Wild F*#$ing Manners
hunting a tiger
big sharp teeth
man-eater
these hunters
big egos, big guns
hunting for survival
need fur and meat to survive
hunting wild game
wild f*#$ing manners
saw lioness and her cubs
on f*#$ing youtube
wild animals is to game theory
as man is to war
primitive yet perfect in movements
stop hunting these majestic creatures
they echo the intelligence we lack
in a far away land called our sub-conscience
only to find our only way to organized life
we're just animals on a hunting ground
poem by Inner Projection
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunters Lullaby
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Hes deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child
Your fathers gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way
Your fathers gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit, spirit cannot pass
Your fathers gone a-hunting
For the beast well never cannot bind
And he leaves a baby sleeping
And his blessings all behind
Your fathers gone a-hunting
And hes lost his lucky charm
And hes lost the guardian heart
That keeps the hunter from the harm
Your fathers gone a-hunting
He asked me to say goodbye
And he warned me not to stop him
I wouldnt, I wouldnt even try
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Forest Greeting
GOOD hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the forests call;
But ever a heart beats hot with fear,
And what of the birds that fall?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the north winds blow;
But what of the stag that calls for his mate?
And what of the wounded doe?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And ah! we are bold and strong;
But our triumph call through the forest hall
Is a brother's funeral song.
For we are brothers ever,
Panther and bird and bear;
Man and the weakest that fear his face,
Born to the nest or lair.
Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us?
Hunters and game are we;
But who gave the right for me to smite?
Who boasts when he smiteth me?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And dim is the forest track;
But the sportsman Death comes striding on:
Brothers, the way is black.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It's That Time Of Year Again
It's that time of year again
When the leaves are on the ground
Swirling like little tornadoes
With out even making a sound
The friends come calling
From the distant past
We all seem to be aging
And it seems way too fast
The grass and weeds are dying
Soon they will all be brown
And before you even know it
Snow will be covering the ground
Farmers are harvesting the crops
And cleaning up their fields
Then soon enough they'll know
How much they have yeild
Hunters are hitting the bush
Hunting for that wild game
Some are looking for fresh meat
While others are hunting for fame
The wild turkey had better stay hid
Because Thanksgiving will soon be here
And as we think of our four-fathers
We'll toast them with a new cheer
written 11/13/2012 by Norman Hale Jr.
poem by Norman Hale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting High And Low
Typed by [email protected]
Hunting High and Low:
Here I am
And within the reach of my hand
She's sound asleep
And she's sweeter now
Than the wildest dream
Could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
But I know I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go to
Hunting high and low
Ah there's no end
To the lengths I'll go
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
She's the sweetest love
I could find
So I guess I'll be
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
High and low
Ah, do you know what it means
To love you
I'm hunting high and low
And now she's telling me
She's got to go away
I'll always be hunting high and low
Only for you (And now she's telling me)
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
Ah, there's no end
To lengths I'll go to
For you I'll be hunting high and low
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hunter's Lullaby
Your father's gone a-hunting
He's deep in the forest so wild
And he cannot take his wife with him
He cannot take his child.
Your father's gone a-hunting
In the quicksand and the clay
And a woman cannot follow him
Although she knows the way.
Your father's gone a-hunting
Through the silver and the glass
Where only greed can enter
But spirit
song performed by by Leonard Cohen from Various Positions
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hunting High & Low
Here I am
And within the reach of my hands
Shes sound asleep and shes sweeter now
Than thewildest dream could have seen her
And I watch her slipping away
Though I know Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the the lengths Ill go to
To find her again
Upon this my dreams are depending
Through the dark
I sense the pounding of her heart
Next to mine
Shes the sweetest love I could find
So I guess Ill be hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
High and low
High
Do you know what it means to love you
Im hunting high and low
And now shes telling me shes got to go away
Ill always be hunting high and low
Hungry for you
Watch me tearing myself to pieces
Hunting high and low
High
Theres no end to the lengths Ill go to
Oh! for you Ill be hunting high and low
song performed by by A-Ha
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Old Fox
Vixen was a cunning old fox
her wits had kept her alive
she'd move around a lot
doing anything to survive.
All her cubs had moved out
so now she travelled alone
scavenging along the way
scraps and a bit of meat on a bone.
But she wasn't getting any younger
and her fur was shades of Grey
so she did her hunting at night
and slept throughout the day.
When her cubs came to visit
she was amazed at how they'd grown
but they didn't stay around for long
so once again she was on her own.
She ended up in an old foxes home
with her once red fur completely white
and all her claws and teeth fell out
so she couldn't scratch or even bite.
Her hunting days were now over
and with her cubs now by her side
she told them to keep strong
and closed her eyes and then died.
poem by Kevin Halls
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hunting Season Is Open
Gun hunting season opens tomorrow morning
my husband is gathering his hunting gear around.
He'll be getting up really early in the morning
way before the break of dawn.
He's trying his special orange hunting cap on
so that he's not mistaken for a deer.
Us wives always worry about that you know
it is one of a hunter's wifes greatest fears.
The weather is suppose to be very cold and rainy
my husband says that is the best weather for hunting in.
Because the deer are on the move much more
then when it's warmer like some recent days have been.
I will say a prayer to our Lord above
asking that He protect all hunters, on this opening day.
And that they all come back with that Buck or Doe their after
and no bullets from their guns shot go astray.
poem by Linda Winchell
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The Cape Hunting Dogs Of Africa
They run for hours on end each day through grasses gray and brown
Race antelope to a stand still and drag big zebra down
Outlast the speedy wildebeest their victims die in pain
Those amazing cape hunting dogs the hunters of the plain.
They have no sense of right or wrong they must hunt to survive
And their young in den some ten miles off without fresh meat won't thrive
The cape hunting dogs of Africa don't have sins to forgive
They risk their lives amidst flying hooves they kill so they
can live.
The cape hunting dogs of Africa are creatures i admire
They chase big game for miles and miles and never seem to tire
Their team work and companionship they live to serve the pack
They often kill ten miles from home and trot the ten miles back.
The cape hunting dogs of Africa live as true family
They chase big game for miles on end and work in harmony
They have no choice but kill to eat if they don't eat they die
And they risk their lives to serve the pack when hooves of hunted fly.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Cheap Date
wasted youth on
being wasted
tasting the lips of liars
with checkered pasts
playing the game
not playing the game
being game
taming
the shrew
I liked to shop
hunting for bargains
hunting for game
game over
he was no bargain
what is the price
you'll pay?
at what cost?
poem by L.K. Thayer
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If you Risk to fall for a Trap
Hunting Shadow
Leave me alone
I am free as a widow
Hunting Shadow
Find yourself
I am only a meadow
Hunting Shadow
Hurried passed by,
as Good-bye she heard, from the window…
(Aug.13 -2007)
poem by Florida Angel
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Deer Hunting Time Is Here Again
Deer hunting time is here again
And many hunters take to the woods
After months of planning with family and friends
They gather in common brotherhood
It's a freedom that fills the soul of a man
With the peace of God's nature all around
Lessons that have been taught since time began
And lifelong memories and friendships are found
Hunting is taught by tradition still yet
Knowledge passed on from man to man
And you'll learn things that you'll never forget
And respect nature more, our wildlife, and our land
So all you hunters enjoy this time
May you be skilled and have lots of luck
May God bless you as you hunt today
And may you bag that ten point buck! !
Dedicated to my Father who enjoyed hunting with family and friends all of his life. He died of a heart attack on the opening day, while hunting with my brothers and uncles. He could not have asked for a better way to go, doing what he loved most!
poem by Kathleen West
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How Boomer Ruined Our Hunting Trips
For years we have gone hunting.
I've loved sitting next to him in his deer blind
or sitting quietly in my own.
Now that Boomer came into our lives
I see all living animals as having feelings
and I can't stand the thought of hunting.
Boomer is our bassett hound.
He thinks he is human.
I sometimes think so too.
The way he has shown me
that he feels things like we do
has changed me forever.
Now, all I can think of is that
if a dog can feel emotions like we do...
can a deer?
Are they afraid?
Do they know why we are sitting there?
Do they hate me?
I have to explain this to my husband
and pray he understands why
our hunting days together are over.
The hunt for love
By my nature
i am not a hunter.
hunting implies
that killing takes place.
the last thing
i want to do
is to kill something.
is hunting wrong?
not necessarily,
but i think hunting is wrong
for me.
besides, as far as i am concerned
motive makes all the difference.
for example,
i was a hunter once
and didn't even know it.
a certain innocence had taken me
into the snowy woods
one snowy evening.
i was hunting
for someone to love.
little did i know my nonchalance
would lead me to another hunter.
this hunter
was moving cautiously
through the same poetic snowy woods
binding snowflakes into winter dreams.
this hunter was careful
to avoid familiar mantraps
while also hunting for someone to love.
poem by Richard Ilnicki
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Fox Hunting Is Banned In Britain
A so called sport of the upper class that inspired the bards to rhyme
Fox hunting is banned in Britain everything has it's time
For nothing last forever it had passed it's use by date
And in chasing down and killing a frightened creature what is to celebrate?
John Masefield's long poem 'Reynard the Fox' I readily can recall
One of the best on fox hunting if not the best of all
But that aside fox hunting was cruel or to me 'twould seem that way
For to be hunted down and mauled to death by dogs not what you'd call fair play.
I read in the Newspapers how those for fox hunting protested long and loud
But there was nothing in this so called sport of which they could feel proud
For to watch a creature torn to shreds could hardly be much fun
It seems a far more painful way to die than the quicker death by gun.
The day is near when all blood sports will be things of the past
For all things have their use by date and nothing seems to last
Some may see the fox as vermin but the fox warrants a fair go
And empathy for wild born creatures not too much to ask to show.
Fox hunting is banned in Britain such good news is good to hear
News well worth celebrating to that I'll drink a beer
To be torn to shreds by a pack of hounds seems an awful way to die
And to this very cruel blood sport good riddance and goodbye.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Hunting dreams
Please, do not follow me any more
I am tired of your shadow and of your kisses in my dreams.
Let me go, and please return to where you belong.
You know I cannot go with you there where you going.
Do not hunting me and my dreams, and don’t close my eyes
Let me go, because it is impassible to love a ghost
Don’t hunting me and my dreams any more…and don’t close my eyes, because you can’t possessed me, I’m not a toy! !
Return to your twilight zone and close the door behind you.
In addition, do not even thing about it coming back to hunting my dreams. I will become your hunting nightmare!
poem by Vanesa Rabic
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Meet the hunter.
Meet the hunter.
Oh, the day past and the sun disappear,
Night come and is time to put on the mask,
Hunger and ready to go hunting,
Hungry for meats and sausages,
Any catch both would be nice,
Boys and girls make the best to impress.
Holy showing legs and chest;
In this tiger den, with all hungry meats eater!
Hunting for a big fatty meat!
Who know the hunter will be hunts?
Let see who play the game smarter?
Dress in suit and tie, who know empty pocket or full?
Stand up front, the look can easily past everyone eyes.
If lucky you got a free drink, mostly you digs on your own pocket,
Be real stranger to stranger, buy you drinks?
In this western den, buy your own sweetie.
You think, you wise, really a fool!
Everyone out smart one another,
and nobody is a fool.
poem by See Fee Lee
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Bounty
We meet at last
You thought you were so cleaver
But you have must forgotten
That I'm cleaver just like you
You see I have been hunting you
All of my life and I'm
not going to stop here
I will never stop hunting you
You may think that you lost me
But no you have not
Everytime you look back
I'm right behind you
You can run but you cannot hide
poem by Bethany Williams
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The Hunters Of Men
HAVE ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen,
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men?
The lords of our land to this hunting have gone,
As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn;
Hark! the cheer and the hallo! the crack of the whip,
And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip!
All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match,
Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch.
So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen,
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men!
Gay luck to our hunters! how nobly they ride
In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride!
The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind,
Just screening the politic statesman behind;
The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer,
The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there.
And woman, kind woman, wife, widow, and maid,
For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid:
Her foot's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein,
How blithely she rides to the hunting of men!
Oh, goodly and grand is our hunting to see,
In this 'land of the brave and this home of the free.'
Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine,
All mounting the saddle, all grasping the rein;
Right merrily hunting the black man, whose sin
Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin!
Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay!
Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey?
Will their hearts fail within them? their nerves tremble, when
All roughly they ride to the hunting of men?
Ho! alms for our hunters! all weary and faint,
Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint.
The horn is wound faintly, the echoes are still,
Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill.
Haste, alms for our hunters! the hunted once more
Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore:
What right have they here in the home of the white,
Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right?
Ho! alms for the hunters! or never again
Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men!
Alms, alms for our hunters! why will ye delay,
When their pride and their glory are melting away?
The parson has turned; for, on charge of his own,
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone?
The politic statesman looks back with a sigh,
There is doubt in his heart, there is fear in his eye.
Oh, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail,
And the head of his steed take the place of the tail.
Oh, haste, ere he leave us! for who will ride then,
For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men?
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Ambushed In The Night
You are hunting me down to take my life but,
What have i done to you?
In this life, from the eveil doers come evil deeds;
So try to be like a spectrum of vivid shades and speckles,
With glittering crystals of golden pyrite.
My love is towards you but,
You are hunting me with hatred;
And i will always live a quiet and a calm life around you.
Do not hastly think that all is well with you,
Do not hastly think that of is well with me,
And do not think that all that you hear is true;
But take a time to speak to me than hunting me down.
I am ambushed in the night because of you,
And i have nowhere to rest my head on this issue;
But my faith will surely lead me to overcome your traps.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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