Outdoor Poetry

[Wyobohunter]

A place to post poems about the outdoors. Post your own, or post someone else’s. Post funny poems, dark poems, happy poems, pretty poems, ugly poems.

Here’s a dark one I thought of while walking the dogs in the frozen desert.

A sarcastic wind
Stinging tears on burning cheeks
Aimless trudging shoes

Harsh white took my way
Forgotten compass, a sob
Fear, run, fall, and rest

Unforgiving wind
Singing on my wooden skin
Howls a lullaby

 

[huntcookwrite]

I sketched several poems, mostly to my kids, this fall while in the deer stand. Here’s one I rather like, which I wrote the same sit I killed my first buck of the season.

I’ve seen twice now a hawk
Swooping through the forest canopy
As I sit in a tree, waiting for deer

When I tell you the night before
That I am going to be hunting
You tell me to catch a deer
So we can eat it.

Right now, I’d like nothing more
Than to catch a deer
So we can eat it.

But instead,
I’m listening to bird language
And watching the setting sun
Light the leaves
On fire.

 

[Wolfshead]

I’m not much of a poet but I can rhyme.
I say this to myself every now and then while sitting in a stand….

Oh Creator, please give me some luck.
Let me see a nice big Buck!
Can’t always happen, this I know.
So please then send me a nice fat Doe!

 

[Wyobohunter]

I sketched several poems, mostly to my kids, this fall while in the deer stand. Here’s one I rather like, which I wrote the same sit I killed my first buck of the season.

I’ve seen twice now a hawk
Swooping through the forest canopy
As I sit in a tree, waiting for deer

When I tell you the night before
That I am going to be hunting
You tell me to catch a deer
So we can eat it.

Right now, I’d like nothing more
Than to catch a deer
So we can eat it.

But instead,
I’m listening to bird language
And watching the setting sun
Light the leaves
On fire.

I’m not much of a poet but I can rhyme.
I say this to myself every now and then while sitting in a stand….

Oh Creator, please give me some luck.
Let me see a nice big Buck!
Can’t always happen, this I know.
So please then send me a nice fat Doe!

Both of these Remind me of spending hours, days, and occasionally weeks alone. The little things we repeat to ourselves when there is no one else to talk to. Remembering things that warm us, “catch a deer”. And they remind me that nature always provides something, so long as we are able to notice and appreciate.

 

[northernlandgar]

Love the idea of this thread. I wrote this poem a few months after a solo hunt on a beautiful November day in '23, shot an atypical buck in the mountains.

Hoofprints in the snow, almost silent here.
I walk alone, breathe the cold air far away from home.
Mountains rise all around, white-topped spires of ice and snow
but I don't see them, only hoofprints
in the snow.
A spot to rest, catch my breath as flakes
tumble down all around, white on green as winter's grip takes control, short days hemmed in by
night.
Sun breaks through the clouds, a momentary relief
from deep blue shadows, now lit in shades of gold.
Step by step I climb higher, past more hoofprints
but nothing moves except for
me.
There, in front, not far ahead stands
the deer,
tall, with a crooked-antler, leaving hoofprints in the snow.
His eyes lock with mine
in a frozen moment, just us two.
Muscles tenses, all things prepared,
our worlds collide on the head of a pin
before I shatter silence.
Sulfur smoke and ringing ears.
He bolts, dances up the hill but falls
not far from where he stood.
Chest heaving and breath cut short,
he coughs once more and then is still,
leaving crimson red across the snow.

 

[Wyobohunter]

Love the idea of this thread. I wrote this poem a few months after a solo hunt on a beautiful November day in '23, shot an atypical buck in the mountains.

Hoofprints in the snow, almost silent here.
I walk alone, breathe the cold air far away from home.
Mountains rise all around, white-topped spires of ice and snow
but I don't see them, only hoofprints
in the snow.
A spot to rest, catch my breath as flakes
tumble down all around, white on green as winter's grip takes control, short days hemmed in by
night.
Sun breaks through the clouds, a momentary relief
from deep blue shadows, now lit in shades of gold.
Step by step I climb higher, past more hoofprints
but nothing moves except for
me.
There, in front, not far ahead stands
the deer,
tall, with a crooked-antler, leaving hoofprints in the snow.
His eyes lock with mine
in a frozen moment, just us two.
Muscles tenses, all things prepared,
our worlds collide on the head of a pin
before I shatter silence.
Sulfur smoke and ringing ears.
He bolts, dances up the hill but falls
not far from where he stood.
Chest heaving and breath cut short,
he coughs once more and then is still,
leaving crimson red across the snow.

That was great, thanks for sharing it.

 

[huntcookwrite]

That was great, thanks for sharing it.

Agree, great one.

 

[northernlandgar]

Agree, great one.

Glad you liked it. May as well share some photos, it was a spectacular day.

 

[Wyobohunter]

Glad you liked it. May as well share some photos, it was a spectacular day.

That buck has one…



Question.

 

[northernlandgar]

That buck has one…



Question.

lol true!

Never seen one like him before or since, and the folks at ADF&G weren't sure what deformed his antler either.

 

[Jpsmith1]

A Native's Spring Time

The geese have flown Northward
And the bluebirds, been around
From the smell of natives breath
The leeks are through the grounds

Old winter's back is broken
The creek has begun to rise
And one can't help thinking
Of his fish pole and flies

As we look about us
And see these signs of spring,
We are glad that we are alive
And can enjoy everything

Yes, i enjoy my spring time
Everyone does no doubt
But how empty it would be
If we didn't have any trout

When your troubles get the best of you
And seem like ugly dreams
Just take your boots and pole
And spend a day along the streams

You may catch a brookie in the riffles
You may catch a brownie in a hole
But being next to nature
Is a topic to your soul

After a day of fishing
Even if you've caught but one or two
You'll find your trouble lifting
And the sun will soon be shining through

If I were a medical doctor
The tonic ai would advise
A day along the streams
Under Potter County Skies

This was written by Max Calvin Greeley, my Great-Grandfather, in 1939 and was read as a part of his eulogy in 1983.

Max was a fly fishing guide way before it was trendy or cool. Potter County is in North Central Pennsylvania and is still some of the most remote country we have in this state.

This sits above my reloading bench

 

[Wyobohunter]

A Native's Spring Time

The geese have flown Northward
And the bluebirds, been around
From the smell of natives breath
The leeks are through the grounds

Old winter's back is broken
The creek has begun to rise
And one can't help thinking
Of his fish pole and flies

As we look about us
And see these signs of spring,
We are glad that we are alive
And can enjoy everything

Yes, i enjoy my spring time
Everyone does no doubt
But how empty it would be
If we didn't have any trout

When your troubles get the best of you
And seem like ugly dreams
Just take your boots and pole
And spend a day along the streams

You may catch a brookie in the riffles
You may catch a brownie in a hole
But being next to nature
Is a topic to your soul

After a day of fishing
Even if you've caught but one or two
You'll find your trouble lifting
And the sun will soon be shining through

If I were a medical doctor
The tonic ai would advise
A day along the streams
Under Potter County Skies

This was written by Max Calvin Greeley, my Great-Grandfather, in 1939 and was read as a part of his eulogy in 1983.

Max was a fly fishing guide way before it was trendy or cool. Potter County is in North Central Pennsylvania and is still some of the most remote country we have in this state.

This sits above my reloading bench

That is so wonderful!

 

[Davyalabama]

I was searching for something, and I came across this:

If Heaven wasn't so far away,
I'd string up the decoys
and be on my way.

 

[Wyobohunter]

I wrote this while crossing the Canadian prairie.



And this haiku while riding from Chicken to Tok, the Wrangells looming ahead. I got to hunt those mountains. My friends had sheep tags; I just went to be there.

We thrum over earth
If we can catch those mountains
We will never leave

I didn’t catch the Wrangells, I could feel myself pulling from their draw as they grew small in my rear view the next morning. I didn’t take any pictures, the visuals are mine alone.

 

[jpmulk]

Not necessarily a poem, but a creative work I wrote:

The Perfect Day
The stillness soothes my soul. Here, all is as was meant to be. Man in God’s creation. His majesty fills me. If only for a moment I belong in the design, a natural part of the landscape and rhythm of life. The crisp breeze shuffles branches and whispers across the stubble of my face. A soft scent of pine mixed with the pungency of my quarry. The unmistakable scent is gone in a flash with a fickle twist of the wind.

My eyes wander across the alpine meadow spreading before me. More brilliant than gold, the sun warms the glimmering grasses from blue sky. I long for the warmth but dare not venture out of the shadows; he is close. Across the meadow, light turns to darkness as my vision ends in the dark timber that sweeps up to craggy peaks.

Timber, the haunts of giants and mystery. In a few moments, I will be stalking through its tranquil confines, each step without a sound on the needle-cushioned carpet. Somewhere in this kingdom before me a monarch roams. He gazes down through pillars of ancient trees. Long tines sweep behind him like guards as his nostrils flare and breath steams the air. The winds rise up, telling him stories of all below. Birds and chipmunks are his sentries.

A searching bugle as pure as a hymn rises from the green canopy. My heart rises to the occasion for now I know where I must go.