Indigenous tribes
Nearly disappeared
Others came
From year to year
Hunters, trappers
And future peers
John Sutter
A Swiss guy
This city became
The place to try
At Sutters Mill
Gold was found
In Coloma
Now ghostly grounds
But this place of new
With its foundations down
Pre 1849
It was just a town
February 27th
1850
This town now
Became a city
In its gorgeous valleys
With 2000 fruit tree's
It's agriculture was born
A taste to please
To the modern world
You should see it now
High rise buildings
A place so proud
As we all remember
From it's infant years
Like every other named city
Shared strife and tears
The past has been
As our future tells
But a certain few
Have to be remembered as well
What these tribes left
So little to show
But a city grew
Called Sacramento
" For Barbara Gorelick "
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/america.php
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.
History, it has always seemed,
at least it always has to me,
Is not something to be forgotten,
For from it much is gleaned.
It strikes me as more sensible,
if I may be allowed to say,
that's history is not a dusty book,
it's an all-you-can-think buffet!
From the ancients of the Levant
Ten Commandments do I take.
From the doughty Middles Ages:
Chivalry, a fine impression makes.
From the minutemen on Bunker Hills
comes a true love of liberty.
From the trappers in high Rockies
A sense of true independency.
The cowboy age it gives me
an appreciation of the grit,
along with a strong desire
Not to take any lip.
The roaring twenties gives me
the thrill of living it up.
The thirties taste strongly of thrift,
Of how to suffer through the rough.
Of the forties came a craving
for punching evil in the jaw.
From the fifties: Domesticity,
it's great rewards I saw.
From the sixties I take little,
except maybe rock and roll.
Though I admit as I grow older
Its seems tasteless and cold.
The seventies and best not eaten,
On that most will agree.
But the eighties' flavor is the power
of man's ingenuity set free.
From the millennium I consumed the fact
that Islamism is not that great.
And the present taste teaches clearly
not to trust those who cry "Hate!"
And this is just the beginning,
so many ideas out there lay...
A bit from here, a bit from there
A plate built of every age.
You leave behind the gristle,
though it make take some time,
but eventually you plate is choice,
and free of fat and rings.
And why some folks flee from it,
I cannot begin to say.
All I know is that once you start
you will always crave the taste.
Deep in the Canadian wilderness she gave birth to four pups,
It was a large dug out hole at the base of a tangled tree;
Her mate for life was out hunting with the pack for deer or elk,
Some wolves remained to protect and guard her.
She was a mottled grey and resembled a domestic dog,
Perhaps a german shepherd or a sled dog but much bigger;
Her paws were huge and she had thick fur to protect her in the cold
But she was so gentle with the pups snuggling them.
As dusk fell she heard her mate's mournful howls in the distance,
She knew his howls, growls and barks from all others;
They were mated for life and this was their first litter of pups,
The pups were blind and defenceless without her.
The pack had been more than thirty-eight wolves until recently,
But farmers had trapped, shot and poisoned many in fear;
And trappers had killed others for their beautiful thick fur,
So these pups were so important to the packs future.
And then he was there in the den with her and nuzzled her neck,
He was taller than she and stronger a truly majestic creature;
Crouching with his ears straightened his facial expression was love,
She moved over so he could join them and all was peace.
In the forest den . . .
_____________________________
April 1, 2015
Poetry/Verse/In The Forest Den
Copyright Protected, ID 04-659-015-01
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, 100 In A Row - 5
sponsor, PD, Judged
Seventh Place
___________________________________
Written for the Premier contest, Canis Lupus the Wolf,
sponsor, Shadow Hamilton, Judged 06/2015
First Place
An old black and white movie
took me back to my childhood
when cowboys rode the range
Major Adams and Flint McCullough leading the Wagon Train,
and Hopalong's ten-gallon white hat
rode the brim of John Wayne's stagecoach in back;
with Roy and Dale saving every day
as Tonto and the Lone Ranger hi-ho silvered away;
Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates blazed the Rawhide trails
as Ben, Adam, Hoss, and Joe laid the Ponderosa tails;
The Mavericks never bet against The Rifleman and Gunsmoke truths
while Wyatt Earp, Matt Dillon, and Bat Masterson made the law fool-proof,
the Rebel and The Restless Gun kept horses ever on the run
and Cheyenne, Davy Crocket, and Daniel Boone
fought both Indians and Trappers without showdowns at noon
those western stars of early radio and television shows after school.
These were the stories of so many heroes, villains and more jewels
the cowboys and cowgirls, and their horses too
revived the west for the fifties youth,
a blast from the past
of the fading western stars.