The dog that is forced into the woods will not hunt many deer.
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Tony Finally Got His Deer
Tony was out for revenge
always the one that got away
his cousin Pat and his friend Matt
woods brisk and chilly
Matt recently back
from the desert war
not sure what he was fighting for
Pat along for the hunt
Tony on top of the ridge
Pat and Matt down below
two sets of antlers
they had the spot
the spot was hot
get ready Matt, says Pat
I'ts your shot
no! you shoot says Matt
all is calm, then
suddenly
BOOM, BOOM
two blasts, two deer, lay lifeless
Tonys revenge
I sorry Pat uh
I had to shoot, dat dam deer uh
he avoiding me uh, for two years uh
now deer tease me uh
no more uh
poem by Matt Mondschein
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The King's Hunt is up
The hunt is up, the hunt is up,
And it is well nigh day;
And Harry our king is gone hunting,
To bring his deer to bay.
The east is bright with morning light,
And darkness it is fled;
And the merry horn wakes up the morn
To leave his idle bed.
Behold the skies with golden dyes
Are glowing all around;
The grass is green, and so are the treen,
All laughing with the sound.
The horses snort to be at the sport,
The dogs are running free;
The woods rejoice at the merry noise
Of hey taranta tee ree.
The sun is glad to see us clad
All in our lusty green,
And smiles in the sky as he riseth high
To see and to be seen.
Awake all men, I say again,
Be merry as you may;
For Harry our king is gone hunting
To bring his deer to bay.
poem by William Gray
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Song
Soon as the glazed and gleaming snow
Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear,
The hunter of the west must go
In depth of woods to seek the deer.
His rifle on his shoulder placed,
His stores of death arranged with skill,
His moccasins and snow-shoes laced,--
Why lingers he beside the hill?
Far, in the dim and doubtful light,
Where woody slopes a valley leave,
He sees what none but lover might,
The dwelling of his Genevieve.
And oft he turns his truant eye,
And pauses oft, and lingers near;
But when he marks the reddening sky,
He bounds away to hunt the deer.
poem by William Cullen Bryant
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Deer Hunting
Hunting deer is hard to do.
But not for Michael Waddel.
Michael is an amazing bow hunter.
He only hunts deer with a bow,
Which is very hard to do anywhere.
Most people hunt with powerful guns.
But not Michael.
He uses his skills to lure the big deer in.
poem by Drew Nofer
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Hunt the Deer
Hunting season is here,
guns and rifles cleaned.
Stocked up with gear,
on his quad he leaned.
Lots of bullets,
hunt the deer.
No much of a challenge,
could use a spear.
Eight guys all with beer's,
one holding the camera.
Everyone smiling ' Cheers',
in front of the dead 'deer'.
poem by David Darbyshire
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The Hunt Never Ends
Here I sit
by the reflective pool
my pups sit around me
as I howl at the moon
calling the pack
there is a heard of deer
sleeping under the willow tree
Tonight
The....Hunt....
Will....Sta rt
tonight
we eat our fill and slip into a quiet rest
the hunt never ends
:)
poem by Erika Rayl
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A Christmas Hunt
Me and ol' Bubba
on a late December hunt
Bubba's a man of few words
but he sure can grunt
The snow was fallin
a winter moon so bright
All the stars seemed special
as they sparkled that night
It was about midnight
we couldn't believe our eyes
A herd of flyin deer
seemed to fill the skies
I shot and I shot
how Bubbas gun did fire
But those flyin deer
just went higher and higher
Bubba looked at me
as I rubbed my aimin eye
It was then we both said
aint no deer that can fly
That was pert near
twelve years ago
Every late December
we still track through the snow
But not for huntin
we just go to see
Those flyin deer
ol' Bubba and me
Terry M
A Horse For Dinner
A horse A horse
My kingdom for a horse,
A horse A horse
For the main course
Muscles of might
Pulled so tight,
A body of organs
All for a meal
Why a horse?
Why not a deer?
A horse does the work,
A deer will just peer
A horse is strong
a deer has no uses,
so there for a deer
suffers the abuses
Condemned is a deer
as from the day it's born,
until the day it dies
and its meaty flesh torn
So why a horse
if a deer has no uses?
because I am a man
Who too, has suffered too many abuses
poem by John McAdam
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I grew up in New Hampshire. My closest neighbor was a mile away. The deer and the raccoons were my friends. So I would spend time walking through the woods, looking for the most beautiful tropical thing that can survive the winter in the woods in New Hampshire.
quote by Steven Tyler
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Unforgiven Hunt
I shouldn't be telling you this
No one should be telling you this, but
Only a few people even know
About the time of the Unforgiven Hunt-
We are on the Unforgiven Hunt, so I should tell you
I can't even tell you
What the Hunt is about
And why it is called just that-
The Hunt
But I just told you
That the Hunt is called the Hunt
For a reason-
So now I should tell you the whole story
How we came to this point
Why our features stand out
In the whole world, all the countries
First, we were like all the others
Down-to-earth, forgiving, out loud
Sharing all our secrets
But now the Hunt people regret
That we came this far
We came this far, we broke our friendship apart
Now we are on the Unforgiven Hunt
The time of the Hunt started at the time of the Hunt
No one really knows
When it was, what it was that unbalanced the scale
Of life and death-
But we are on the Unforgiven Hunt
We started the Unforgiven Hunt by saying,
"We have to increase our lifestyle, then we'll stop"
But over time, it grew to be our hobby
Beating other countries
In machines, in factories and greed
In food, in water and high standards
In shelter, in organizing, in need
We are still on the Unforgiven Hunt
My Heart's In The Highlands
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe,
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
poem by Robert Burns
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The Archer who’s greedy for venison
A golden antelope jumps in a rainforest.
In the moonlit night the ardent archer makes his bow and arrows
But this time he is very sensitive about the rare deer.
He used his special arrow for the hunt.
The deer ran away with the pierced arrow into the jungle.
He followed the woman like cry and Alas! He saw a Nymph was lying on the grass in cold blood.
She stammered “Caveman love is tastier than venison
But it’s too late now my dear.”
She died on his lap sadly.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The Green Woods Of Truagh
In the green woods of Truagh we met without fear,
Your kiss on my lips, and your voice in my ear,
Your tender arms about me, and your eyes glad and clear–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the days go on wings,
On every brown branch a gladsome bird sings
And the fragrant amber blossom of the honey-suckle swings–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh the bracken stands high,
And wells of spring-water in deep hollows lie,
And the red deer is browsing in the cool shadows nigh–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh no sorrow dared stay,
The lark called me early at dawn o' the day,
And o'er my sleep at night pleasant dreams used to play–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh you wait till I come–
I left home and you for the stranger's far home,
To bring a hoard of yellow gold across the grey foam–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–if God hears my prayer–
I shall reach you, O true love, my empty hands there,
For little of the yellow gold has fallen to my share–
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
In the green woods of Truagh–your heart on my own,
And your bright hair in ringlets across my cheek blown
Now where in all the wide, wide world, could greater bliss be known?
Ochón, the Green Woods of Truagh!
poem by Anna Johnston MacManus
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A Poem of Hunting, Fishing, and a Truck
I throw my gun in the back of my truck
With it I hope to kill a 12-point buck
While in the woods, BANG! I see the deer fall
I take him home, freeze the meat, and mount his horns on my wall
I grab my pole and tackle box and head to the lake
At this time in the morning, I feel barely awake
There is no school today, I’m glad there is no class
A mighty tug on my line, I hook a large mouth bass
There is nothing like hunting; waiting for the kill
Cutting and cleaning the meat my freezer I’ll soon fill
Deer steaks and deer jerky have such a great taste
And with his head on my wall nothing goes to waste
I like fishing, fishing is fun
Fishing underneath the rising sun
I like catching the fish and putting them in a net
Fish is a great dish when the table is set
My truck is unstoppable; it can’t beat
I slam the door and strap myself in the seat
I start the engine and press the gas to the floor
My truck takes off and my engine lets out a roar
I wouldn’t be able to hunt or fish if it wasn’t for my truck
With it I carry poles, guns, and my fallen buck
I pull my boat with my truck in four-wheel-drive
At my destination I always arrive
poem by Glaedr the poet
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I Hunt
I hunt.
For specific kinds of meat.
I hunt.
To feed that desire within me I seek.
I hunt.
I do not keep my needs a secret.
I do not wish to discreet them in any way.
I hunt.
I want this known.
I want it easy for the meat,
To be captured and seasoned.
With a sauté done to taste.
And delayed at a minimum wait.
I hunt.
For specific kinds of meat.
I hunt.
To feed that desire within me I seek.
I hunt.
To satisfy what it is I do.
And grunt...
Sometimes,
Just before the morning dew appears.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Save the deer
Tigers are there; deer are there.
Tigers eat deer and deer exist.
Guilt is the tiger and adultery, the deer.
Adultery will not go extinct.
25.03.2000, Palakkad
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Haunting Thoreau
He was burly, thick of thigh,
And could construct
Meeeting costcutting demands.
More, he could write like the devil,
Accounting the country.
And he had a Pond.
But I have a shack
And a rivulet fresh,
Only lemongrass extract
-(I smell like a grove) -
Deer are out there, and one bear
At least.
I have my music playing on Mp3.
Ravel: how did he come up with that?
Still Thoreau haunts the woods to the south.
Maybe all the woods of the world.
He can write evenly and quickly.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Bwtween two
forced to choose between the two,
forced to choose between honesty and dispair,
forced to choose between beauty and destruction,
forced to choose between life and death,
forced to choose between 3 years and 5 years,
forced to choose between who i am friends with,
and still with the choice of both i loose one.
poem by Matthew Boisjolie
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Whoso List to Hunt, I Know Where is an Hind
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Sithens in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.
poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt
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