Poetry Of The Hunt

Home Page Background Poetry Of The Hunt Praise The Lord Reflection A Touch Of Levity Assorted Themes Outdoor Recipes Guest Book Page Photo Page

The Hunt

As I ascend the oak
And find my place among its boughs
This day has yet to see the sun
And it's luminescent rays
The dark, the solitude of night,
The beating of my heart in
Hope's anticipation
Stirs a fervor in my soul
The frosty breath of autumn air
Enlivens me
My spirit soars
A coyote calls, a chase begins
Reliving natures way
Then, sudden stillness tells the tale
Of predator and prey
At last, light pierces darkened space
And dances on the forest floor
To the rhythm of branches,
Swaying in the breeze
And, the forest comes alive
With songbird calls
And crows, so close, I hear
The "whoosh" from flapping wings
The " rustle" in fallen leaves,
The familiar chatter of a squirrel
And I, perched high above this scene
Am silent, as I watch and wait
I have been ordained
A player, in this primal drama
My presence here is natural
As is, that of the puma
As he lies in wait to seize his prey
I am "drinking in" the nectar
Of the bounty God supplies
As I savor every second
In these splendid nature halls
And in this wondrous moment
I am thankful for this gift,
For my inherent right to be here
And this great tradition claim
So if, by chance, as at other times,
There will be no score today
My plate, indeed, was full
I have feasted on the main course
More, would surely be dessert

Winona

Winona is a wildlife management area in the
Ouachita mountains of Arkansas

Winona wakes in springtime, cheerful, with a bent preen
Her winter ravaged skin reveals new raiment, fresh and green
She takes a grand and sober breath then readies for the task
To be, again, the very best that anyone could ask

She was wounded in the great ice storm of many years ago
Her scars stand as a portent, nature's healing can be slow
But, when one is scarred by nature, then nature will restore
And the scarred is often stronger, even better than before

She summons me each autumn with her promise of respite
And never has she failed to elevate a wearied mind
She's intensely empathetic with those who come her way
She relieves the dull, prosaic grind and the stress of everyday

In the early morning darkness she has drawn me deep within
Then held me in her bosom as a bright new day began
I have sat with her around the fire, known her hospitality
Then slept in pure contentment as her warmth surrounded me

In the desert of this daily life, an oasis one may find
She stands apart like Shangri La, a Utopia of kind
Her call goes out each autumn, patrons come from near and far
For renewal of their spirit to Winona of the Ouachitas

The Monarch

‘Twas a cold November morning from my platform on a pine
I noticed through the tangled woods a moving, horizontal line
The line became a shadow as it moved into the light
Then, at last, it took a form as it flicked a tail of white

‘Twas a monarch of the forest out to make his duteous rounds
To seek and offer service to any maidens that he found
Majestic in appearance in the woods so dimly lit
He was nothing short of awesome as he stepped out in the field

He was highly silhouetted against the latent, hoary heath
And steam puffed from his nostrils like a locomotive's breath
His rack was tall and handsome his neck a massive swell
As he foraged in the frosty lea mighty antlers touched the dell

Each step he took was measured as he read the neighborhood
And his acumen rewarded as a form before him stood
‘Twas a maiden of the woodland with compliant attitude
So he uttered his intentions and a rendezvous ensued

He got right down to business and in a moment it was done
His service had been rendered the maiden had been won
He pawed the ground and grunted as the maiden moved along
He hooked a limb and left his scent then, cautiously moved on

As he continued on his course he was coming near my tree
As I began to draw my bow his eyes came straight to me
It took him just an instant to know something was amiss
His flag went up and he was gone my golden chance was missed

Even so, that day was special
For nature opened up her arms
And revealed to me, her very soul
And embraced me in her warmth

The Old Man and the Boy

The old man and the boy
Loved to go out to the woods
Collect rich pine and broken limbs
And assorted chunks of wood
They'd pile ‘em up and light a fire
And sit on rocks or stumps
And talk about the good old days
And good days yet to come
The old man had such stories
Of back when he was young
And hunted with his brother
Here in these very woods
The boy listened closely
To all the old man said
He loved to hear the stories
And he'd "take in" every word
My "bud" and me used to hunt
All around these hills
Rabbits, squirrels or "possums"
Anything, just to be out here
My grandpap always had some dogs
They grew up chasing squirrels
All were hounds ‘cept Bullet
And "who knows what he was"
The hounds would trail and bellow
Every time they caught a scent
Old Bullet kept up with ‘em
But he wouldn't make a sound
When Bullet barked you always knew
He was looking at the prey
And you'd better get a move on
Or the squirrel would get away
Many's the time we cut and run
For what seemed like half a mile
Because we'd heard Old Bullet bark
And knew to waste no time
By the time that we would get there
We'd both be out of breath
Couldn't even sight the .22
Till we'd took a minute to rest
One of us would skirt the tree
While the other watched the limbs
When the bushytail moved around the tree
One of us would see him

I miss those days when I was young
I could keep going all day long
Now, my legs don't work like they used to
I can't even see to sight my gun
There's nothing now that I like more
Than coming out to these woods
Telling stories ‘round the campfire
And sitting here with you
You see, each time I tell one
My memory takes me back
You might see me close my eyes
‘Cause, then when things get quiet
I swear I can hear Old Bullet
Calling me and "bud' to come
My memory makes it seem so real
‘Cause, one time, it really was
I can live these hunts all over
As I tell these tales to you
Like when you dream it seems so real
Well, in my memory it's real too
Memories can be powerful things
When you've gone "way down the road"
They can warm your soul, or chill your blood
Just depends on what you allow
So, cultivate the good ones, Son
Don't waste time with the bad
Those I've made here, in "God's back yard"
Are the best I've ever had

Squirrel'n on the Cadron

Daylight was creeping slowly
In the bottoms as I crossed the ridge
Oh how loud the timbers rattled
When I crossed old Hardin bridge

A heavy dew had wet the leaves,
So they'd not crackle under foot
And the giant oaks on Cadron's bank,
Called to me from the woods

I could hear the forest waking,
It's music wafting through the trees
The temperature was forty-five
With a gentle morning breeze

As I slowly crept the bank,
I saw two distant, shaking limbs
And two " fat foxes" playing tree tag
In a mighty, "creekbank" elm

I took the two fat foxes
And continued on my way
Before I'd traveled ten more yards
I took a nice, plump Grey

The morning's start was perfect
And this hunt would prove to be
One to be remembered, always
When I went "squirrel'n" Cadron creek

Great day on the stand

What a morning
Wonderful morning
Perfect in every way
Cloudy sky, fifty degrees
And just a little wisp of wind

What a morning
Beautiful morning
Perfect in every way
No rain, no biting bugs
And just a short hike to my stand

What a morning
Glorious morning
Perfect in every way
Except, the deer, they stayed away
But hey, it's been a splendid day