Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Larry B Aug 2010
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure

But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor

It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget

A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"

He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack

He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope

He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head

He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware

Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Denel Kessler Apr 2016
I choose
not to step out
in front of the
oncoming truck
like some flighty
whitetail deer
beside a lonely highway
flat-lining through the Badlands

I hold the perimeter
respect the irrevocable
delineations of love
honor the ground
that roots
evergreen
place my trust
in lapis blue
Larry B Aug 2010
I only shoot to **** my food
Not for pride or pleasure
I hunt the meat we all can eat
Not for a mantlepiece treasure

But late one night I was lying in bed
And someone was at my door
I jumped to my feet like a ninja in heat
And crawled across my floor

It was dark inside my livingroom
But I could see a silhouette
The next thing I saw took my breath
It's something I'll never forget

A deer was wearing a ski mask
His antlers poked out the top
I jumped to my feet as fast as I could
And yelled, "Bambi you better stop"

He turned around and began to charge
I screamed for my wife to get back
He pulled a knife and cut my arm
With another sneak attack

He chased me down the hallway
The bathroom my only hope
But when I tried to get inside
He lassoed me with his rope

He tied me up and robbed my house
My wife was under the bed
He went through all of our dresser drawers
Her underwear on top his head

He finally left, the house was a mess
There were hoofprints everywhere
He took the remote to our color Tv
And even our silverware

Before he left he pointed and laughed
And called me a crazy old geezer
But my wife is scared and cannot rest
Until I put him in my freezer
Michael Hoffman Jul 2013
I live in one of those small
mostly untainted towns
not trendy, just funky and innocent
the kind that’s becoming rara villa en terra.
No Starbucks.

But modern winds bring dust and particles
from larger cities around.
They have infected our fauna
which are morphing before our eyes.

Last week I was at the pond
where the deer come to drink at dusk
and my heart broke.

There was that huge seven-point whitetail buck
the one I so admired
huge, taut and fast
but instead of hooves
he was trod with Goodyear offroad tires.
He saw me see him
and embarrassed turned and sped away into the trees
leaving rubber treadmarks in the loam.
Tiberias Paulk Jan 2015
Stark white was the fir in its blanket of snow
worn down was the deer that hunger laid low
gone were the green things clover and all  
buried by the dampness of frigid snow fall
harsh became the forest as vast as the sky
leaving whitetail for miles to do nothing but die
Kayla Lynn Oct 2014
Your two a.m. words are my favorite
The way the starlight reflects in your eyes
And your smile breaks your face in half
When you tell me about your homeland
And how you used to sleep in the mountains
I paint the picture in my mind of you
Riding whitetail through the tropics

He's probably dead now, you admit
That horse you loved all those years ago
And it just breaks my ******* heart
But you don't seem to notice
You're talking to the shadows
To the monsters under my bead
Reminiscing of how things used to be

And how you miss the smell of coffee
When your mother would grind the beans
You tell me you miss your home
But you don't ever want to return
Because nothing can restore the past
Because I'm here, now, with you

You tell me that my laughter
Is the only home you'll ever need
And that the mountain bonfires
Cannot compare to the heat from my skin
You tell me you always believed in angels
But I was the first one you ever laid eyes on
You tell me my lips are sweet and my voice
Always hums the perfect melody

And in all these ways
You tell me you love me.
But I tell you
I cannot compete with a memory,

And it breaks my heart
Even more.
Ben Jan 2017
In the brown dead brush
We lock eyes and his tails up
Locked in the cold trees
Dave Hardin Oct 2016
Dig
Dig

We were nearly back to the house
when the front end loader shattered
the silence and back filled the hole
drove off some vireos and cowbirds

amped up seven whitetail browsing
the pine break above Calusa Way.
American Spirit *******
a new moon **** of mouth

the operator feathered the lever
while gathered together we grazed
potato salad, deviled eggs, sliced ham, rain
from the Gulf over to Melbourne

soaking the operator’s boots
ducking into his pickup truck
for the long drive home to Pedro.
It hammered the tin roof shed  

out back where your tools
tarps, trouble lights, line trimmer
home brew insecticide in unmarked
milk jugs, old spark plugs

a lifetime of nuts, bolts and washers
huddled warm and dry on shelves
ball peened the tamped sand lozenge
on the ragged fringe of the silent ranks.

It’s hard to find even with a map
Calusa Way coiling through the bahia grass
flowing past stone faced theater goers
house lights up well past their final act.  

Vireos and cowbirds
even the whitetail browsing
the pine break pay me no
mind down on hands and knees

undoing the honest work
of the operator, sifting handfuls
of sandy backfill for something
I might have missed.
The Fire Burns Oct 2016
The hum of the fan
sings a lullaby
as the stress of the day
falls out of the muscles

An angels cloud of a pillow
my head sinks in
covers pulled up high
warm in my womb

The sheep ramble bye
one bye one
and slowly transform
into nothing

The sandmans dust
has been sprinkled
and rapid eye movement begun
falling into the land of dreams

Landing softly
in a newly mown green field
with knee deep patches
of bluebonnets and Indian paint brushes

A creek trickles nearby
its lulling sound
a salve for any remaining pain
brim swim in its cool waters

In the distance
snow capped mountains
haloed by the sun
that hides behind it

Cottontail rabbits
on the move
pay me no mind
on their journey

The purple martins
sing their song
interrupted
by the mockingbird

A whitetail doe
and her two spotted fawns
ease by, head down,
munching on grass

Calmed, and relaxed
breathing easy and rhythmic
eyes dart around
taking in the beauty of the dream
r Aug 2013
Dragonflies and Damselflies
Symbols of good fortune
From water nymphs
To flying orchestra in tune
Beauty in symmetry
Fragile Forktail
Ebony Jewelwing
Common Whitetail
Eastern Amberwing
Autumn and Amber Meadowhawks
The Common Green Darner
Such beauty in variety
5,900 species of wonder
Ode to the Odes
Dragonflies and Damselflies
Another splendid nature code
Filling my skies

r  
4 August 2013
Curious and friendly, love them like my birds.
Autumn days along Port wood-row
In search of the morning fiery glow of frosted moors
Recalling the doors of my very soul to the crackle -
of frozen lakeshore , the infusion of frigid visible breath
in resplendent newborn sunshine , the rhyme of windswept
Pine , the rapport of Woodpecker and calling Finch , reflections
of Carolina blue sky o'er Gods placid , mirrored waters
Home of steaming evergreen bottomland and rock bass
river dancers , November leaves sailing the script of the
Alabama western wind , the regal prance of Whitetail Deer
to the Mourning Dove euphonic call and answer* ..
Copyright October 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Crappie running in beds along the lit docks , bridges and abutments .. Flathead catfish bigger than a grown man at the base of the dam , Largemouth bass hitting shad like battering rams , early morning , late afternoon and darkest night .. Hardwood forest brimming colorful shores , stoic Whitetail Bucks dining on acorns , field nuts and sweet moss , Canadian geese and frozen shorebirds working her tributaries and inlets .. Smokey water silhouettes relayed by whippoorwill hymns , the first angelic beam of the morn striking her poetic surface .. Lake Jackson returning to diurnal joy , across reflective , freshwater twirling plains ...
Copyright March 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Along Peachstone Shoals
Morgan horses have seized the first light -
of the spring morning
Wild Turkeys call in unison , scratch -
hurriedly along wild rose , bramble berry -
camouflage
A stoic Whitetail Buck crosses the shallows ,
disappears into hardwood spring shelter
Fog steadily burns along the holler as red winged -
blackbirds gather for the noon feast o'er purple clover
passageways , tinted with silver-gray ballooning -
spiderlings , moistened by the warm breath of the -
promising new day harvest
Farm tractors scurry county roads in route to -
awaiting plowland , Longhorn cattle vie for the sunny
hillside ..
Copyright April 12 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Late Sunday mornings beside 'Rabbit rock' on the walk home from Scott Lake , across the highway down Hemphill Road toward beautiful Camp Creek ... Blackberry stained hands , prying waters in search of crawdads and mud puppies , jumping 'Bobwhite's' along the Pine forest edge .. Whitetail tracks in every direction , homeward bound through fields of corn and sorghum ,  summer sky filled with the glorious music of the Bentley Hill UMC choir , reverberating through the wisteria scented countryside ...
Copyright March 19 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved

Henry County , Georgia ..
Swaying Pin Oaks wave to me from
my window perch , a veritable sea of gold
and green in contrast to this dark living room
I remember these majestic Water Oaks as
seedlings , held upright by kite string and wooden
stakes
Cedar trees standing o'er twenty feet tall , Wild Plum
trees congregating for a quarter of a mile
Dirt roads at each intersection , a lonely state highway
for riding bicycles and collecting empty pop bottles
Watching afternoon Whitetail Does from July cornfields ,
carving walking sticks from Hickory , climbing
Crabapple trees for midday snacks , canoeing trips on
the Indian Creeks
Where do memories find rest as the body quietly withers away
Copyright May 3 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Rejoice upon the subtle murmurations -
of angelic voices , gaggles of blackbirds performing
within naked hardwoods , Whitetail companions
dwell o'er living , wetted pasture , wintered neighborhoods
Novembers invisible strength racking evergreens ,
cold cover mingles with tall Pine canopies  
Fall turned , brown sugar fields with calling Herefords ,
bound for eventide shelters* ....
Copyright April 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Snap!

The sudden sound explodes through the reticent forest
Emanating from the grove of pine
It sends a warning to all woodland denizens
That danger is afoot

Her singular howl intones a chorus
That resonates throughout the forest

Metamorphoses begins
Her fragile spine slowly fractures
She lets out one last howl
Only to fall...unconscious

His golden eyes blaze with anger
As he gazes from behind a fallen tree

Cautiously approaching, he sees her lying motionless
Sans her white coat...no longer like him

He lifts his head back, takes a deep breath
And an urgent howl he sends far and wide

The desperate wail awakens a cadre of Ravens
Alerting them to their task at hand
Departing their perch, they go in search
Of the medicine which will save her

They arrive at the solitary cave
But not before the howl had echoed within

The Ravens encounter the just awakened medicine
Taking flight...the cadre leads the way
Thunder rages through the forest as paws strike the ground
Ravens swiftly lead Bear to their wounded friend

Finally arriving, Bear assesses the situation
Standing...she looks in wonder as to how this happened in their world
At her motionless friend
With her powerful paw locked in steel

That wonder was answered
As she looked into his golden eyes
She perceptively sees the work of a cabal
In setting the device

His eyes also show uncertainty
His black fur is standing on end
Intimating an urgency that Bear readily grasps
Medicine is needed quickly

Bear smiles
For she is the healer, the enforcer

A whitetail deer peers from behind an ancient cedar
As Bear, with her powerful paws, opens the trap
Bear licks the wound delicately
The wound begins to heal from the medicine

The power of Bear, and of Nature, is strong!

Bear places her giant paw over her, what seems like lifeless face
Color begins to fill her skin again as Bear gives medicine
An Eagle watches intently from above
As the familiar fur and body shape come back into view

For the first time, as she begins to awaken
The transformation is painless
Her once fragile spine has grown stronger with medicine
She drifts off

As her eyes begin to slowly open and come into focus
She sees a lone...silent figure

His golden eyes intently staring directly into hers
"I heard you howl", he said attentively
"I knew you would come", she replied, "U are always there for me."

Rejuvenated, she moved with assurance
Once again, feeling familiarity in this form

In her sheen coat of white fur, she now stood
Next to him, and his coat of fur that matched the raven's wing

They stood in contrasting, yet symbiotic fashion
He pulled her closer, and without making a sound
Gestured that it was time to move on...

(c) 2016 Shawn White Eagle
I have not written for some time, but often times events can inspire one to put "pen to paper", or, in this case, fingers to keys. :-)  I have reached back to continue a story I had left open ended some time ago, and doing the same this time as well.  I Love U Lobo :-)
Wk kortas Apr 2017
Oh, we’d talked of other lives in other places,
But where would we have gone, anyway?
(It was rural Pennsylvania in the thirties,
And being well-off meant you ate three times most days
And could afford meat every other Sunday)
So we carried on in anguish and guilt as old-maids-in-waiting
As there were dinners to cook and cows to strip out,
Fireplaces to stoke, any number of chores to do
While our mothers and fathers waited patiently for that day
When we would, each in our turn, don a grandmother’s wedding gown
And march steadfastly down some acceptably Protestant aisle
While Gert Bauer, default church organist
Though she was past eighty and nearly blind,
Tortured the wedding march, flubbing notes and stomping pedals
The tune lurching forward at an inconsistent
And unusually adagio fashion.

As it turns out, Tojo and Adolph Schicklgruber
Interceded on our behalf,
For, as the young and able-bodied men of Elk County went off to serve
(Farm boys from Wilcox and Kersey, pool sharps from Ridgway,
Fully half the production line from the paper mill in Johnsonburg)
Someone needed to man punch presses and die casters,
So we were able to find work making propellers
In a windowless and airless factory
Which didn’t have women’s rooms
Until we’d been there for three months
Allowing us to set up house together
(We told our parents
It would allow us to save up toward our weddings,
And still let us give them grocery money each couple of weeks.)
Eventually, Johnny came marching home again
And back into his old job,
Which left us somewhat at sixes and sevens,
But, like Blanche DuBois,
We came to depend on the kindness of strangers
Who believed in the value
Of strong backs or the primacy of civil service scores
And so with our steady if unspectacular incomes,
We were able to carry on keeping house, as it was said,
(Our parents sadly unpacking hope chests.
Sullenly gifting us the linens
They’d purchased for our marital bed at Larson’s,
The hand-made quilt stitched and fussed over
For nine months by Aunt Jenny)
And maintain an uneasy truce with the good people of the town;
Indeed, we were all about “don’t ask, don’t tell”
Long before it was somewhat fashionable.

When it became apparent that she would not carry on much longer,
Or, as she put it, Now I’ve got an expiration date,
Just like a can of soup,

It was as if the populace had decided, after some sixty years,
To take their revenge upon our ******* of the natural order,
As if they were a pack of wolves,
Having identified the lame and the sick among a herd of whitetail,
Tightening the circle before moving in for the ****.  
In truth, I shouldn’t have been surprised,
But the pettiness and the tight, self-satisfied smirks
Were no less painful in spite of that.
And what was your relationship to the deceased?
They would say with their half-knowing, half-offended smiles.
I’d wanted to shout at the top of my lungs that for fully six decades
She had been the love of my life,
Without question and without deviation,
Not like the banker who dallied with his fat secretary,
Or the claims rep who, taking a personal day when her pipes froze up,
******* the plumber right on the kitchen floor,
But years of secrecy and compromise exact a toll,
So I simply, quietly, matter-of-factly would reply
I am the executrix, thank you.

We had talked of perhaps heading west
To make honest women out of each other,
And, later still, of burying her in Paris or San Francisco,
But tight times and walkers and wheelchairs
Made such plans unworkable;
It’s only parchment and granite, she said,
What do they mean at the end of the day, anyhow,
And so when the time came
She asked me to take her ashes up to the top of Bootjack Hill
And scatter her to the wind.
Make sure to go all the way to the top, she insisted,
*I want to get good and clear of this place.
Beautiful Whitetail bucks , resplendent in Winter coats , statuesque along the hillside , ever alert in morning fog , complacent in the heavy cover of the Georgia woodlands , courteously striking a pose at Dusk , quite aloof in my own front yard ..
A crown prince of the ruminant kingdom at the edge of suburbia , revealing their breath on cold Winter mornings , leaving their signatures with rub marks and snorts ..
Commanding the fields of Spring and Summer , gorging themselves on brown oats , green grass , blackberry , fig and wild plums ..
Our wondrous native 'Knights of Hill Country' , panning green , picturesque pastures at the close of day ,  grazing for edibles along quiet country lanes , peacefully bedding beside creekside , Sun warmed hayfield , placid pond and mirrored lake ..Along Moon lit valley's , apple orchards and fire breaks ..
Copyright November 26 , 2015 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Magenta clover fairways
Southbound airplanes
Forest green cover shading -
old lovers
Crows speak of the return to summer
with cobalt canopies , jasmine perfume ,
the afternoon call of orioles , crying doves , whitetail
mothers , late night shooting stars and morning dew crystalline cover*...
Copyright May 1 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Vivid Cottonwood images lay across my natural muse ...
Lake dancers sway in the shadows , Georgia red clay
bears earthen testament to her aquatic wonders , teeming along
every living shoreline ..
A prayer before bucolic entities , Bream , Shellcracker and Gopher tortoise , Whitetail Doe and Cottontail rabbit ...
To Bear Creek , cascading mother of Port Lake , to deep western forest as far as my eyes can bear witness ...
The deep blue eyes of my creator , juniper green cover and songbird filled canopy , to the sweet ambrosia of native grasses singing in the afternoon winds ...
Copyright March 4 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Devon Brock Jul 2019
Joy and similar discontents
break wheaten on the all-weather
radial steel-reinforced sidewall hum,
on the defog rasping for a service call;

Break on the near treeless plain
stitched loose to the sky with rivets
of silos and grain bins - clouds
dive porpoise behind the rise.

Joy and similar discontents
hang like flowers on a bleach
wood cross surviving another winter
to tread sobbing on the green ditch water.

Every X and Y coordinate of the plains
etched by gravel side-ways and field
entries too rutted and ragged
to suit the conglomerate need

or the tilt houses and stripped clapboard
banging against the thistle, milkweed
and swallowed dreams in the foxgrass,
with turkey buzzards circling thermal overhead.

But the crows plunge faster into red
fresh carrion sloughs of whitetail and ****
to breach at the presence of a larger scavenging -
and each bent marker tells its own tale.

Count the bullet holes and shotgun splatter
in the stops and yields when the road was empty,
when the night was dry, when the callous boys
had time on their hands instead of hog blood

and badger-eyed girls that left after graduation
for the starless haze, crowded parades,
sidewalk shops, umbrellas on the rain side
of things keeping each at arm's length.

But it was never about the city,
never about the glitz and pizzazz
of everything running baffled into gridlock;
less about the thick dumb flannel boys.

It was always about that low fog,
the night eyes in the beams, the manure, chaff
and split seams of the midwest furrows,
the haybales that bob like rafts over the horizon.
She's the width of an average driveway , about a five mile walk
Lined with sugar white sand and slick creek rock
Girdled in Water Oak roots and red clay embankments , a summer quick retreat , swift running with occasional pools no deeper than
a few feet
She's teeming with small fish , tadpoles , crayfish and
mud puppies , ruddy bank boulders and thick grassy shoulders
Lined in cattail , brown eyed susie's and monkey grass
Home to cottonmouths , alligator snappers , raccoons and
opossums , king racers , swamp rabbits and cottontails ,
whitetail deer , wild hogs and bobcats and a million childhood tall tales
A sister to the South River flowing into Lake Jackson , a mother
to abundant wildlife , a brother to an inquisitive youngster* ...
Copyright February 16 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Insertnamehere Dec 2020
All hail the dragonfly, master of the sky.
Master of the swamp.
Master of it's prey, be it orange, white or grey.
Perhaps the common whitetail, zooming all about,would choose to dress in the blues and hues of the dasher and wallow in the clout.

Don't mistake him for the damselfly, he'd rather die, he wouldn't be seen like that.
Even through the magnificence of his multifaceted eye.

All that structural coloration makes him look like a Christmas decoration.

All hail the dragonfly, master of the sky.
Master of the swamp.
Master of it's prey, I'll hail it each and every day.
A perfect time to be together
To gather and imbibe honeysuckle nectar
Walking the woodland edge in the
company of kindred spirits
Whitetail's keenly observe every action
from young pine thickets
North winds crackle dry brush , bronze
fieldrows rush through my every vessel
Dove gather along the power lines as
piedmont sun begins to settle
Tall shadows with bobwhites imploring the rise
of the moon along the terra cotta horizon
Copyright January 25 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Whitetail Does crossing my front yard
Thank you Mama Kuhn , Granny Wilson -
and Grammaw for warming my heart* ...
Copyright June 26 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
vanish things Feb 2016
a whitetail drinks
to the summer leaves
drifting home


hear me
sunshine
Devon Brock Aug 2019
Driving to the lone tree,
the one that marks the right left turn,
the tree full and round,
uncluttered by the muttering
tangling limbs of crowd oak
jostling pine and mobbing
silver maple that snap the wind
into fingers and clenched fists
of hale big as jawbreakers.

That's where the twist lives,
just past the stump yard
trying to petrify, turning
wood to stone,
before the rot hits home,
before nobody knows
where to turn no more.

We found our way
once the willow went down
but it took some time
took some time til
we saw that the redtail
always dives into the same deep
culvert where asparagus
is marked with upturned
boots that never fit anyway

We all find our own way home
the blind Rand McNally instinct
of Get 'n Go coffee stained maps
splitting at the folds.

It takes some time
but we always find a sign
a whitetail spine
or a naked brown christmas tree
or a sag bottom Bud box
thrown, that leads us through the
nameless roads home.
Juicy Fruit chewing gum , wren singing
Saturday , cool day tromping buck trail ,
whitetail byways
Over red hillside , wild onions grow tall over frosted -
scenery , eagerly encircling lakesides
natural machinery
Pausing by a stump to watch -
a "Hartford" jumped
Geese on the move on a course to the moon
Herons holding still to get their fill ,
'Grays' scampering from Cottonwood
to  Sycamore , Swamp bunnies breaking
on the cattail shores* ...
Copyright November 27 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Moss grows unchecked on the
granite surface , cushioning bare feet
like velvet , pine forest obscured with
morning mist , a sun kissed peak , a wetted
valley , a covey of bobwhites , a coopers hawk
Oaks of every shape and size stair step the lone
trail to the top
Her overlook is grandiose
Boot sized ponds and cacti share the precipice
with cottontails and whitetail does
Tall hardwood canopies lie row upon
row , a place of solitude , where earth moves
slow , where creativity grows , where fragrant
summer breezes blow , where secrets are withheld that only the mountain knows* ...
Copyright February 13 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Wk kortas Jan 2021
He’d found himself restlessly housebound
(All men being the creators of their own comfort,
As well as the progenitors of their confinement)
And as the snow was on the lighter side,
Though tending toward the wet as well,
The type which renders the sidewalks in the town below
A bit, as the local parlance would have it, on the slippy side,
But his boots had sturdy uppers and decent tread,
And a walk this time of year less threatening than most,
What with the bobcats napping at midday
And the timber rattlers under the frost line for the winter,
The only threat to his well-being the potential discovery
Of some heretofore unseen red-ribboned stakes
Announcing the intention of some new **** fool
Who, in service of some desire to get closer to Mother Nature,
Was seeking to build in some spot
Where she offered him little more
Than a future of cracked foundations
And wind-sheared roofing misadventures.
Fortunately, his stroll was uninterrupted
By such man-made foolishness, his reverie undisturbed
Until such time as he happened upon a whitetail doe
Seemingly caught between flip and fly,
Her ilk all somewhat more comfortable
With their human counterparts
As they lived more cheek-to-jowl,
(But black-powder season had just ended a couple of days back,
So a certain skittish wariness was to be expected.)
He’d raised his hands in a gesture of what he supposed
Was non-threatening, knowing such a thing to be utter foolishness
Even as he raised his arms skyward,
But the beast backed away slowly, haltingly,
Before turning and cantering off,
And he figured that made it as good a time as any
To head back down toward the house,
Not to mention the snow had picked up in intensity,
A grainy, sleety issue which had filled in his footprints,
Leaving them barely perceptible in the waning daylight.
The Fire Burns Sep 2017
Twisted X's made of wire,
strung between t- posts,
fencing off separate properties,
yet tying it together for miles.

Cattle and horses contained,
whitetail deer simply go through
or jump over with impressive leaps,
Rio Grande turkeys walk the line.

Game trails used by various critters,
criss cross underneath it,
forming tunnels in the tall grass,
a yellow breasted meadowlark perches.

Grown into trees through the years,
a historical record contained and preserved within.
single stand or multi-wire tales,
a 3000 pound Beefmaster bull just walks through.

Cowboys ride miles mending,
on foot, or horseback or trucks and ATV's.
good fences make good neighbors, especially in cattle country.
Robert Frost, thanks for Good fences quote.
Good day Creek natives ,
commanding the brow -
of a centurion water oak
To parties gathering berries -
in the form of Whitetail does
To spearfishers in touch with
rushing waters , to windy woodland -
celebrations paying homage to -
Chieftain fathers
In the name of soft-shelled turtles -
exploring red clay flanks , to the ghosts of -
warriors protecting her riverbanks* ...
Copyright January 4 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
The Fire Burns Aug 2017
Gray, white, black,
ridges and valleys,
swirls, holes, and protrusions,
fallen oak tree bark.

From deep creek bottom shadows,
into bright sun lit grass, verdant,
Angus cows graze towards the pond,
rusted barbed wire between us.

On the pasture's edge,
leafless mesquite tree,
Old and looming,
green from the mistletoe it feeds.

Marking the road in the distance,
orange t-posts evenly spaced,
disappearing over the rise,
as it heads towards town.

Gravel and white dust mark,
the passage of a blue truck,
loaded with red feed sacks,
a cow bellows from out of sight.

Movement catches my eye,
a streak of brown and white,
leaps over two fences,
and the road, and emerges into the pasture.

Whitetail deer first one, then many,
appear in the pasture,
grazing in winter rye grass,
the cows left behind.

— The End —