time for sabbath sacraments.
He steps into gusty wind,
some fat splatter sweeps of raindrops,
fall across his porch roof
on down through roaring river valley,
forceful push, then ebb,
February wind storm with rain,
a wondrous primal pair
Neighbor birds start liturgical dance
and ritual songs of regeneration
Already flying quick floating dives
into drama time,
singing back to Brother Wind
howling on his way.
Calling, chanting cantors, conjoin
swelling sacred anti-gravity songs
co-arise blissful sweeping sound,
karmic atmosphere swirls time-rich
sacred rites across his house-bound skin.
Sound of incense sweeps down his river,
north to south with warmer hopes and economic intentions,
remind him time for political baptism.
She incants from the bathtub
in short gusts of warm blast enculturation,
joining his internal gospel choir,
chirps her oppositional descant
challenging and prophesying and occupying
in full-voiced roar of need
and seldom bothers a please,
much less a thanks
for caring as best he can
to hear her appositional rhythms and patterns,
irritating flows of hard-blown breath
Storm and brew
birds cheer rage in her brain
shouting at co-arising gravity
to blow another way
within her exegetical universe,
the only way
she can imagine
to function in a reverse and upside down
political world of unheard powerlessness
she can only find her loud-voiced demands
to turn life around,
spin this slippery wind of Earth
to blow in her right liturgical way.
Baptism completes this wind drenched requiem
of full-life as anti-death survival
to cooperate this week's regenerate vocational intent
and ecopolitical practice.
She joins her dad
for one last look
through jaundiced eye
at drenching rain that could fly back
from whence it came
if only wiser timed to start this day.
Birds now pray their benedictions
quietly in wind-protected nests
while he listens to swollen postlude protest
against eco-agitating time,
uprooting old gnarled systems
decayed for newer holistic use
as compost fades into swaying trees
flown back to join upriver's grace of windblown time,
and forth to rejoin downstream's centerous roots
through winter purging Earth
He closes his door to time's external grace
to watch a smile warmly cross her chronic face
like a gust of refreshing wind
through a rainy karmic life.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
As the first rays of sunshine
wakes me out of my sleepy slumber,
I sat up in bed and looked at my hands.
The taste of stale cigarette smoke of cheap red wine
stained my taste buds.
I walked out of bed,
turned on the radio
(to the classical station)
and my heart beats to the tune
my life and soul smile as the sun shines in my room.
I hear God whispering in my ear
I hear all the words of the world
talking to me,
and I can hear my heart sing a little.
I read my poetry,
get dressed go for a walk,
I smile at the faces that I pass;
The cars I pass,
the dry lawns,
burnt and that have not been watered in days.
I smile at them and they all smile back,
and my heart sings a little,
and I dance to its simple tune.
My heart sings and I dance too:
rapid jazz and swing music
and waltzes to the chopin masterpieces,
and the romantic stories, novels, the poems,
that fancy your mind with its ryhme schemes,
and after I read such romantic beauty
I smile, and I listen closely to my heart,
and with every beat,
it lets out a verse or two, from a familiar song
that caught my ear on the radio,
and my heart sings
and I smile,
and the world smiles back.
Feeling such beauty
love and romance
it is such a good feeling to live with;
and as the night rolls on,
and the sun goes away
I sit at my desk
with a cigarette slowly burning away with time,
and I am stuck,
getting drunk of red wine,
I sit back in my chair,
and listen to my heart,
and he sings alittle
and I can write again.
So, there we sit together,
to the strike of nine
and we both sing songs of love and romance
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
< "Hark" the Herald Angels begin to sing
"Jesus"patiently awaits so her children can say their last goodbyes
Cancer is the one thing she will not have to bring
For she earned her wings and is now free to fly
Perception Of Heaven's Contest
Copyright © Katherine Stella | Year Posted 2012
Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days
Emund is busy
partners who’ll put
him to the test.
His pedigree line
has proven with time
that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay;
there is not enough
food for them all.
They dip and they
weave as they mingle
that each has a
With his reputation,
there is no
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin.
Others move to the
side as he leaves
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
He matches her mood.
His movements are
as they twist and
twirl in their
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
With steps that are
light he glides to
he meets her, bows
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
It matters not
whether we all stay
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
to deliver these in
your own way.”
After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect,
so with care he
covers every one
He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure
as he, turns each
egg every three
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.
The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
This egg will be
food for his hungry
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
He’ll sit day and
night until the
He knows, that time
to be continued...
Copyright © J Eliza JAMES | Year Posted 2012
There was a fat lady from Swaffham
Who gave up on men, she was off ‘em
She sought comfort in sweets
Sickly sugary treats
Which she’d buy by the ton and then scoff ‘em
Copyright © John W Fenn | Year Posted 2011
You lay in the wooden cot,
a broken sparrow,
Crushed. Bony. Frail.
Hair once plumed gold,
greyed to clumped feathers
like ragged trampled wings,
strawed out on the dank pillow.
Face once blushed pink plump,
Jolly kind of soft with life,
Sucked to bone. Nose to Beak.
Echoes of the mask it will soon become.
I stroked this woman
now bent back to foetus pose.
Once sworled to shell,
wrapped inside myself,
Now boned to carcass stick.
I wanted to hold one more time,
frightened the last air would puff to nought from its hollowed breast.
But my sparrow turned and smiled,
a grimace to crack open any gates of envisaged hell.
Macabre teeth, once glowing love and laughter to the skies,
Now pecked to ochre stalks.
The pitiful bird pained to move.
Mucous mouth clacked open wide
To receive some lasting morsel of life.
Only its beady blue gaze
flashed a soul of its former self,
eyes to haunt the sea.
I swallowed back my tide of tears,
waves of memory flooding sands of life we’d shared,
from fledgling dawn cry to this,
the final nesting box.
I wanted to stuff this cot with down
of a million eider.
To cosset and hold soft this scrawn, gnawed through.
Pluck teal, goose, swan.
‘Who would have thought it would come to this?’ it croaked a laugh.
I matched smile with smile.
I held the tiny claw.
Desperate not to cling too much to pain,
too much to past.
I wanted to wrap up this dying bird
Limp, in my hanky.
White folded white, fold on fold.
Run through the streets
shouting at the world, at some unseen power.
She’s mine. She’s safe. Take me.
What cruelty did I do?
What evil must be stuffed in this maternal breast
To hold this daughter dust in my arms?
Copyright © Laura Payne | Year Posted 2012
W ellness is our glorious gift this year.
O rigami cranes set in flight by the winds
N avigate the festive New Year celebrations
D elighting children and the young at heart with
E ternal life and freedom they signify.
R ewards of this past year are embraced by
F amily and friends as they gather together
U nified in giving grateful homage for Divine
L ove bestowed in answered prayers.
Connie Marcum Wong
January 5, 2016
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
on my shoulders.
It likes to lean left,
sometimes pressing its claws,
which burn like small pricks of heat,
all across my back. I must learn
the name of this burdening creature,
and most importantly. . . how to kill it.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2011
I’m not sick. I’m not ill. I’m not crazy.
There is nothing wrong with being perfect.
My mommy told me so.
"illness anxiety disorder" It’s just a label….Just a name
Like thousands of other names that I can’t say, I can’t spell
Such as the thousands of lethal viruses and bacterial pathogens
Out to get me. I know they want me.
As they try to get inside to kill me.
They cross my path without a care
Don't even wipe their feet
They are here! They are there! They are everywhere!
So what. I don’t care.
I quit my job and wife and life to deal with them
And deal with them I will
They won’t find me. No sir!
I’ll never leave my house again
I hide in disinfectant waters in day
In scalding hot baths and microwave ovens at night
Me and Purdy; Purdy is my sparrow in a hermetically sealed cage
He would sing all day if he were alive today
But he never was. He never existed
As you can see he is plastic
Plastic birds don’t sing but they are free
Free from infections, infestations, nasty things found in nature
My birdie is sterilized, sanitized, purified…. like me
We wear our hypoallergenic suits and masks
Which, when applied properly, qualifies us as being clean
Keeps us alive for the time being
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2014
I am eight years old, my friend is ten,
the sky is billions and azure blue,
we are walking to St Bees and the beach, when,
suddenly a skylark soars piping his tune so true.
We watch and listen as the tiny bird,
in undulating flight trills his lovely song,
it is like nothing else that we have ever heard,
and he keeps singing for joy as we continue along
the narrow country lane down to the sea,
where all day we'll explore the rocky shore and weedy fronds,
knowing that there will doubtless be,
myriads of strange creatures in their salty ponds.
I am fifty seven, my friend is fifty nine,
his health is not so good, but he battles on,
myself, I am feeling mostly fine,
although the best years have now gone.
The sky is billions and a bit, and sometimes it is blue,
and as I drive along the still narrow lane
towards St Bees where skylarks once flew,
the only thing flying in the sky is a tiny silver plane,
and the only sounds come from engine noise, and BBC Radio Two.
Down on the beach the rocky pools and seaweed fronds,
all are clearly still there,
but there are not so many animals in their salty ponds,
did they just vanish into thin air?
Or is it perhaps that I can no longer see,
through these older, more tired eyes,
the same things I saw when I was young and free,
when with every day I would unwrap a new surprise?
Copyright © Tom Higgins | Year Posted 2012
Life deals a tough blow,
Cards of fate seem stacked against you.
Pressures of life pile on thick,
The weight of the world, burring you deep.
Love is not your forte,
No good can you see.
Pause in your thoughts and open your eyes,
Take a look around you, what do you see?
Mountains of rubble, built up to the sky,
Cesspits of rubbish, cluttering the street.
Black clouds of doom, hovering above,
A bird hanging on for life, as the wind sways his branch.
Now close your eyes, and take a deep breath,
Look again at what you see, through eyes refreshed.
Mountains of rubble, their testament to ability,
Cesspits of rubbish, dancing with energy in the street.
Black clouds not of gloom, but filled with life,
A bird in the tree, enjoying the energy of the wind.
From the worms under foot, to the birds up above,
Look beyond your first glance, see with your heart.
From the smallest of things, ugly and course,
To largest of entities, glorious in sight.
Take the time to see, the beauty within,
To find the energy to heal, your peace will then begin.
Copyright © Jon Marsh | Year Posted 2011
She watched the mountain intently
Like a bird who’s nestling of dwelling, complains
Yet, neither will move --
A surge of genius
Strikes the hollowed core ~
Worrisome thoughts she shan’t abide…
A mother’s love still strives,
Strong willed fledgling must now -- fly
Search to build, its -- own nest
-- Mother bird soars above the mountain -- mind at rest
An elder once said teach them well in the ways they must go… Like a hawk one must keep a
watchful eye for they are still your prizes; you never know when they may come home to
roost again... Or at least visit…
However, if they can't respect the home then its time
For them to fly on their own...
Copyright © Adell Foster | Year Posted 2008
The sunrises like the aurora borealis this morning
With the morning star still glowing brightly
Crickets calling for their mates to come
Noise of man already begun
The air is cool with a crispness
Inviting one to stay on the porch
Taking in all God's awaking of the earth
A few whispy ink black clouds grace the sky
Breathing deeply enjoying the oxygen supplied
My body by God who created the earth
Birds begin to sing God's praises
One lone bird flying high in the darkness
He is just a shadow flying by
To grace my morning on the porch
He must be the early bird that gets the worm
There is a stillness but yet a can feel the air move
As the sun comes slowly up the morning star fades
Gradually disappearing from sight
Yet it is still there its brillance hidden by the sun
Each tree shadow takes on a different shape
The colors in the sky constantly changes
Just like our lives, no matter how well planned
Life happens and changes occur for good or bad
With mountain top experiences or down in the valley
God is always there but sometimes
We walk off and leave him
He weeps as we turn our back to go
Thank you God for this time
My time on the porch
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2009
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully.
In a way that makes others want to live.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015