oppthepop
Senior Member
here's a Poem i recently wrote that will go in my next book. You can find it, and more, at www.pineydraw.com
OSAGE
In the twilight, sitting geese honk at my intruding approach.
The Chattahoochee creeps slowly by on its way down to the coast.
My breath is visible in the cold November air
Headed to my stand, I have no time to spare.
The horizon already on fire with red and yellow glow
Held tight in my hand is my quiver and my bow.
Silently I trod through the misty morn
Heart pounding, hands sweating
I pass by cedars ripped up and torn.
My bow made from Osage limbs from a tree very nearby
Shafts made of cedar, blades made of steel – oh, how straight they seem to fly.
The ghost of the swamp is my quest for the season
His rack chocolate and thick, his size beyond reason.
His senses groomed from years of lessons
Taught by tiny mistakes made by foolish humans.
Today he is mine, my heart hopes and speaks
I must be ready…stay on my feet.
I reach the stand and quietly ascend
Atop the perch in an oak, sheltered by its limbs.
Adjustments all made, my bow made ready
A hopeful approach of him, I must stay steady.
Movement to my right, is it him that I see?
A doe standing there - staring straight at me.
Knees shaking, heart pounding, she can’t be alone
What’s that behind her? Cane breaks stir – is that his home?
Guttural grunts float in the November wind
Rustling of leaves behind her – it must be him!
At once he appears as if floating on the breeze
My bow is drawn instantly with ease.
A summer of practice, hundreds of arrows were flown
Into targets of hay, of paper, and foam.
He quarters away exposing the heart
The cedar shaft is flown off the rest with a start.
Finding its mark, the blades complete the task
The Ghost is mine, giving more than I could ask.
I must sit down or risk falling from the oak
Time to take it in, time to let the moment soak.
One moment in time in an instant goes by
Excitement and respect brings a tear to my eye.
Down I go, to forest floor below
I dash to him quickly, holding my bow.
Osage Orange its stock made by a master’s hands
Limbs taught and perfect, flawless to command.
On bended knee, I give thanks to The One above
Thank You for the gift, thank You for Your love.
The Ghost is mine, the memories to share
Taken with an Osage bow made with a master’s care.
Karl McMichael - Author, Hunter 2017
OSAGE
In the twilight, sitting geese honk at my intruding approach.
The Chattahoochee creeps slowly by on its way down to the coast.
My breath is visible in the cold November air
Headed to my stand, I have no time to spare.
The horizon already on fire with red and yellow glow
Held tight in my hand is my quiver and my bow.
Silently I trod through the misty morn
Heart pounding, hands sweating
I pass by cedars ripped up and torn.
My bow made from Osage limbs from a tree very nearby
Shafts made of cedar, blades made of steel – oh, how straight they seem to fly.
The ghost of the swamp is my quest for the season
His rack chocolate and thick, his size beyond reason.
His senses groomed from years of lessons
Taught by tiny mistakes made by foolish humans.
Today he is mine, my heart hopes and speaks
I must be ready…stay on my feet.
I reach the stand and quietly ascend
Atop the perch in an oak, sheltered by its limbs.
Adjustments all made, my bow made ready
A hopeful approach of him, I must stay steady.
Movement to my right, is it him that I see?
A doe standing there - staring straight at me.
Knees shaking, heart pounding, she can’t be alone
What’s that behind her? Cane breaks stir – is that his home?
Guttural grunts float in the November wind
Rustling of leaves behind her – it must be him!
At once he appears as if floating on the breeze
My bow is drawn instantly with ease.
A summer of practice, hundreds of arrows were flown
Into targets of hay, of paper, and foam.
He quarters away exposing the heart
The cedar shaft is flown off the rest with a start.
Finding its mark, the blades complete the task
The Ghost is mine, giving more than I could ask.
I must sit down or risk falling from the oak
Time to take it in, time to let the moment soak.
One moment in time in an instant goes by
Excitement and respect brings a tear to my eye.
Down I go, to forest floor below
I dash to him quickly, holding my bow.
Osage Orange its stock made by a master’s hands
Limbs taught and perfect, flawless to command.
On bended knee, I give thanks to The One above
Thank You for the gift, thank You for Your love.
The Ghost is mine, the memories to share
Taken with an Osage bow made with a master’s care.
Karl McMichael - Author, Hunter 2017
