To --------

--------, thy beauty is to me

   Like those daring curls of Promethean fire,

That boldly raze, with’n the trees,

    The brilliant, blazing-bright, beckoning pyre:

   A living tower felled by desire.

On hiemal nights long wont of boon,

   Thy chestnut locks, thy timeless face,

Thy Dryad airs have stilled my swoon

As the memory that was Caledonia

And the charm that was Rothiemoon.

Lo! In yon fetching valley-vale,

   How picturesque I see thee rest,

 The lark singing sweetly o’er thy breast!  

   Oh, lassie, within my heart do dwell

   And I, be blest!   

[In the fashion of Poe's 'To Helen']

Gentleman Bob

Bob-white! Bob-bob-white!

A princely song in refrain

gathers the covey;

the patter of little feet

leads to avian congress.

Red Hand of the Hunter

Red hand of the hunter

filled with the swept blade—

deft strokes unlimber

muscle, sinew, and bone.

Kneeling before the quarry,

back to the sinking sun:

red hand of the hunter,

the work has just begun.

Red hand of the hunter,

proficient from years gone by

in a craft too savage

for the naïve, urban eye.

From field, to truck, to gambrel—

a harvest grateful held!

Red hand of the hunter,

it so reverently felled.

Red hand of the hunter,

not a blemish, but a badge

on each of the kindred brethren

unwilling to beg or cadge. 

Song of November

I guess this is what happens when you read 400+ pages of Kipling in two days and think about hunting season....

Hunter’s moon—full of light,

shining amber, radiant bright!

Wheat fields glow the ghostly hue;

whitetails graze in the midnight dew.

Here they low (nocturnal beasts),

shunning daybreak for protected feasts.  

Antlers glisten, no light to bleach

far away from the hunter’s fatal reach.

Secluded revelry, hidden dance—

frolic in moonbeams, autumn romance!

Carefree courting here begun

and ended ‘fore the rise of sun.  

When the blue-grey morn does peek

‘neath the horizon,  salmon pink,

they slip and melt into the shade

and their visage hastily fade.

Brethren hunters, stir not then

for the cold will burn the skin;

all your effort will be in vain

if last night the moon did reign.

Sharpen knives and oil the gun,

bide thy time until set of sun.

If then the lunar face is new

tomorrow’s hunt will be more true.

Old Friends Are Best

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best.

Old friends are like the favorite flannel shirt,

worn when the wind comes far frae the west.

They envelope in woolen splendor

and in humor are blest.

What else offers comfort

when the solstice is near?

None but the comrade, with a heart full o’ cheer!

No doubt the tales grow

as the year comes to rest

and the roar of laughter by hearth,

quiets even winter’s hoary test.

But what when they’ve gone

to lead lives like the rest?

Kinship doesn’t wane like a flame in the wind,

rather it bristles as the fires are stoked hot again.

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best.

They rise like the phoenix

through nostalgia-fueled flame

and triumph in jubilation

at the sound of their name!

All friends are good friends,

but old friends are best!

Come hither! Come hither,

ye comrades of old!

I will not forsake you,

nor ever be cold!

What once was, still is;

What is, will remain.

Come again, old friend,

and your rightful place reclaim!

Old friend, dear old friend

sit near me once more.

Tell of the days gone by,

those wonders of yore!