If ever there was a time to stop breathing I chose a clearing at dawn.
A deer appeared right as the gleam of the sun touched the top of the forest line.  
I heard a chipmunk scurrying across the oak roots rising from the ground.
A cardinal group begins to sing in the distance--as their sounds reaches me,  I realized I have been distracted and turn my attention back to the fourteen point, white-tailed buck in the clearing.
I slowly lift my weapon.
I set my aim,  positioning the cross (in the scope) at the shoulder of this magnificent creature, and I catch my breath.
The situation itself is far beyond a man simply taking the life of an animal--exceeds   the thrill of a firing pin striking, creating an explosion that builds pressure, sending a six centimeter long,  one and a half centimeter wide copper-coated bullet through the rifling pattern and into a target one hundred and fifty yards away.
I believe that Destiny brought us together based on the choices we both made.
I can only guess the animal's intentions (running away from a predator, looking for a mate, etc)
Myself?  I am here because I argued with my wife of 25 years.
The deer drops to the ground.
We all make choices.

Lima bean farms
are good places to forget a dream.
They grow shin-length.
Just tall enough to ignore, but still definite,
unmistakable. The soil is damp,
fed by tin planes and farmer pilots
who take pride in their acres.
A family of worms have their brunch
while buzzards circle in line.
Waiting and pointing out the roadkill doe
that stumbled here last night.
If I keep walking towards
my father's bloodstained
Ford pickup, she'll be there.
Eyes glistening
and dead, aware
of our harvest-green property.

Fissures cut through thick mocha fur, saturating
The forest floor with stark crimson. The deer flails,
Broken, knees buckled, breath shallow and emerging
As vanishing steam in frosty November air.
He falls on a bed of sugar maple leaves, illuminated
In dappled sunlight and fulvous hues.

“Must’ve been the coyotes,” my brother whispers,
As my pocketknife meets the stag’s throat. Gentle
Auburn clouds and freezes time, the body falls still.

My father says, “Sacrifice is a form of worship, but it is only through
Mercy that we may show passion for what we believe.”

Coyote bites prevent carvings from going to Buxton’s General Store,
But what nature produces it also receives.
Ants forage along the split underbelly,
And a red-tailed hawk carries away the entrails.

History defines the antlers of deer as symbols of the Gods,
And men would wear them atop their heads.
I collect only them, still draped with threads of velvet,
Knowing that years from now, nestled inside the perimeter
Of wind-beaten fences around the family farm, beyond
Moss-covered slopes and the Wishing Rock,
Will be the bones of a solitary stag.

the roses on her grave are dead,
so am i
the ground is frozen solid,
can you hear the deer wander
reincarnation
can you hear the flutter of the butterfly wings?
abandoned tea cup in the shed
now a spiders home
i'm alone

Long nights,
Party lights,
Way to get it started.

Blurred sight,
Drinks taste alright,
Away the car parted.

Deer in the headlights,
Swerve to the right,
Many trees uncharted.

Prayers recite,
Skull and dashboard unite,
There his soul departed.

you called me beautiful
and then hid from me
like a child
eager friendship
was turning into a
wildfire of feelings
not at the least bit lustful
and I have never not been lustful
I always thought it was just another
permanent flaw in my
stained and crumpled being
but you proved me wrong once again
and called me beautiful
a word that had meant nothing to me
until uttered
with a side dish of hysteria
and a sprinkle of angst
but then why did you run
from something
that should have at least sent me
scrambling away
like a deer caught in the light
maybe I trust you
maybe you don’t know how to trust
I didn’t think I did either

Deep in the forests the tiger was sleeping

A beautifull deer was passing near him

Her scent woke him
He rose fearcefully excited about his meal

He saw it and ran after the deer

Him chasing
She escaping

They arrived to the edge of the mountain
The deer stopped full of fear turned and looked straight into the tigers teeth
The tiger knew he had her
He approached slowly and asked her
"Why did you escape its been days i havent ate"

"Please dont eat me she said
I never did anything to deserve that"

The wise tiger replied
"Thats the way the world goes around"

He prepared himself for his prey
The dear sudenely jumped from the edge choosing to die

The tiger angry walked away and realised

That the beautifull deer died with pride

Words Of Harfouchism

Self centered and selfish
Earth revolves around us and only us
No one else matters
Our problems are number one, above death and hunger
Selfish it is called
Survival of the fittest because only the strong survive
If the boat was on fire, we would jump first, not caring if the others are hurt
Jump because we must take care of ourselves
Jump because it is our life
Jump because we might not get another chance at life
Jump because we must be strong
Jump because we are self centered
This sounds wrong and selfish but you know what they say, the truth hurts.

she was wearing soft red lips
and blue eyes as deep as the ocean
and a shirt that read “THIS WILL DESTROY YOU”
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
too late
too late
and you were already moving, already in motion
she made her darkness shine like gold.    

she was wrapped in silk and satin
that would have burned you if you tried to touch
and she was sitting by a window
waiting for you.
she wanted to keep her sadness close
and her vastness open.
she didn’t understand what it meant to be the moon
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
and you were already moving.
she was a wolf, she said
and her knowledge could eat you
alive.
you, on the other hand
have always been a deer.

                        she spoke with a voice of lush and luxury
and wore her jacket over her shoulders
on the first day of spring.
her enigma was thrilling
and she scared you
almost to death
but not enough to make you leave.
she had hands of ice
and the breath of heartbreak.
she still remembered how to laugh
however cynical.
she was just as lost and dismembered as anyone else
but knew how to hide it
among sharpened knives
and glasses of red wine.
she loved the thought of drowning
but yearned to be saved
and asked you for help.
she let you in
but she was a self-proclaimed goddess
with secrets deeper
than your lungs.
she was water
and you have always been air
and you should’ve known then but it was already too late
and you were already moving.
the whole time you moved within one word
and that word carried you to places she never could:
chance.
she tried to warn you
she knew she couldn’t be the person you loved
yet somehow you still did
somehow you still did
(she) did still you, somehow
somehow you still did.
it was already too late
late too, already, was it?
it was already too late.
before you even met her
before you even saw her turn around in that coffee shop
before her smile
before her accent reached your ears
before your arms touched
before she read her writing to you
before she opened
before she placed her hand on your back
before you watched her walk away down the dark city street for the first and last time
before you met the body behind the screen, you did
you loved the words.