Crown Sonnet
Stone in the Cold
by Smith, Henderson, Goff, Zerbst, Jerden, Richards,
and all the fine poets who helped make it shine.
1
Through the north woods I come, my bow in hand,
a man of shadowed stealth who can be bold.
My eyes hunt, take a reckon of the land,
look into the hollows, constant and cold.
My companion's solitude, still as stone.
of winds I am the seeker, and of scent.
By yonder trees, I linger not alone,
my aim is true; my purpose is unbent.
Yet, death does not bring a smile to my lips,
nor a lift unto this wayfaring heart;
in grief I am fed, from silence I sip,
and from the old wood, I shall never part.
Caleb am I, a hunter true, and I pursue
A life that even death cannot undo.
2
A life that even death cannot undo,
for there are portals I've yet to find,
hidden life in the green, I wish to pursue,
oh, the secrets of life and death entwine.
I search and search, I will not know defeat;
each corner turned will show new paths to tread.
The deer, the bear, the fox, each beast I meet
will reveal their secret life's in their death.
So, let the woodland speak hear its reveal
riddle the meaning left, see it understood
the less armor worn or brandished we wield
the higher truth we gain in form of good
Into the woods I plunge as in my youth
I face the final test of nature’s truth.
3
I face the final test of nature’s truth.
the night's coming fast, I travel unheard.
The reverence I feel, was born in youth,
tempered by sage, burnt offerings for birds.
Tormented by brambles whose thorns I collect
I come to remains of struggles long gone,
feathers and crushed bone, on these I reflect.
I'm hoping once more, my arms are still strong.
A pine marten scurries, close to my step,
the sweet scent of birch gum, his claws unearth.
My arrow's still sheathed, for creeks I have leapt.
though I grow cold, my spirit is re-birthed.
Tracks at the creek, the water I savor
the thicket moves, my aim must not waver.
4
The thicket moves, my aim must not waver;
with strengthened arms, I bend my bow of yew:
my eyes pierce the brush, intent to savor
the sights of a good hunt, an arrow true.
The bracken parts, with rattling empty sighs.
My draw fingers quake from the constant chill.
My quarry's breath floats to the clouded sky;
my own breath's muffled as I track my kill.
Overhead, an arrow in deadly arc
speeds toward the bear I'm seeking, still as stone;
a shadow moves, the arrow strikes its mark.
The hand that looses the shaft is not my own.
I am a man shadowed; death comes knocking:
The hunter hunted, the past comes stalking.
5
The hunter hunted, the past comes stalking,
as three men in the high grasses arise.
Sworn enemies all, my skill they're mocking.
They wounded the bear; now they want the prize.
I load, I aim, I pull, my arrow flies;
one enemy down, the others advance.
I round the bear and turn toward their eyes
my buck knife out, I fight on in a trance.
My senses heightened, I exult in pain.
So crisp each forest leaf and grassy blade.
So fresh the air, and wet each drop of rain.
Three are down and the bear lies in the glade.
A deathly still descends upon these lands.
Ahead, the bear in sudden motion stands.
6
Ahead, the bear in sudden motion stands.
With a surge of strength, I turn unstayed by fear,
a welling force inside to take command.
A grim rivalry, but respect we share,
yet, uncontrolled the bear imperious roars.
With enraged might, he swings his bloody head.
His pain in a thundering bellow soars.
Off into the dense forest, he has fled.
I slip haphazard through death's devious plan,
and kneel in the damp crimson covered ground.
My survival hard-won by these two hands.
I rise to face night as darkness surrounds.
The wild's full of creatures, stealthy and bold
I must build a shelter, to fight the cold.
#7 with the plot more completed
I must build a shelter, to fight the cold.
Still, out, are the poachers who brought the fight.
In the distance smoke, a joy to behold,
a cabin with a blaze, warmth for the night.
Wolves howl on the wind, I think of the men
hoping they've all risen and left now,
but glad to have gotten away from them.
I lope toward the lit window aglow.
A door opens and I welcomed right in
my son had been searching for me, I'm told.
The heat of the fire, dry clothes from kin
an earnest call to the forest patrol.
With mornings light I report in as planned
Through the north woods I come, my bow in hand.
Since not every one is satisfied with the two choices we have, the verse I wrote will be used as #7 BUT NOT given a 1 just an HM [no credit]
Sara & Dane will get 2's as alternates.
IS EVERYONE OK WITH that?
TITLES ARE
A STONE IN THE COLD VERSE 1 (etc.)
A STONE IN THE COLD VERSE 2
A STONE IN THE COLD VERSE 3
or
A STONE IN THE COLD [VERSE 1 ALTERNATE]
A STONE IN THE COLD [VERSE 2 ALTERNATE]
Since there are 35 slots anyone who wants to write a sonnet about hunting anything can enter a verse which isn't meant to be connected to the seven above.