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Oh fair mortals, heed my call
For I am the God of the hunt, mighty and tall
In forests deep and meadows green
My presence is felt, my power unseen

With bow in hand and arrows true
I roam the land, my prey in view
The beasts of earth, both great and small
Are subject to my aim, one and all

Oh how I revel in the thrill
Of the chase, with every skill
My keen eyes scan the terrain
For my next target, I shall not refrain

From the mighty stag with antlers wide
To the timid hare, I do not hide
For I am the master of this game
And all creatures within, know my name

But do not think me cruel or cold
For I am also the protector bold
Of balance in nature, I ensure
That life and death remain pure

So heed my call, oh mortal kind
For in me, your strength you'll find
For I am the God of the hunt
And in my realm, all creatures are one.

So when you wander in the wild
Remember me, the God of the hunt, mild
For in every creature, my spirit lives
And in their survival, my power thrives.
I let myself break like the lines of a poem,
because every break is a continuation
of this wild & beautiful journey.

Every break comes with another grand adventure.

Another chance to try again when the sun rises
(there will always be tomorrow).

Every break comes with the promise of more poetry.
Don Moore Dec 2023
Flipping, flickering through the air
   Darting from branch to branch
Caught at times by the slight breeze

Alighting, picking at plants tiny seeds
   But, with one eye always seeking motion
Trees, bushes bound by their deep needs

Bare your weight without a frown
   And as you lift to seek another perch
Those branches hardly ever move

So delicate your grasping wee feet
   Your eyes so bright and shining
I watch silent as you land at my toes

You and I, we know each other well
   Me, I’ve seen you so very many times
Either fathers, mothers, here you dwell

Drop brown bread crumbs for you
   See your toes check, before you peck
So I’m lost gazing, my love for you true

Then away you flit, dart back to tree
   Leaving me behind, somewhat forlorn
However I know it’s better that you’re free
A tribute to all the little birds who I have feed over the years.
Don Moore Dec 2023
Dark skies, whirring overlooking
  Illumination light, clear of clouds
Clutching, rising, bird flocks blooming
  Gathering in denuded trees in crowds

A year ago, here I sat watching these
  They came back, and now, leave again
Lifting, scattering, flocking in the breeze
  Gathering, as to fight without bloodstain

Heavens above full of dusty birds in flight
  Whirring, whirling from one shape to another
Nearing winters sun, breaks through bright
  How they flit and play, as if to some conductor

There, so very high above in murmurations
  Never lost from my sight as they dip and sway
Up, down, dancing with their leaving aspirations
  For times span, they’ve swayed dark skies grey
Josephine Wild Aug 2023
Heartbreak
is essential
for the breakthrough.

Not spirit-break.
You can’t break
my spirit.

Can you feel it?
My restless soul
running wild?

You can’t break me.
Don’t try.
I’m not meant to be broken.
Heartbreak is essential for transformative change. My spirit is strengthened.
Ken Pepiton Jul 2023
One more silver dollar
buy another time a chance,
it was a time, not a dream, and

now has been, after that ever since
wisdom swept over me, my reality,

yours, in the same time, our reality
on starship earth, where the ancient
spells have been found to loose oath bound,

if you read this far, I wrote this far, and loved
the company in a same yeast state, define
state in states where war is made possible,
by treaty, representational power,
aimed at the child in the old man
being given worst, worsted wool's my first
right twist to be available in culturally npc
blend, walk by, that guy 120 fps

You could always see first he was not there.
Window's open he couldaflew the coop. Dime'sup.
irinia Feb 2023
my lips feel ****
I a bit vile
I feel decisive
tonight
I'm burning down
the my oh my
Van Gogh's turquoise
inside
self portrait in the wild:
a woman loves to
toast to cloudburst

I think I might
recycle the devil
for poetry's sake,
tonight it smells
of cinnamon,
of flemish paintings
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