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Array
(
[sid] => 185692
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The hunter
[time] => 2018-12-20 23:14:36
[hometext] => Hiding in plain sight
[bodytext] => Mighty hunter, warrior thee;
Setting traps most carefully
Preparing for the unexpected;
Camoflaged and undetected;
Baiting, calling, immitating
In the darkness lying waiting;
Wearing hope and velvet gloves;
Waiting for elusive love.
[comments] => 2
[counter] => 75
[topic] => 21
[informant] => softerware
[notes] =>
[ihome] => 0
[alanguage] => english
[acomm] => 0
[haspoll] => 0
[pollID] => 0
[score] => 0
[ratings] => 0
[editpoem] => 1
[associated] =>
[topicname] => Lifepoems
)
The hunter
Contributed by
softerware
on
Thursday, 20th December 2018 @ 11:14:36 PM in AEST
Topic:
Lifepoems
|
Mighty hunter, warrior thee;
Setting traps most carefully
Preparing for the unexpected;
Camoflaged and undetected;
Baiting, calling, immitating
In the darkness lying waiting;
Wearing hope and velvet gloves;
Waiting for elusive love.
Copyright ©
softerware
... [
2018-12-20 23:14:36] (Date/Time posted on
site)
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Re: The hunter
(User Rating: 1 ) by JamesStockdale on
Friday, 21st December 2018 @ 11:04:54 PM AEST (User
Info | Send
a Message)
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The last stanza spun me around.
Great poem! |
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Re: The hunter
(User Rating: 1 ) by Former_Member on
Sunday, 23rd December 2018 @ 07:23:28 AM AEST (User
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a Message)
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Rid of the world’s injustice, and his pain,
He rests at last beneath God’s veil of blue:
Taken from life when life and love were new
The youngest of the martyrs here is lain,
Fair as Sebastian, and as early slain.
No cypress shades his grave, no funeral yew,
But gentle violets weeping with the dew
Weave on his bones an ever-blossoming chain.
O proudest heart that broke for misery!
O sweetest lips since those of Mitylene!
O poet-painter of our English Land!
Thy name was writ in water—it shall stand:
And tears like mine will keep thy memory green,
As Isabella did her Basil-tree.
ROME.
ROME
the last escapade
the place where the pizza
in the sky came from
You throw a piece of pizza dough up
high into the air, all for looks,
all for show, but heck no,
it/'/s not authentic,
Oscar Wilde, what a character, he was
writing about Keats.
U know I just like Harriet Jacobs,
Life of a Slave Girl,
written by herself.
Peace!
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