He pulled the lead rope, gotta get away from that smell.
Those nasty range critters stink like hell.
He went to Santa Fe with a pile of pelts to trade,
For the last 20 years that’s how his livin was made.
As he sit on the hill looking at what might be the last rendezvous,
He wondered if what the fur trader had said was true?
There’s no room for the trapper, his ways will soon die,
Just the thought of it brings a tear to his weathered old eye.
He pulls down his badger cap with its two eagle feathers,
As a stiff cool breeze stirs the fringes on his trail worn leathers.
He turns his back on what may well be the final foray,
Packs loaded down, he’s on his way.
Powder, patch, lead, and a new coffee pot,
Are just a few of the things his plew’s have bought.
He’s noticed for years the numbers dwindling down,
And each fall he’s forced to move farther from town.
The little dam builders, numbers once great,
Seem to be disappearing at a scary rate.
The buffler, the Grizzle bear, and the prairie goat
have become few.
Maybe what the fur trader said was all too true.
The wagons full of settlers, looking for a hope and a home,
Scattered all the way from St. Louis, Missouri, to Alaska’s Nome.
They come to farm, ranch, or dig for gold,
To build their towns where goods are sold.
They bring sheep, cows, and even the stinky goat,
By wagon, by horse, on foot, and by boat.
Where once the great buffalo thrived,
Longhorns and Herefords have arrived.
He’s seen his whole world twist and change,
What was once free roamin, is now fenced range.
The thought of the prairies fenced in wire,
Sets his wanderin blood plumb on fire.
So he reins his horses toward the mountains near the Yellowstone,
Where his lovely brown skinned wife waits alone.
Now he’s brought her a few bobbles n bells,
He can’t wait to get home to those familiar smells
So as he rides toward home and some much needed rest,
He sees that an end has come, to the free roamin west.
I was born to hunt, it’s a god given right,
And I wont give it up without a hell of a fight.
Since the beginning of time man has had this need.
Now there are those, who want us to be a dying breed.
In the beginning for food and clothes to wear,
Primal man hunted wooly mammoth, and the great cave bear.
The natives of America, hunted elk, sheep, moose, antelope and deer.
And to take a grizzly meant you were a man of no fear.
Man had to hunt as a means to survive.
Without this knowledge he wouldn’t have stayed alive.
But as time progressed, some have found options for you and me.
And there are plenty who think a “vegan” is what we should be.
Save the whales, seals, and bears, cuz there so cute
We now have tofu, so please don’t shoot.
Hug the fuzzy bunny, he’s so soft and sweet.
I hunted them with a bow in a snowy, Michigan, swamp, now that’s a treat.
Hunting is a time honored tradition handed down to me,
From my dad, through his dad, and his before him you see.
Hero’s like Teddy Roosevelt, Fred Bear, and Howard Hill
All enjoyed that same rush from the hunt, and the thrill of the kill.
Some say, “Watch what you say around the anti’s” so as not to offend.
Some rules have to be broken, cuz some things should to come to an end.
To appease them were told to say, “harvest” it’s politically correct.
No matter how we say it, it falls on deaf ears with no effect
I Hunt, I Kill, for this I’ll not apologize,
Because it’s my right, a fact they need to recognize!
I choose to hunt, its my love, you can believe it’s true!
So if you’re an “ antihunter “ To hell with you!!!!
|HARLEY SHARRARD'S POETRY
|Out of the Light into the Dark
Sometimes life is full of pain and sorrow.
And there are those who will see no hope in a better tomorrow.
Their lives will be filled with grief and misery we can’t understand.
Even though we have tried to be their rock, or their helping hand.
Though most of us have fallen to the bottom of this pit,
We have struggled and managed to find a way out of it.
For us when at the bottom, there is always sideways.
But for them it must seem like an endless agonizing maze.
Some will call them selfish, and ask why, oh why?
Unless we have been where they are, we can’t understand,
it will do no good to try.
It appears they loose their ability to find hope.
All things seem lost, and they have no desire to cope.
In loosing this, they fail to recognize life’s joys.
Family, friends, hobbies, and children both, girls and boys.
I don’t think their bad, or even wrong
They just want away from all that has plagued them for so long.
For them it’s a journey, on which they must embark,
Out of the painful light, into the quiet dark.
|In memory, and defense,
Of all those who have passed,
Without finding an answer.
|Slice Of Heaven
Took a drive back in time to my childhood years.
Thinking of time spent with family, especially dad brought a couple tears.
Walked on soil where he had walked, heard his voice though now he has past.
Relived moments, felt feelings from memories built to last.
Though with people I care about, I moved about alone.
Running through pages of time all my own.
The laughter from a family, built with love.
Bonds never broken, though dad now moves above.
Heard fish lines sing, bullets ricochet away.
Saw a yellow rubber raft, water sweeping him on his way.
Fire in his eyes, a curse on his lips.
Standing on a hillside, chainsaw shouldered, axe and wedges belted around his hips.
Though not even 5and ½ feet tall, a mountain of a man.
I can still feel, and see him here, where my childhood really began.
The River runs clear and high today.
Sky so blue it blinds, not a hint of gray.
Hills of green, a goat spotted on a hilltop.
A deer marking his passing, none seeing him stop.
The fish weren’t biting like times before.
Not that it mattered it wasn’t what I was here for.
We sat around the fire and stared at its glow.
Shared stories and I wondered if he watched us far below.
As you know he’s gone now and has been since 05.
I shared today with him a slice of heaven, keeping his memory alive.
|Pride On The Rim
There he stands high on the rim,
Pride wells up inside of him.
The blacks, buckskins, and bays,
The lineback dun, chestnuts, n grays.
Horses of every color, size, and gender,
Dot this valley in all its splendor.
Their forefathers sailed to this land,
A hundred years ago, none with a brand.
All descendents of wild horses past.
Like colorful flowers spread through the tall grass.
They feed and drink here from this river,
Put here by the one the Indians call the life giver.
They stay in this valley in peace.
Fresh green grass gives life a new lease.
He watches over them with bright eyes,
Nothing bothers them except, the wolfs cries.
He is their protector and safe they will stay,
Till his time to step down comes one day.
A group of young stallions take off in a run,
A rainbow of horseflesh in the morning sun.
They race down the valley almost outta sight,
Before manes and tails flying they swing to the right.
Straight toward the rim with him standing there,
The smell of trampled grass hangs in the air.
They run free with joy in their heart,
The race will end where it got its start.
The winner, a black, with fire in his eye,
Rears up and whinnies, hoofs held high.
He’s full of life, racing is fun,
The guard on the rim wonders if he’ll be the one.
In a wild horse herd there’s only one stud who reigns king,
The bitter end is both a sad and beautiful thing.
Sometimes it will be a fight to the end,
And others the old stud will become part of the herd again.
From his place on the rim,
All looks safe to him.
So with a hide the color of steel dust, and a mane, and tail, jet black,
He races from the hill where he’s watched for attack.
He gathers his herd, foals, yearlin’s, and mares,
And runs them up his valley with nary a care.
If you could see them your heart would sing,
A herd of wild horses, with a steeledust stallion,
as their guard protector and king.