The hunter knelt to check the muddy ground.
He was perplexed. The tracks were heading north.
No bears had caves on this slope of the hill.
The quicksands were not very dangerous
but deep enough to block the wild beast.
The seasoned trapper smiled. The frightened bear
would be an easy prey, an effortless fur.
The huntsman stepped carefully through the scrubland.
He knew the thick bushes and thorny briars
could conceal venomous spiders or deadly snakes.
He was an ace. On the hilltop, the wind,
with fury, made the limbs of scattered trees
wave in a frantic and infernal dance.
The hunter saw the fearless bear — a king
presiding on a rock — staring at him.
He armed his rifle and picked up his cap,
fallen between the perfectly still weeds.
There was no wind. Not even a slight breeze.
He raised his head and realized with horror
that the dancing branches were the heads of
a hydra. The man tried to catch a knife.
But with his feet no longer on the ground,
he knew he was its helpless prey to strangle.
Categories:
scrubland, fantasy,
Form: Blank verse
sheep
at risk
in scrubland
attacked by wild
dogs while loyal guard
managed to hound
them and reached
target
deep
Categories:
scrubland, animal, dog,
Form: Ninette
The scythe of lover mowing the sky stars
On the night of glittering moon to drive
The heart of lovers in the fervent fairs
With the wings of whispering dove in hive
Woods of Robert Frost there are many ways
That showing the life has no stoppage phase
Come not to sleep but run to rejoice days
By clearing the scrubland of life on chase
Life goal is peace in the heart of human
Empathy, happiness, smiles for all souls
Clearing thorny walls with the fearless gen
Have to conquer the world with equal rules
We can clear our negative sense by love
If we care peace and truth in active nerve
© Mahtab Bangalee
Chattogram
February 13, 2023
Categories:
scrubland, love,
Form: Sonnet
It seemed like nature had concocted a singular miracle
As I sat on the wooden bench looking in towards the woodland.
A red maple tree stood tall surrounded by eucalyptus trees
While down below grew the yellow protea and acacia scrubland.
Sun filtered in between the green and red coloured full growing trees
Sending bright rays of light upon the lotus decorated lake,
Dragonflies flitted over flowers, as cicadas sang their song,
As a light south breeze ruffled the surface, what melodies they make.
Thus I sat amazed at the scenery so magical and bright,
Admiring all beauty God's creation that no man can design.
Meantime my daughter sat quietly next to me, mobile in hand,
Tapping messages away, heedless of the view as I did pine.
Categories:
scrubland, nature,
Form: Verse
It was a sex attack
in burning clairvoyance.
You cannot catch me
in catastrophic moment.
A hard core **** has
the piety for a lone wolf.
Unclothed, a courier
walks into a shower of bullets.
A hospital waits for the
wounded god returning home.
On the scrubland you place at the
end a coffined prophet, smiling.
Sleepless, sleeping on ambers
you recite a blind epitaph.
Satish Verma
Categories:
scrubland, art,
Form: ABC
Roman Politics.
The coldness of the night merged seamlessly
with the coldness of daybreak.
A weak sun did nothing to raise temperatures
or spirits.
The Legionnaires leather coats creaked and cracked
as morning dew met forest mist.
At the edge of the giant forest they all stood,
lined out and disciplined.
Waiting.
Far across barren scrubland
taunting voices shouted abuse and threats.
Hidden deep in their own forest fortress,
sporadic German tongues were cursing
Rome.
The battle was about to begin.
The shouts turned to chants,
the chants to howling.
Weapons clattered sheilds,
the waiting was over.
Fire was primed and archers drew,
calvary waited in the wings.
Three words echoed down
the infantry.
"Strength and honour."
The uncouth hoards burst forth,
all the tribes united
as one.
Screaming out for murder.
The Legion stood, waited, disciplined.
Brought them on,
waited,
formed.
Unleashed hell.
One half day later
Rome could cheer.
A nice piece
of involvement
was again won
for the Senate.
The tribes were undone.
For now.
Categories:
scrubland, war
Form: I do not know?
Drumming from the amps, bristling with snares and hooks,
(“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”);
Aide memoirs of the past, post-war resurrection, stubbornly,
Wreathed in wires of smoke and delineated by baselines,
(“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”);
In the imaginary glare, scrubland plains play host,
The homeland of bleached white sonic structures,
Aspiring to touch the scorched stonewashed sky,
(“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”);
Ravaging the cold corpses of pastoral dictators,
Burying them in gritty sand, interring with their
Emotional fascism for companionship on the final
Journey into the heartlands of the dead conquistador,
(“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”);
In that hopeless kill zone of love and promises,
That vain and empty body of soulless night,
That reflective insult of scorn and terrible beauty,
Replications of dreams laid bare, films on her iris,
Panoramas populated by citadels of waste,
(“I see in your eyes, castles in Spain.”)
(“I see in your eyes…castles… in… Spain!”).
But what can I do?
Categories:
scrubland, allegory, angst, death, history,
Form: Verse