There once was an elk a lonely elk
not a wapiti or moose
who had no friends not even a whelk
so he went in search the silly goose
hoping for the milk
of elkish kindness
with another of his ilk
tho' he did go looking high and low
roaming all around in the snow
sad to say at the end of the day
no others there were to be found
and what's more seeking far and near
he saw not even a caribou
no one who'd whisper in his ear
so no he never knew
he was the only elk in the zoo
Moccasins crunching on crusted snow,
wolf-fur hood warming what I breathe,
jogging with lance and tomahawk,
other friends spread out, left and right.
The wapiti run before us,
big elk, eight or so moving,
no chance with fleetness of foot
to run down or diner out here.
They approach a wood bound by steam
and a corral we built last night,
funnel into a single, beige line,
when arrows slice through cold air.
A half-dozen of our tribesmen
let loose with stone-headed shots,
elk bleat and scream, some go down fast,
living ones trample them to flee.
Frantic milling, blood and hooves and snow,
then they’re gone, dashing through the spruce.
Eight lay on the ground, two alive,
I plunge my lance to end one’s pain.
Send a prayer to the creator,
words are vapor in the winter sky,
obsidian blades start to cut,
a runner is sent to the village.
All will help butcher this meat.
Fiordland
Fiordland ! Fiordland!
The name that resounds again and again Once touched you’ll never be the same
And to her callings again I came
Her many faces now to see
Peace and tempest which one are thee
The tempest rages uncontrolled
As she displays her restless soul
Deep in my heart I love this land
Untamed, unforgiving rock and sand
Shipwrecks adorn your western shores
Your Fiords a haven from the storm
Here where we see beauty born
Among these majestic mountain walls
Rugged, romantic, regal all
That clash of land and sea
Life and death at the hands of the sea
One time home of the mighty Moose Axis deer were here let loose
In the tussock the Notornis still roam
And Trophy Wapiti call this home
Land of mysteries, Land of change
Where the weather dictates rain upon rain
Tomorrow with hope we’ll see a change
Perhaps next time when we come again
Nowadays, it seems that most dinners are served with a sprig of parsley.
Mister Cordon Bleu, I'd prefer that it be used rather sparsely!
I suppose it makes a fanciful garnish, but that is open to debate.
The stuff serves no useful purpose and just clutters up my plate!
Should I find a sprig of parsley embellishing my plate, it I will eschew,
(Tho' I reckon I could brook it for flavoring my mulligan stew!)
'Twould make a wonderful greenery for a corsage or flowery display,
But Mister Cordon Bleu, please omit it from my plate, I pray!
Should I nibble on the stuff, it wouldn't add to my nourishment.
Its only redeeming value as far as I know is use as a garnishment.
Spare me that twig of vapid parsley, if you will, Mister Cordon Bleu,
And feed it to some deserving wapiti in the local zoo!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)