Trad Gang
Main Boards => PowWow => Topic started by: ken denton on October 23, 2012, 02:58:00 PM
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I just read A Hunting Poem by Stan "sequoia" and thought it would be great to hear some poems by Trad-Gang members on Archery and Bowhunting;
I will start and don't worry if it sounds corney;
An Arrow Song To A King Lion
If I had a chance to meet the king,
I would meet him face on,
and I would say; This is your day,
I would draw my bow an then,
the arrow would spring and,
straight to his heart it would fly.
Then with a great leap he would roar,
and fall to the earth to roar no more.
I wrote this many years ago and was inspired by Art Young and Lion. Ken Denton (http://i190.photobucket.com/albums/z318/arrow39/013.jpg)
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Thanks for that Ken, but I don't have any contributions.
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I wrote this way back in my compound days, but it fits us with one word change.
The days have come,
The time draws near,
When we will go hunting deer.
We will use a TRADITIONAL bow,
To shoot a buck,
Maybe a doe.
Through the woods
The deer will bound,
It will be dead when it is found.
When the work is done,
And it's cooked just so,
We'll remember the deer we took with a bow.
Brian Mongeau
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How about song lyrics? They are poems....
I wrote this one for those souls who like hunting alone. Monty Browning was the inspiration, but it fits many others too...like Mike Mitten, or Monty Morevec. It's about finding solace in wild country....and aptly called "Solitude", like the stories that Monty penned.
Dawn brings the day, homes so far away
But I'm determined to stay....alone.
Exile by choice, heading my inner voice.
An escape from my life, at home.
Wondrous vistas surround, and heighten the mood.
Instictive urges abound, in Solitude.
Drawn to the cheek, not a time to be weak.
Arrows contacting meat...blood on the ground.
Drama ever so high...to live something must die.
But in the blink of an eye, roles turn around.
Walking a dangerous line, feed or be food.
Moments in life are defined, in solitude.
And though it may seem I'm gone for a long, long while.
Getting my feet back on the ground.
Each night I'll dream of you and gaze at a star-filled sky...
'Cause dreaming of you, helps me get through,
These days of solitude.
Times nearly done, Wild re-birth begun.
The Lords will has won, I'm soon to return.
Alive another day, survived a primitive way
My cares melted away, campfires burned.
Wandering landscapes so wild, with no attitude.
Just one more natures child, in Solitude
Walking a dangerous line, feed or be food
Moments in life are defined in Solitude
Wondrous vistas surround, and heighten the mood
Instictive urges abound, in Solitude.
Many have heard me perform this, but it's not yet been recorded.
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cool stuff here........
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Dedicated to a fellow Archer and Buckskinner.
There is a Man we know so well,
He could scare you with his stare,
A Gentle giant,archer superb,
Hes known as Ronnie LaClair,
His Shrews are Legend,they shoot so true.
They can be had by one and all,
Our Legend Ron at 75,
Still shoots and rides so tall.
He can spin you yarns,and poetry too,
He will dazzle you with his look,
We just wish for once,
He'd spend the time,and write us all his book!
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After my dad died I was going thru his things and found this poem that he had written. I joke with my brothers about dad being a poet.
REMEMBER ME
Remember me in the spring when your after trout
Remember me in the spring when the mushrooms are out.
Remember me in the summer when the weathers fine.
Remember me in the summer when the bluegill is on the line.
Remember me in the fall when you are in your blinds.
Remember when when we had our good times.
Remember me in the winter when its nasty and cold.
Remember me in the winter about the stories I have told.
But most important of all, remember me not about the bad,
but most important of all, remember me about the good times we all had.
E.L.S. 6/5/03
RIP dad we sure miss you around the old camp.
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it is not bow hunting necessarily but i have bow hunted my favorite mountain for my whole life.
(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v119/adkmountainken/Walk%20In%20Beauty/poem001.jpg)
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I wrote this one for the conclusion of our film Essential Encounters.
"Romancing the Bow"
Mike Mitten May 5, 2010
Through pine boughs and aspens a sun-ray slivers,
Birthing life in the cool mist of high mountain rivers.
Forbes and sedges provide herbivores to eat,
But to those who walk upright, the requirement is meat.
An old northern bruin stalks quietly on air,
No sound is made, no rising of hair.
Flesh tearing claws, while growing long in the tooth,
These legends and folklore are based on the truth.
Indigenous people live by spirit and prayer,
It’s the land they’re connected to, same as the bear.
Poetry is simple to those dreaming by day,
Waiting, just waiting, on nocturnal ones to prey.
The setting sun triggers an ancient impulse to feed,
While predators acting on instinct, lurk in the timber and reeds.
Naked man can catch no meat or no marrow,
Lacking fangs and claws, he relies on his arrow.
Technology embraced has given us plenty,
But full stomachs without heart, leave some feeling empty.
Taking too many enlightened our education,
Now relying only on surplus, is the root of conservation.
The hunter inside us is no evil foe,
He’s generations united, romancing the bow.
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I wrote this yesterday.......
I think it sums up the whole traditional hunting experience very succinctly.
"Just my longbow & me,
sitting here, up a tree.
With nothing occurring,
and not much to see."
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These poems and songs are great. If you don't have one, just write one today and put it here.
I just wrote one today and here it is;
Arrow For A Buck
I am waiting for the buck, and I hope with some luck,
he will travel close to my tree.
I have chosen the longbow and broadhead arrow for me.
So he has every chance to escape if he may.
Something inside me makes me shoot the bow and arrow each day.
It is so strong this Archery thing that I live for it each day.
Wait, here the Buck comes
I must be quiet for he is the greatest of trophies.
My broadhead is razor sharp as I draw,
At full draw I focus on the spot.
The bow springs and the arrow is on its way.
A great shot and the Buck is down.
What a great trophy for me.
Oct 24, 2012 Ken Denton
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Good Stuff.
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The Legacy ...by Ron LaClair
In days of old when Knights were slain
with iron tipped arrows through mail of chain
And Indians,.. on horseback who,...
shot buffalo, through and through.
The bow and arrow of days gone by
lives still today through you and I,
For every time we take a breath..
for every heart beat in our chest..
For every time we loose the string
to send the feathered shaft to wing..
We keep the spirit of the bow..
alive...so all today will know..
THIS is the kind of archery
passed down to us through history,
and It's up to us, you and I,
to keep this Legacy alive,
So teach a child to shoot a bow,
then watch the joy within him grow,
and someday when he is a man..
he'll surely pass it on again.
We share our love for archery
by passing on this Legacy
So even after we are gone....
the feathered shaft will still, sing it's song.
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The Love Of Archery by Ron LaClair
What is there about this simple thing that captivates us so
It's only a simple stick and string, it's only a simple bow
Is it the feel of the bow in your hand when you draw it to your face
using your strength to bend the limbs, sending the arrow on it's race
Is it the sight of the feathered shaft as it flys straight to it's mark
or is it the soft low hum of the bow that is music to your heart
Is it the sight of a white tail buck as seen over top of the shaft
Is it the thrill as you kneel by him and know he is your's at last.
Is it the Archers of long ago that speak to you still today
Is it the feelings that fill your heart when you hear what they have to say
It's all of this and even more, it's clear for all to see
It's the love we have for archery... the way it was meant to be.
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The Ghost Of Armstrong Creek
by Ron LaClair
Armstrong creek is a special place
where Whitetails get real old
No one ever goes there
for it's haunted, so we're told
Years ago a man named Armstrong
came to pan for gold
Hostile Indians took his scalp
and left him naked in the cold
They say his ghost is still around
that he's looking for his hair
Most folks believe the story
and no one ever hunts there
I don't believe in ghost and such
my bloods not made of milk
I just know there's bucks in there
with horns as big as elk
Come this weekend, I'll be there
just me with my stick and string
No ghost is gonna scare me off
I'm gonna do my thing
Saturday morning in pre dawn light
I crept along the creek
The smells were old--I heard a noise
I felt my knees go weak
A MONSTER buck suddenly appeared
through the trees upon a rise
I drew my bow, the cedar shaft
flew just like it had eyes
THE BUCK WAS DOWN...his rack was HUGE!
I'd need help to get him out
I turned to leave...but somethin..
made me stop and turn about.
There he stood...beside my buck
he was ghostly pale and thin
His scalp was GONE..his naked body
wore nothin but a grin!
I was frozen in my tracks
I couldn't move or speak
I was standin face to face
with the Ghost of Armstrong creek
He spoke to me, ..the sound was strange
like nothing I'd heard before
"Good Shot old coon" he said to me
I thought he might say more....
but he turned and vanished in the shadows
My legs suddenly found life
I flipped that buck upon his back
and pulled my hunting knife
A slash...a pull...his guts were out
I grabbed him by a horn
Two hundred pounds of whitetail
pulled as easy as if new born
Now they's more big bucks back in there boys
but they're not for the meek
If you think you're brave my friend...
try hunting Armstrong Creek.
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The Ghost Of Armstrong Creek
by Ron LaClair
Armstrong creek is a special place
where Whitetails get real old
No one ever goes there
for it's haunted, so we're told
Years ago a man named Armstrong
came to pan for gold
Hostile Indians took his scalp
and left him naked in the cold
They say his ghost is still around
that he's looking for his hair
Most folks believe the story
and no one ever hunts there
I don't believe in ghost and such
my bloods not made of milk
I just know there's bucks in there
with horns as big as elk
Come this weekend, I'll be there
just me with my stick and string
No ghost is gonna scare me off
I'm gonna do my thing
Saturday morning in pre dawn light
I crept along the creek
The smells were old--I heard a noise
I felt my knees go weak
A MONSTER buck suddenly appeared
through the trees upon a rise
I drew my bow, the cedar shaft
flew just like it had eyes
THE BUCK WAS DOWN...his rack was HUGE!
I'd need help to get him out
I turned to leave...but somethin..
made me stop and turn about.
There he stood...beside my buck
he was ghostly pale and thin
His scalp was GONE..his naked body
wore nothin but a grin!
I was frozen in my tracks
I couldn't move or speak
I was standin face to face
with the Ghost of Armstrong creek
He spoke to me, ..the sound was strange
like nothing I'd heard before
"Good Shot old coon" he said to me
I thought he might say more....
but he turned and vanished in the shadows
My legs suddenly found life
I flipped that buck upon his back
and pulled my hunting knife
A slash...a pull...his guts were out
I grabbed him by a horn
Two hundred pounds of whitetail
pulled as easy as if new born
Now they's more big bucks back in there boys
but they're not for the meek
If you think you're brave my friend...
try hunting Armstrong Creek.
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The essence of archery by Ron LaClair
The stick and string will always be
the essence of true archery
a simple bow of wood or glass
with classic lines as in the past
arrows fletched with turkey wings
give voice to shafts and make them sing
There's something about the arrows arch
as it leaves the bow to find it's mark
it stirs the soul like nothing might
when eye and hand guide arrows flight
It's path is beauty to the eye
the thrill will linger til the next will fly
Who knows what stirs our passion so
this love to shoot a simple bow
we only know it's deep within
our very being, until life will end.
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The Master Archer of poetry Ron LaClair has shared with us beautiful poems of bow and arrow. Thanks Ron.
Hope some more of you will share some more. Ken
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I'll be headed west this fall with my stick and string,
Gonna climb a mountain with my packgoat string.
Headed way up high where the elk bugle and the trout fishings good.
I'd live there year 'round if my wife and kids would.
But that's ok, I'm not sad,
Caused I get to spend two weeks there with my cousin, two close friends, and my dear ole dad!!!
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The song of deer camp........
The Ballad of Shrew Hollow by Ron LaClair
Down in Shrew hollow by old Armstrong Creek
sits a little log cabin with wood floors that squeak
In the evening the soft glow of gas lights are there
while outside there are whitetails, gray wolves and black bear
Up on the oak ridge the acorns are falling
the bucks they are grunting, the does they are calling
So we slip in our stand and we wait for a buck
if the wind is just right all we'll need is some luck
Now come hang up your buck on our deer hanging rail
then sit by the fire and tell us your tale
For the stories of hunting is why we come here
to hear the stories and to hunt for the great whitetail deer. (http://www.shrewbows.com/rons_linkpics/soft%20glow.JPG)
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The Song of the Arrow:
They have always been different from a very young age.
Home cooked meals from mom were the rage!
Behavior in school was never a doubt...hard work was demanded each day throughout.
From their father they learned the joys of the woods, it was easy to learn because it is good!
Video games gathered dust, just as they should, because these two young boys, they choose the woods.
Halloween means candy and costumes to most, but these boys know rub lines and pre-rut are host!
Christmas gifts were arrows and broadheads and knives...longbows and recurves and quivers oh my!
The Song of the Arrow for sure is to blame, and in this song surely will never be shame...
For my boys...
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Ron, you should make that picture into a Christmas card!!
Joe
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Keep in mind that the above is the lyrics to a song. The year that G Fred hunted at Shrew Haven I added this last verse. I'm not sure how well Fred liked it but Ken Beck laughed his head off when I sang it for him... :biglaugh:
"Down in Shrew Hollow by old Arm Strong Creek
old G Fred Asbell came hunting one week
He stalked and he still hunted while he was here
but old G Fred Asbell went home with no deer
He had his chance but his shot it went low
maybe it was that old Black Widow bow
If he'd had a Super Shrew when his chance came
old G Fred would have lived up to his name"
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I did'nt write this found it on a poster years ago.
What is a Bow Hunter?
Well…between a delightful old man conjuring up memories of long ago hunts and a
boy's first bow, we find an unpredictable creature called a bowhunter.Bowhunters come
in assorted sizes, but they all have the same creed: to spend as much time as possible
outdoors.
Bow hunters are found nearly everwhere,stalking around swamps, sneaking through briar
patches, and scouting deer tracks a month before the season opens. Mothers love them;
sweethearts can't understand them; the boss envies them, and heaven protects them.
When you are busy working, a bow hunter is thinking of lonely trails and a countryside
painted with autumn leaves. When you want him to make a good impression all he can
talk about is fletching an arrow and his favorite bow.
A bow hunter is a funny guy…in the woods he will happily eat last year's candy bar
and drink from any mountain stream, but at home his wife pampers his stomach.
He likes long weekends, buckskin jackets, old apple orchards, logging roads,
unposted land and questionable companions who are also hunters. Without
though of race,creed,or color, he likes people who hunt with arrows three months
a year talk about it twelve.
Nobody else is so early to rise or so late to dinner. Nobody else can cram into one
pocket an extra bowstring, waterproof matches, insect repellant, a bottle of buck lure,
a faulty compass, a can opener, a red handkerchief, and two chocolate bars.
A bow hunter is an instinctive creature. You know where he is in spring and summer,
but he's hard to find in the fall… when he's overcome by that primitive urge to roam
free in the foothills and swamps with hope of just one clear shot…to chase game
with the ghosts of other hunters…from other times. thats all he really asks.
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I nominate Ron for Tradgang's Poet Laureate. :clapper: :clapper: :clapper:
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A Flint Arrowhead
O’er fields of new turned
Sod, communing with my
God,
I tramped alone;
And in a furrow bed I
Found an Arrow-head,
Chiselled from stone.
Then fancy fled on wings,
Back to primeval things,
Seeking the light—
What warrior drew the bow,
Sighted, and let it go
On its last flight?
How oft this flinten head, on
Deadly errand sped,
I may not know—
Nor will the silent flint
Reveal the slightest hint,
How long ago.
Were its grim story told,
What tales would it un-
fold,
Tales that would chill—
I know but this one thing,
Beyond all questioning,
‘Twas made to kill.
Ages have worn away, war-
riors gone their way;
Their bones are dust—
Proof of a craftsman’s skill
Survives the ages still—
Left in my trust.
Enos B. Comstock (in Boy’s Life)
Boy Scout Manual about 1943
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Feathers through the Wind
Eight years old and long ago
A boy plays all alone
He stalks his backyard wilderness
With a little willow bow
The beasts lay low before him
He's king of his domain
Till Mom calls out "it's suppertime"
And ends his little game
Of sending Feathers through the Wind
Steel through the flesh
His instincts into overdrive
His senses to the test
A game as old as memory
Predator and Prey
Man is a part of nature
As surely as this day
Among the things he loves to do the best
Is send those Feathers through the Wind
And steel through the flesh
The little boy grows to a man
And his time is in demand
His wife and family take their place
Atop his lifetime plans
But when life's stresses take their toll
From working hard each day
He often dreams of when he'll get away
To send those Feathers through the wind
Steel through the flesh
His instincts into overdrive
His senses to the test
A game as old as memory
Predator and prey
Man is a part of nature
As surely as this day
Among the things he loves to do the best
Is send those feathers through the wind
And steel through the flesh
Now old and gray and wiser
A hunter in his prime
His head is filled with memories
Of hunts in younger times
But he still enjoys a frequent jaunt
Afield with a stick and string
It has a feel of youthful fun
Unlike anything
And resting in his porch chair
Later in the day
He joys at watching children
Busy in their play
A young boy with a homemade bow
Adventure on his mind
Asks "grandpa could you tell me about that time?"
You sent those Feathers through the wind
And steel through the flesh
Your instincts into overdrive
Your senses to the test
A game as old as memory
Predator and prey
Man is a part of nature
As surely as this day
Among the things you love to do the best
Is send those feathers through the wind
And steel through the flesh