Poems of Archery,Bowhunting by Trad-Gang members

[Bonebuster]

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...

[Joe Subler]

Ron, you should make that picture into a Christmas card!!

Joe

[Ron LaClair]

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...    

"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"

[Littlejake]

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.

[Rick Butler]

I nominate Ron for Tradgang's Poet Laureate.          

[JackReid]

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

[Mark Baker]

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