Rutting Poems | Examples

Battlefield

The children came late, at the end
among the bodies, naked, stripped
the corpses starting to distend
with gaping wounds where swords had ripped
and hacked to recognitions fall.
Their foes had taken life and gold;
the wives to stricken poor to pall
these men whose lives were dearly sold.
The children came, as did the rats,
the cawing crows, the hungry dogs,
the ever-present feral cats,
and fat pink grunting, rutting hogs.
They came to scavenge what was left
upon this greenfield butcher's block
and what they took was not the theft
it is those who lead should be in dock.

Prayer For the Uppermost

Queen of Heaven, 
Lady of Solitude,
Sovereign of the Universe, 
Opener of the Way,
Mistress of Angels,
Hail, O Builder of the Universe,
Graceful mysterious rose,
Refuge from despair,
Gate of Dawn
Whence light is born
Whom all in heaven see
As fairest of the fair and
Strongest of the strong.
Hail, O First Cause,
O Crown and Throne, 
Soil and Flower,
Aether and the Sea,
Dragon-quelling
Slayer of demons and gods
Saboteur of all cruelties;
O, Glorious rutting virgin
Utmost benefactress
Devour our sufferings
Liberate us from our chains,
Gladden with your blessings.

deer rutting moon

battle between bucks
	deadly duel-decided ~
		scavengers spectate

(November Full Moon – Dakota and Lakota)

Its Gleaming Light-Beams Washing My Old Soul

Its Gleaming Light-Beams Washing My Old Soul

So sad about some far-off hidden things
That are not my business, no not me
Washing these feet in such soothing hot springs
No not I, nosey as a damn ole busy bee!

Along the mountains, its jutting ridges
I walk admiring that fabulous star
Cross I the famous great seven bridges
This heart yet blinded wondering where we are!

Its gleaming light-beams washing my old soul
Saw evening as it slowly crept in
My worries stabbed me taking their deep toll
I a warrior but heavy are my sins!

There walked with majesty, the black-maned boar.
Snout rutting the ground, to find its next score!

Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Jan. 5th, 1979
Last edited by Tyr-Ziu Saxnot; Today at 08:33 AM.

Musk

Excuse me if I come across as brusque,
but you exude a certain pungent musk,
as though you’ve grown up with the wildebeests,
or recently discovered ancient yeasts.
And so for your forgiveness, I do hope;
I really meant to stifle that last laugh.
For Christmas, I have given you some soap;
I find that it works wonders in the bath.
I also think you’ll have a better year;
in fact, I’m sure it will be quite improved
when not beset by all those rutting deer
and every other animal that’s hooved.

—————

for the Musk Poetry Contest
sponsored by Anthony Biaanco
written on 12/20/22

Nature At Its Darwinian Best

Dare challenge me? 
Then be my guest …

The stags enter into a jousting quest,
No time now for antlers to rest,
The challenger locks his horny crest,
With focused stare and forceful zest,
A testosterone and power fest,
Nature at its Darwinian best.

Into the gene-pool 
He wished to invest,
Can he suceed,
Survive this test?

Soft Music In the Morning

SOFT MUSIC IN THE MORNING

They had made love
were wet and sticky like
rutting animals with a powerful odor
that filled up the room like pungent
plants in a tropical swamp, touched 
every inch of fabric and skin, rode warm
evening breeze through the living
room window, across the small wrought-iron
balcony to the houses nearby
Early the next morning they did it again,
then deciding to shop but refusing to 
shower, covered damp odor with cloth
and cologne and went to the market as
if carrying a secret in the pale, golden
light of an early sunrise
But everyone knew!
They were plump and too happy, their deep
satisfaction written on their faces like the
indelible masks of the neighborhood
raccoons 
Soft music in the morning:
this middle-age couple, up and down 
the aisles, gathering breakfast,
looking…. like they smelled 
of love 


Emanuel Carter

The Splendor of Spring

When robins return to my backyard come May 
Bright bulbous dandelions show their pretty heads, 
Fawns from last summer’s rutting forage each day 
Between the open grassy fields and my rustic sheds. 
Mother Nature awakens from winter’s hibernation 
Sugar maples and pin oaks leaf out in grand display 
Young gray squirrels chatter in mocked conversation, 
Glancing furtively at feral felines while they play. 
When Spring bursts forth in splendor, my soul sings 
Flora and fauna restore faith and hope in my heart 
Joy erupting inside me gushes forth and brings 
The promise of new life, a fresh uncluttered start. 
No other season arouses within me stronger emotion, 
Or evokes in me such a lingering, lifelong devotion. 

 
Written on February 24, 2021 
For Regina McIntosh’s “Breath of Spring” Contest

And I Heard Again Those Voices

And I heard again those voices, 
 Buoyed upon a murmuring wind, 
   And oyster-catchers with their
  Distinctive, shrill-piping call;
The plaintive cries of floating 
 Curlews,
   Carrying on that wind, 
  As spilt sunset
Settled over the ruby-red, wine-coloured
 Moor.
   Blazing purple heathers --
  Distant bellows from rutting stags --
The whirling grouse...
 And close by, opposite my quiet little
   Door,
  Seldom seen otters, whistling when
Calling their playful mates,
 Splashed and sported in shallow runs
   And shadowy pools:-
  Opaque, amber waters, swathed
In brilliant starlight,
 Reflecting intensity displayed overhead;
   Night's rich velvet skies encrusted in
  Sparkling jewels.
 
Yes, as darkness begins to fall,
 With drowsy eyes half-shut...
   Again, I see and hear it all.  
 
  For it is certain, I have now become 
Familiar with what is truly meant...
 To have to endure an ever waking 
   Discontent.

Ode To Autumn

 “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” By John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Autumn comes with light rain and fallen leaves,
Shorter days, chills but lots of blessedness.
As pretty doves shelter under the eaves,

We sit on benches admiring the lake,
Some birds fly, geese long gone to better climes
And humpback fish swim, twisting like a snake.
How I love this season with such good times.

Up on the hill, a stag deer roars its call,
The rutting season has truly began.
Such is the exciting time of the fall.
Barks attract the young bucks to join the clan.

Youngsters prepare their main annual fare,
Halloween is near, trick or treat beware.

Autumn's Dead

Warm breaths morph into a November ghost,
a spectral mist that swiftly dissipates.
And barren trees lament the loss of leaves
as Autumn approaches where Winter waits.

The wind whistles through the twigs and branches,
rattling the bare bones of the naked trees.
And sings a soulful dirge for Autumn's Dead,
as the rivers and creeks begin to freeze.

Frost accumulates upon window panes,
creating canvases of abstract art.
And Fall leaves crunch and crackle underfoot
as rutting bucks challenge their counterpart.

A spent sun slinks low in a steel grey sky,
as Summer's late bloomers wither and die.

Like Zen In Her Old Age

Like Zen in Her Old Age 

 

Like Zen in her old age,  

she moves as calm water 

with the slow metabolism 

of ancient stones and redwoods. 

  

toiling like the slow rutting 

of running water through rocks. 

With finger to wrist,  

she feels the tide ebb and flow in her pulse,  

  

And within the ice age of an eye blink 

she lives through the millennia 

moving at the pace 

of the slow creep of continents 

  

as she steps back into history.

Moonlight Madness

In the jaundiced light of the pock-marked moon,
Nevada nights many strange visions have seen
But few match spring time rapidly rutting rabbits 

Racing and romping in moonlight madness;
Frolicking free in a sagebrush sea
Amidst white-crested mountain waves;

While whirlwinds swirl and in playas play
One hundred and forty fathoms deeper
Than luna-limned beach strands of dry lake shores.

Bobcats lurk in the moonbeam shadowed deeps,
Eager to feast on the bounding banquet
Of loco late-night leaping lepuses.

Madling moonshine swilling drivers pop a
Fair share of raw rabbits upon their grills
As coyotes yowl over missed moonglow kills.

With a Wonderful Woman Beside Me

Why does love always feel like a stick in my eye
When I constantly reach for the sky
Looking for the answers why
It's kicking my butt and leaves 
An empty feeling in my gut
Instead of chasing woman like a rutting buck
I always get stuck with the ones
That want to run amuck

I have no luck even sold my truck
Thinking that love has struck
Instead, I got smacked around like a hockey puck
Talk about a man with bad luck
I try to stay as far away
From that kind of women who plays that way

But they always seem to latch on to me
I'm so lonely I just want to be happy and free
Have a life full of mystery
A love that makes life snug as a lug
Not one you can stomp on like a bug
Or one you can just sweep under the rug

I need to change my ways 
So I can find a woman who doesn't play that way
It seems like they all know what to say
Before I know it I'm saying goodbye
Because it just feels like another stick in my eye
No matter how hard I try

Oh lord why does this keep happening to me
I pray you bring love my way today
That will make my life as it should be
With a wonderful woman beside me

The Masterpiece

If we were the things we loved, then...

I would be the shine in puppies eyes
Or a cuddled kitten's purr,
I would be a great novel or poem
Or, the smell of grandmother's house.

I would be the autumn sun upon my face
And the smell of springtime blossoms too,
I would be an infants cackling laughter
And, his mother's ample breast.

I would be the passion in a rutting Buck
And the pining of the whippoorwill's call,
Or the chipmunk that dashes across my yard
And, the morning hawk that catches him!

I would be the scent before an evening shower
And the distant rumble of a storm,
Or a sea shore on a morning's walk
And, a painted evening prairie sky.

I would be a swirling murmur of starlings 
And the evening chant of tree frogs,
I would be the smell of my mother's cooking
And, the sound of my children's laughter.

If we were the things we loved
Then I would be all of these, and more
But I'm not, instead I'm just me
They're the brushstrokes of the masterpiece...

And I, but the eager canvas.



Timothy I. Brumley

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