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I wring the water from some air
then inhale a drippy breath
in a forest near as still as death,
a place I go but seldom share.

Poison ivey makes me watch my feet
( its deep green leaves do not like me)
yet I walk on although haltingly
toward a private summertime retreat.

Soon I shake sweat off my hat
and wipe it from my face
while traveling an unmarked tract
through a sylvan habitat.

At last the pines give way to birch
and oaks, beech and hickory
a more riparian type scenery
solemn as any type church.

Then I come upon the bluff
low and guarding the small stream
a sight as pretty as a dream.
I pick a huge beech, twill be enough.

So I slowly sit and lean on its bole
watching the sun burnish the creek.
Eyes closed I've reached the peace I seek
and begun ascent out of a dark hole.

The dry flies buzz make eyelids drop
then they gently carry me away
to another time and day.
a place I'd like for time to stop.

An autumn morn in Mississippi
on an uncle's remote farm
when no one I knew had borne harm
and I was happy , young and free,

Free to finally hunt deer
with uncle, cousins dad and brother
at breakfast cooked by aunt and mother
with camaraderie bonding all those here.

Listening to everybody's hunting plan.
Listening to men sipping coffee
Listening way back in Sixty Three
Listening as I became a man.

Then out the door and on my way
as others scattered to their post
(figured I'd see a doe at most)
at the frosty dawn of opening day.

Through the pasture to the woods
to small sedge field where deer might bed.
I didn't stand I sat instead
with back toward where the trees brood.

A Sudden BANG! cracks the still air
another explodes waking me
jerks me from a place I'd rather be.
Thunder, not gunshots, split the air.

I shakily regain my feet
then try my best to beat the storm
as air turn chill instead of warm.
My hastiness is hardly fleet.

Just at my touch the rain sets in
wetting my face and my bald pate.
I close the door which grinds a grate
while cool rain drips off grizzled chin.

For a bit I sit while the trees sway
and wipe off tears disguised as rain.
Not only old knees can bring pain.
Then I crank my truck and drive away.

Style / type: 
Structured: Western
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Last few words: 
Dang! I thought this would never end........
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


Which bank is that? The Bank of Sudan? I know the Arabs have bought a lot of stuff, but when they start buying up our woods... Anyway, the scansion is as wild as the woods you describe, but until you start to read it aloud, it doesn't matter.
I like it and to Hell with those Arabs! Let them buy some desert, we got some of that too. Uh oh, I guess I will be called politically incorrect and all that. Guess I better go find a patch of woods like yours to hide in. ~ Gee.

Comments and critique are vital to this site!
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You never heard a gun go BANK! ? lol. Good to have my own private army of editors lol

author comment

the second [ dee] in sudden.~ Gee.

Comments and critique are vital to this site!
Even if you just say: I liked this story or your spelling
of a word is wrong, take the time to write a line or two
and comment. Your fellow poets will thank you!

get you to do any book edits lol. All kidding aside I Am lucky to have you and others willing to read and edit my stuff

author comment

You mean for my typos I assume lol

author comment

Hi Stan, another marvellous poem. The descriptions of nature, the river banks and variety of trees fascinate me. Not so the deer hunting, but I must admit that during my childhood and adolesence it did not trouble me.
The title, content, rhyming and all else is clear. Some typos, you need a an "s" for "turn" and it's "ivy".
Enjoyed, as usual. Bring on more, Gracy

"My soul is painted like the wings of butterflies; fairy tales of yesterday will grow but never die, I can fly, my friends.” – Freddie Mercury

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