The Man Who Slew Brutus

What follows is a poem I wrote on November 22, 2006 in honor of my dad, who successfully bagged a beautiful 8-point buck that year.  I am no polished poet, to be sure.  This was simply written straight from the heart on the occasion of the most glorious experience my dad, my uncle, and I have ever had in the woods in all the years we have been hunting together.  I have deliberately left it unedited and in its original form.  

There are few things in this life that I cherish as much as the time I get to spend with family in the November woods.  You hunters know what I'm talking about.  I'm looking forward to the coming week, which will not only afford me with some welcomed rest and relaxation, but also with the blessed opportunity to spend time with those I love and to accumulate more cherished memories to store up in my heart.  

Anyway, here's the amateurish, but heartfelt poem from a few years ago:  

The Man Who Slew Brutus

He sat in the woods year after year,

hoping to someday bag Brutus the deer.

But, the years they did come and the years they did go,

and never had he a buck like Brutus to show.

From the age of fourteen, his dream was but one;

that at a big buck he could fire his gun.

A few trophy bucks he was privileged to see,

but never a good shot afforded was he.

There once was a time when a monster passed by,

on the road between he and his loved one, the beast, it did fly;

but a shot at the trophy neither could take,

they neglected the trigger for each other’s sake.

On another occasion, he was in his blind all alone,

when a Brutus-like buck he spotted just out of his zone.

He ran to the road, hoping to cut off the buck,

but the brute never showed so bad was his luck.

Years later he sat with his son in his blind,

a buck in the brush his keen eye did find.

He handed the rifle to his son for the shot,

but see the buck through the brush, his son, he could not.

So, taking the gun back, he shot at the deer;

he missed, but it wasn’t Brutus, so he didn’t much care.

As the years came and went, there was many a day,

a doe or young buck he could have easily slay.

But, he let them pass by, for determined was he

to wait for the big one he hoped one day to see.

For many, many years, he went into the woods,

but never was privileged to come home with the goods.

Then one year, tired of sitting in his blind,

he headed off stalking a big buck to find.

It was raining that day, so quiet could he be,

allowing him to sneak up on a six-point sleeping under a tree.

He paused and considered if the buck he should kill,

but long had he waited to experience the thrill.

He kicked a rock at the buck and it lifted its head,

and with the squeeze of his trigger the six-point was dead.

Happy was he with the first deer he killed,

but still to slay Brutus he patiently willed.

Years later, presented was he with the chance he did seek,

but the way it panned out left him nothing but weak.

A beautiful eight-point one opening day,

came down the hill heading his way.

But, alas, he was in no position to shoot and left only to see,

for he was away from his blind taking a much needed pee.

He stood in disbelief at what had just transpired,

but his sadness turned to joy when, not long after, his son fired.

He waited some time, then headed over to see

his son standing over the eight-point, smiling with glee.

But, when he arrived at his son’s blind this wasn’t the case,

a look of bewilderment was on his son’s face.

His brother was there with his son when he came,

they both looked to him like they’d just been hobbled lame.

The story they told him was almost as sad

as the unprepared encounter with the eight-point he’d had.

Like him, they weren’t ready when that buck came their way,

they were talking and laughing on the hill where they lay.

The eight-point came upon them like a thief in the night,

and a few minutes later he was out of their sight. 

His son did get a shot off, but it was only a prayer,

into the swamp ran that elusive and fortunate deer.

Then came the time in 1999,

his son was there with him for lunch at his blind.

He was enjoying some cookies when he heard his son say,

“Dad, look, there’s a deer coming on that runway.”

Slowly, he took aim at the long-horned spike,

but fire he did not much to his son’s dislike.

His son would’ve fired, but a few moments before,

his uncle had taken his gun to stalk the swamp’s core.

The man who slew Brutus let the spike pass him by;

he said he’d no clean shot, but that’s not the real reason why. 

He doesn’t go hunting to kill deer like so many of us;

to bag a trophy buck like Brutus, that’s why he does.

A few years later, he did take another shot at a buck,

but, like so often before, not good was his luck.

He only had a moment to aim and to shoot,

and when his bullet was low, off did the deer scoot.

But, then came that great and most glorious day

when the man who slew Brutus would finally have his way.

He’d spent four days in the woods away from his old blind,

but only a few stray does did his eyes find.

So, he decided to once again give “old faithful” a try,

hoping to see the big buck his brother had seen passing by.

And, lo and behold, on November 19th, 2006,

there came that buck through the swamp crackling sticks.

He wondered at first if an elk he did see,

so big was this buck and so happy his glee.

He knew that the buck had no clue he was there,

so he got in position and took aim at the monstrous deer.

He almost messed up and fired too soon,

but he knew if he missed he’d feel like a buffoon.

He knew that the monster was on the perfect runway

and heading to a scrape he’d noticed earlier that day.

He’d dreamed many times about this exact scene

and could hardly believe it was happening.

But, there stood the monster out of the swamp in the clear

and he took careful aim and shot at the deer.

To his great delight, the beast dropped on the spot,

and his brother and son heard the fateful shot.

He waited a few moments and then reached for his cell,

but the buck began to crawl off, so he shot, and again it fell.

A third shot it took to secure this grand trophy,

for he wasn’t about to let this beautiful buck flee.

When his son and his brother arrived, so happy were they

that the man who slew Brutus at long last had his day.

A grand celebration did naturally ensue

if you had been there, you would’ve joined in, too!

All three labored to drag this beast out of the woods,

but nothing would prevent them from bringing home these goods.

Back at the camp, later that eve,

they decided to name this deer, but nothing like Steve.

His name would be Brutus, for a large brute he was

with a beautiful, eight-point rack, and monstrous paws.

When they hung Brutus in the tree with the other two deer

his son and his brother were able to bag that year,

Brutus looked like a monster and put them to shame,

so his son’s doe and his brother’s deformed spike received no name.

Justice was served on that fateful day

for the man who slew Brutus now had something to say

in response to the ribbing he took year after year

from his son and his brother who killed many a deer.

The ribbing would stop from that day on,

for with one word, “Brutus,” they’d be undone.

That is the story, and it is nothing short of great,

for the man who slew Brutus, forty-one years did he wait.

Hundreds of deer he could’ve easily bagged,

but he waited for Brutus and now he is tagged.

Many more stories this amateur poet could tell,

but none are as great as when big, bad Brutus fell.

I’ll remember that day for the rest of my life,

it will comfort me whenever I face strife.

Pictured below is the man and his prize,

though it does not do justice to Brutus’ great size.

The man who slew Brutus, a great hunter is he;

he’s my hero and my dad and I love him fully!