Well considering that iambic pentameter is the most common meter in English poetry, I give the kid props for not using it. Rhyming is extremely common as well and popular with children. Let's not discredit his work simply because he does not conform to the easiest and most common forms of poetry. "Flight of the Pellets" seems very real to me.

Ahhh yes thank u eeeemensly ,. '
This truely aughta be good,..

The flight of the pellets put me immdiatly to laughing rather hystericlly.
Not as critsism ,. claiming no poetic expertise it sounds good to me
But it occurs to me,.. that had a kid in my old neigborhood come up with that one ,. there is every possibility he would have got the snot kicked right out of him before he made to shelter,..maybe by girls of an ilk that probabaly are to day as extinct as dinasoars.
Then again maybe not too.

The flight of the pellets ,.. next of course is the
The dance of the hippos,. piroetting pecaries ,..
The hang,.. of the fire yuk yuk
I will be following this like a fat chic at the pulled pork and cole slaw wagon at the co fair.

Thank you VERY much

I make no claim to be a judge of poetry, but as they say, 'I know what I like' and I thought that was pretty good.
Thanks - I enjoyed that.

Through flying pellets
Over the tall yellowed grass
Falls a dead pintail

"The dance of the hippos,. piroetting pecaries ,.."

I think Disney already covered that ground.

Haven't seen any good poetry on the subject of hunting or firearms in this thread nor in a long long time.

I do recall this one by A.E. Houseman:

Home is the sailor, home from sea:
Her far-borne canvas furled
The ship pours shining on the quay
The plunder of the world.

Home is the hunter from the hill:
Fast in the boundless snare
All flesh lies taken at his will
And every fowl of air.

'Tis evening on the moorland free,
The starlit wave is still:
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.

I like it. Good job Gordon. Not sure if yohan was trying to enter the contest with "Dance of the Hippos" but that was good for a laugh. Eno, if that's an original poem, it's a winner. I like it. I'll throw one in just for fun, written today:

The wind whiles it's way across the water and whispers through the tall grass.

Swamp angels prey, songbirds serenade, and faithful Rex stands by quietly.

Now ... boom ... get 'em Rex!

Wood duck, I thank your spirit for the gift of your life for my table.

Through flying pellets
Untouched armoured Canadas
A dog sits, stoic

KABOOM!!! Ears still ring from that first left barrel fired upwards fiften feet above my head. Fifteen feet to that winged pest that flittered still above me in comparable storm. Fumbling finger finds the back trigger while eye unbeliving watch its feathers shake off my weapon of death like hail in winter.
Nothing! pupil dialate and a look of friggin flabbergastedness settles on barely furry cheeks. Damn it quick u fired on it, fire again while it is still in flight. lever right flip out empties, grab last 2 from old worn belt, next it rests against cheek again and now u slow, take aim, make sure keep both eyes open and slowly pull. Kaboom! Fu#k!
last chance veer into wind-take aim make sure and steady as a rock. kaboom! pellets frisking wing of feathers flitting down in frisky wing. shake of tail and hardly glimmer at the pest down on the earth, flies that dabnaggin dead bird!

Metal burnished by my father’s hand.
Rough, strong hands, red from the cold.
There’s a worn spot on the stock
from some old belt buckle.
“Old Betsy”, “Meat-in-the-pot”, “Lightning;
Many names for one old gun. Each
as worn and as used as the man and his gun.
Its balance is bad, its stock is too short,
It’s a clumsy, awkward thing really.
If I should have found it on a shelf, marked
low for quick sale, I think I would pass.
But in the hands, of that weathered old man,
It grew lively and quick; magical,
Like the man himself.
And if I close my eyes, I can hear
shots in the draw, And watch, as birds
Fall from the sunny sky.

OKAAAY Im behaving,.. Jeese ,..
Still so as to not ruffle parental feathers
MR Bourjailey ,.. my intent was not to cast aspsersions upon your son,
By the simple fact that he is yours it is certianty he's a good one.and I am not patronising

By way of explanation I grew up in a what might be concidered a semi tough environment ,. not far from a tough one,..luckaly I went the other direction
But from that I am to some degree cyical ,..
Not mean of spiit or intenet just cynical.
I have never (not once ) in my life raised a hand in anger toward a women and or a child.
Although must admit the thought did cross my beliegured mind a time or two
When it came to certian =womeain the past yuk yuk

Still as I said I meant no offence,..if any was taken please let me appologize now.

That said,.. there are actually a couple in here that are quiet good . Includiong Flight of the pellets
The title filtered through my cyncial mind just some how struck me as funny,. so again my appologies.

A lady friend a few years ago was a poet of sorts
A pain in the a$$ lawyer but a poet none the less .
and I did from that realtionship.
Develope the occasionall habiit of reading poetry,.. yet I claim utterly no expertise.

I think mostly because as a student of human nature
I have fouind that poets are special people,.
Fragile and sensitive many times. it seem exsisting in a world I will never know ,. but special none the less.

Mike Diehl ,. that was goods one . as was the the bennelie fart one ,. which frankly nearly put me on the floor,.. just oen of those days I guess.
Reminds me of guys in the old neighborhood ,..one in particular ,. but that another story.

Have a great week everyone!!

Nice one Big O

-Laughter in a smoky truck
sip of spirits, talk of luck
tracks in winter's majestic snow
shells in pockets, off we go
a mutt that once was cast away
saves weary legs on bitter day
the gun passed down from great granddad
no time to dwell and make one sad
shoulder, swing in lightening flow
the hare is quick but still too slow
many shots still pierce the woods
but other's shots are not as good
no dwelling on their lack of luck
back to spirits and laughter in a smoky truck.

A poem about a shotgun?
Someone should write one
Oh, it's already been done
I hear it was Bourjaily's son

Vent Rib Blues

Damascus twist inside my fist,
my love of dove has drawn me far.
Far from my wife and normal life
to this great land of bird in hand--
The Province of Cordoba.

Synthetic magnum, made to "take 'em";
dreams of ducks as we load the trucks.
Deeks and calls pack camper walls
as this goose chase becomes a race--
A sprint to Manitoba.

I'll call my woman from the cabin,
speak "miss you, dear" into her ear.
To trade a woman's feel for steel,
my permit says it's worth it.

in this day and age i didn't think you could mention guns in your school work w/o goin to jail and/or being expelled. Nice job.

OK. In the spirit of the competition here is an original that I composed about a memory from my youth in Maine. Hope my poet grandmother isn't rolling over with laughter.

Of a gray November years ago,
through my own breath I saw a grouse on a pine bough.
My shotgun spoke once - twice of death.
But that old bird cocked his head as if to say
"Same to you, Bub!"
and calmly flew away.

Read the F & S classic "Burt's Gun" It has a nice shotgun poem at the end of the story.

My best for your unused throwaways? I hardly think so...

-TMS

I think Eno did a nice piece.

Jim in NC. Yes I'd say that undertaker has a sense of humour. Boot Hill is an interesting cemetary at that!

Nice work there people, very good one ENO.

Althoug I don´t have poet abilities myself, I would like to share a poem I have kept from almost 20 years since I read it in an ephimeral hunting magazine named Trofeo.
It´s not about shotgunning but about hunting, deer hunting to be more precise. It is not in English, but hope some here can appreciate it.
"Why do I Hunt" or "I hunt because..."

"Por qué cazo"
Por José Magdiél Martínez

Por....
El cardenal que canta en una rama,
el águila de vuelo majestuoso,
la rauda zambullida de la rana,
o el berrendo que pace cauteloso.
En....
El umbrío bosque con densa maleza,
o el desierto de arena interminable,
junto al sereno espejo de la presa
o la sierra de risco impenetrable.
Bajo....
La sombra de la palma solitaria,
la fornida presencia del mezquite,
el encino de fuerza centenaria,
o de un límpido cielo, solamente.
Para encontrar....
El bello fósil de marina concha,
el pedernal del indio abandonado,
la huella del coyote tras la trocha,
o el cuerno que un venado haya mudado.
Y soportar....
La lluvia que nos llega inesperada,
de la tarde el caldero sofocante,
el frío que nos da en la madrugada,
o del camino el polvo penetrante.
Para gozar....
Con mi hijo la convivencia grata,
y con todos un gran compañerismo;
meditar al calor de la fogata
y poder conversar conmigo mismo.
Y....
Como suceda que casi nunca cazo,
luego de disfrutar lo mencionado,
no puedo conceptuar como un fracaso
que me venza la astucia del venado.....

Can I go?
It used to be “where were you dad?”
Now it’s “can I go?”
A pheasant, rabbit, bobwhite quail
I’d see them and I’d know.

You’d be gone all Saturday
And sometimes overnight
The shotgun always missing
…left (at) home just wasn’t right.

You let me help with cleaning,
“get all pellets out of there”
But what about the shooting,
Sound of pellets in the air?

The first time was a blessing
After many practice rounds
Us in our red wool flannels
And 12 gauge cardboard rounds.

A pheasant fell to my shot
And more to Dad’s great skill
I wished to be there forever
A wish I maintain still.
Each time I hunt today
I remember Dad and know
We both felt the same, on the first special day
That I asked him “can I go?”

I give up, can't get no comments.......

Small patch of corn swayin in the wind
My gun my shells my furry friend
Even if the doves don't fly
I'll be content to watch the clouds float by
This is what my heart longs for
No work no worries nothing more
No people no horns no cars wizzing by
Perfectly content if the dove don't fly