There’s something at the bottom of This bottle.
I know it.
Not quite sure what it is yet,
But there’s something down there;
There has to be.
Is it a solution?
God no.
Is it a sense of satisfaction?
Most definitely not.
But the process of finding
Whatever it is
Sometimes gives me
A temporary sense of peace.
Sometimes.
Most times though…
Let’s not focus on that.
Focus on the warm and fuzzy feeling
I get from my search.
If it feels this good now,
It has to feel that much better
When I find whatever’s down there.
I don’t know what’s down there,
But I’ll drown trying to find it.
The hunt for quails had begun.
Two old men sat on a bench on the main street.
A shot rang out of the stillness of the countryside.
Below one old man, weak-sighted but the sound of hearing,
raised his head towards the ridge.
"He missed! Surely the fool has missed!" he said.
Up the street, two youths approached, both carried
a double-barrelled repeater. Both had empty bags.
The two young men stopped in front of them.
"Oliver would have hit any bird even with half-blind eyes,"
the taller one said. "And you, Bert? Come with us tomorrow?"
Laughing, they continued their way.
"Of course, rest assured we are indeed men!
I lost count of the number of quails I caught!"
"We are men! You know what, we’ll go hunting too."
Two heads, one white, one bald, nodded in unison.
“We’ll meet early at six tomorrow.” They agreed.
The town hall clock rang out every hour.
Six o’clock struck. Nature slept on.
Below, in an alley, two old men dreamt. Damn fools!
They moaned in their sleep. Why can’t they shoot straight?
Once we were hunter-gatherers
tribes grouped outdoors
before the days of yore
now we're hunt and peckers
each cooped indoors
on personal computer keyboards
and way back when
we'd communicate
banging on the drums
yes since then
we've progressed
today we're all
fingers and thumbs
The prancing Animal
Through the Woods it Went,
That house Full of Wool,
That was Truly — a Tent.
“Has the Hole been Dug?”
How had It Gone?
Hunting the animalistic Bug,
How saddening, Ron.
Antelope, insect,
Appealing or Not,
A many will not be too checked —
As they weren't Noticed -- Through the Knots.
Never, or Ever -- will The Big bug Bite,
Not again For the Bug of greatest Of Sizes.
“No, not bug, But some Blight” --
Ness, You will Not win those Prizes.
The hunting of Boojumous Snark,
It ain't but no kind of a lark.
It's best to wear lead,
From toes to the head,
And aim 'twixt the eyes with a quark.
easter egg hunt
for busy little bunnies
childhood memories
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
It was a strong opponent,
it fought against us very well.
Many of us were slaughtered
before it finally went down.
Again and again it tried to run,
but we chased it down each time.
We will never give up the hunt.
We will always persevere.
But this one had surprised us;
it flashed its hardened steel.
It cut down many of the pack
and deflected our attacks.
Eventually we brought it down.
We got in behind and hamstrung it.
Then when it fell to its knees
we leapt for its throat.
We did not revel in victory however,
too many of the pack had died this night.
Instead we lamented our dead
by howling at the moon.
Tonight, the hunt went wrong.
Tonight, we lost our kin.
But tomorrow will bring a new hunt.
We will never give it up.
Throw an arrow, remember to sharpen it before it reaches it's end target
Who is naïve enough to cross your parameters of closeness
Capture this person whose mere sight you adore
Aim at their legs, your prey will land face first on the floor
Don't be scared, Don't you worry
This is how love is meant to be
Or why would cupid, on his smooth back, so many bad intentions carry?
Or why would the heartbreakers or cheaters not worry about their actions
If they didn't know, love is never a synonym to passion, but pain
To confusion and spiraling games
Love was never stable enough to stay after an orgsm
Love, they repeated over and over
Yet it felt like it had just slipped off their tongue
Bind love in ropes of promises, skim apart their soul
Listen to their heartbeat till the gushing of their bloody lies couldn't be ignored
You'll know when the prey gets too weakened, it can't move
Just fall apart into broken shreds of a beautiful story
Piece by piece, Complete the jigsaw pattern
That lasts people eternity, then you can congratulate yourself
You've caught your prey
polar bears hunt
too much swimming
not enough ice
Thought I perhaps should let all my friends see,
How touched I was on finding this letter to me,
Found by mistake, after so many years,
I collapsed into buckets of tears,
A treasure bequeathed to me, was meant to be.
POST-SCRIPT:
As the writing is faint
in the scan above I have typed it out
for ease of legibility.
Abu Ben Adhem
(poem by Hunt, James Henry Leigh)
(1784-1859)
Has been translated in Greek by
Dimitrios Stais (as per manuscript
in possession of his son Panos Stais)
This small note is sent to
Jennifer Alan Hunt, the great
grand-daughter of Dimitri
Stais.
Of course, poems of many other
authors of this "English Verse"
Oxford Book were translated
in Greek by Dimitris Stais,
but I simply make mention of
the one titled as above because
of the author's name. (HUNT)
May I express the
wish, dearest Jennifer, that
one of the future editions of
Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
comprise some of your cherished
poems.
With lots of love
your gd father
Panos
Athens 19th December 1968
Straying away from the straight path
in search of sumptuous grass,
Me and my friends meander to the mountain top
on a crisp clear sunny day,
The cottony white clouds mirror our soft tufts of wool,
The sea is calm today, unlike us, who are restless;
Raff rests his weary head on Walter,
Sophie and Sara lay down side by side,
While Nero dares to stare at the 'deserter' in defiance...
We don't know where to go, what to do,
And so we wander around,
What if we fall down the ravine?
I am scared and edge back,
Whereas Nero and Terry fearlessly forage for food,
Browny wishes to follow them against my warning,
Most of my friends group together,
What next? Where is our leader?
I don't know, we have no idea,
We're all looking for our lost shepherd to lead us...
...back to safety
Their feathered shields
like steel, shimmer in sunlight.
Gobbling, wobbling on thorny feet
without flight;
foraging through leathered leaves
that autumn left behind,
acorns lay abundant,
for hungry turkey's to find.
Paint with all mud
With eyes fiercing
Hunt for a kill.
William Holman Hunt paints* Jesus at our door**
the Holy Spirit wlll convict to be sure
In France, where a creek gently flows,
A hunter ventures to a place he knows.
With his wife ahead, beating the brush,
She making the hidden pheasant flush.
With muzzle raised, he's poised for flight,
As she flushes a pheasant into the sky.
He fires his twelve-gauge into the sky,
Knocking the bird before it soars too high.
Back at home, a fire warmly glows,
The scent of herbs and roasting pheasant grows.
With wine in hand, they toast to the night,
To the thrill of the hunt, and the shared delight.
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