NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.

Two Seas

Out in the hot wastes
sun swelters scorched sands,
sidewinders, beetles,
highways of the dunes.

Silhouettes in haze,
herds of elephants
weary and weathered
track down waterholes
one trek at a time.
Lions shadow them,
envying the chance
to snatch a young calf.

Fresh dew disperses
on the crested dunes,
white breakers rolling,
a mirage far west.

NaPoWriMo #27: Acacia Siesta

The savannah simmers in the heat of midday.
A single impala wanders the plains
keeping one eye fixed on a nearby tree,
the danger underneath it not hard to see.

Six lions rest in the acacia's shade,
the pride male watching the grassland haze.
All of this he fought for and won by force,
a cycle of violence runs it usual course.

The cats sleep easy with their hunger sated.
A night comes the hunt for which they've waited.
The buffalo huddle close, but they're unprepared,
the lions attack what no one else dares.

NaPoWriMo #29: Sheriff of the Savannah

Two days to go, and here we have the most unusual poem I've ever done for NaPoWriMo. Having read a bit of Edgar Allan Poe recently, I decided to write a poem set upon the African savannah in the same distinctive style (known as trochaic octameter) which he uses in 'The Raven'. So, here it goes.

Sheriff of the Savannah

Upon a hot savannah day the hyenas rest in the shade,
while a lone bull buffalo grazes in the long grass up to his knees.
His herd have moved on to safety, together they number eighty,
while the bull stands far from hasty in the grass up to his knees,
facing the danger approaching through the grass with greatest ease.
He will not run for the trees.

His opponents are no less bold, but he refutes their mighty hold
on the dried up river to the east and bush fires billowing west.
A pride of ten lions stalking while the buffalo starts walking
up to his fierce foes, un-balking, with sizable bovine heft,
not noticing a lack of friends to help in his lonesome quest
he stands firm against the test.

Three at a time they attack him, they try to bite or throttle him,
one lioness jabs from the front, her sisters lunge at his rear.
With fearsome horns he battles them, but his strength fails to scatter them
as they bite, claw and batter him, try to force him to his knees,
force the last great strength out of him and force him onto his knees
slaughter however they please

Yet the lions have not thought it, but the old bull will not forfeit.
He thrusts with his embattled horns and he holds back the onslaught.
At last the lions are tired, but the bull is still battle fired,
and the pride turn to retire to the shade beyond the trees,
leaving their opponent standing in the grass up to his knees,
watching as the lions leave.

The herd returns to greet the bull, the calves proving a small handful
as they jostle round him and stare at the deep wounds on his back.
His hide has withstood the battle, and the bull is hardly rattled
as the mightiest of cattle that roam the savannah track,
roaming across the endless grass along the savannah track
with new scars upon his back.