Hunting Poems

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
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The state with the prettiest name,
the state that floats in brackish water,
held together by mangrave roots
that bear while living oysters in clusters,
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I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
...

But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud;
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Does it matter? -losing your legs?
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When others come in after hunting
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My first thought was, he lied in every word,
That hoary cripple, with malicious eye
Askance to watch the working of his lie
On mine, and mouth scarce able to afford
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It is a winter's tale
That the snow blind twilight ferries over the lakes
And floating fields from the farm in the cup of the vales,
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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
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The badger grunting on his woodland track
With shaggy hide and sharp nose scrowed with black
Roots in the bushes and the woods, and makes
A great high burrow in the ferns and brakes.
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Exiled on the isle of passion and shackled in the prison of craving.
Bottled up emotion - screaming and shouting and searching for an escape.
Like a dehydrated deer tracking water -Like a desert hunting an oasis.
Deluge of flames enrapture my being with the fervor of a thousand fire.
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It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which Titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
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So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three?---
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?
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This crowded life of God's good giving
No man has relished more than I;
I've been so goldarned busy living
I've never had the time to die.
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Her scarf a la Bardot,
In suede flats for the walk,
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
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Coming out of home I see some land and much water all around
Full with wonderful animals, plants, myriad of natural objects
Some I can name and some I can't, some near and some are so far
Some open, some covered, some sweet again some are so bitter,
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The bows glided down, and the coast
Blackened with birds took a last look
At his thrashing hair and whale-blue eye;
The trodden town rang its cobbles for luck.
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Dew wets the grass
I am the hunter
I walk a deadly path
I am hunting
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The deer were bounding like blown leaves
Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;
I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.
Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror
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Up the airy mountain,
Down the rushy glen,
We daren't go a-hunting
For fear of little men;
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ENDYMION.

A Poetic Romance.
...

Hunter Hunter Hunter
What Are You Doing?

I Am Hunting Words.
...

If you need an AR-15 to hunt
When a deer or a rabbit you confront,
Because, on that hunting day
You don't want your prey to get away.
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By Stanley Collymore

Big game hunting equals sick
people, and it's essentially
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The Lakota, Pawnee, Cheyenne, Comanche, Apache, just some of the noblest people who lived for thousands of years undiscovered hunting the buffalo on the plains of American soil. The blood of the brave warriors who fought for survival should be not forgotten. The trail of tears too! All men and women are created equal, the American natives suffering extreme poverty and cultural loss on the earth is a tragedy. Michael Cochrane © 2023
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Cormack Langton paced down the long tunnel,
tired from the job he'd just completed,
hunting a Nephilim abomination,
a task that he had often repeated.
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Garnell loved to go deer hunting.
But he did not like to take baths.
His buddies told him that he stank.
When they went hunting.
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Sound's hunting light
Light's hunting darkness
Darkness's hunting vacuum
Buth this life's
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Hunting, sport that involves the seeking, pursuing, and killing of wild animals and birds, called game and game birds, primarily in modern times with firearms but also with bow and arrow.
Camouflages and disguises were used to conceal the early hunter, who also used nooses, traps, snares, pits, decoys, baits, and poisons.
A distinction between hunting for sport and hunting for food was made early. For the Normans the chase was principally for meat from the early Middle Ages on, and it was organized to provide the most kills for the least effort.
Those preying on wild creatures for amusement limited their means so as to give the quarry a fair chance to escape and to avoid unnecessary suffering of wounded game. The code demands that a hunter who wounds an animal must track down and kill it.
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I'd get my rifle down days beforehand and start cleaning it. Dad used to kid me. It doesn't take that long to clean a rifle, he'd say. But I always got so excited. Sometimes I think it's the preparation, the anticipation that's the most exciting part. But I couldn't wait for opening day. I'd set up a practice range behind the house and tack up an old camouflage jacket on the barn. I'd aim right for the top button. I wanted to be at my optimum for when the real hunt began.
It was the best time of year. The turning leaves cast a golden- orange glow, the atmosphere was crisp, there was a smoky smell in the air as folks were starting up their wood stoves. That's when "buck fever" sets in. The old adrenalin gets pumping and you feel super alive. It's my favorite season.
No one who hasn't done it can understand the thrill of the hunt. I believe it has to do with our early hominid origins. In those days they had to hunt in order to live. Of course, there were berries and nuts and grasses which the women gathered. But the real food came from the hunters, who were men. They had to be out there every single day. No time restrictions, no hunting "seasons." Hunting was 24-7. What a life! Sometimes I wish I'd lived then.
It makes you feel like you're getting back to your primitive origins when you're hunting, back to your natural self, away from all the artificial restraints of modern life. You feel like your uncivilized, untamed self is coming out. It's a kind of exhilarating liberation.
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Sam Winchester thought that he knew how his life would turn out. Become a lawyer, marry Jess, have a couple of kids. Grow old together. Then they would retire to Florida. And then he would die in his sleep at ninety years old.

But that is not how destiny had his fate mapped out for him millions of years before he was even born. But then his older brother, Dean Winchester showed up, saying that Dad went on a hunting trip and now he's missing.
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