Awakened from my walking reverie by movement ahead, I spy a Red-Tailed Hawk perched upon the wrought-iron railing of the flood-wall. The hawk is regal, stoic beauty. I stop walking in hopes of urging the bird of prey to stay its perch. It does, filling me with a sense of relief. I wonder why it let me get so close; if it was my calm, thoughts-up-in-the-clouds, meditative stroll that somehow rendered my thoughts and steps silent enough to catch the bird unawares. We eye each other, a bitter gust of mid-winter wind blows against my face; ruffles the back-feathers of the hawk. I am overwhelmed by a sensation how the two of us know exactly what we are, who we are, what we are supposed to be doing overall, but we are presently caught in a moment of unknowns, letting these unknowns erase the lines that keep us separate -- beast from human.
I take a step closer, causing the hawk to finally alight, and I am struck by its vibrant feathers adding a dash of colour to the surrounding monochromatic grays.
The hawk flies only a short distance ahead before landing on the railing again, so we re-enact the scene of this play. I come closer, closer, closer, until the hawk lifts up, flies a bit further along the river-walk, before landing again, until eventually it probably decides, that indeed, this human is going to traverse the entire path, for the hawk flies up into trees located further ahead. As I walk past the trees, the hawk launches out of an evergreen, with twigs in its talons. The bird flies over the river; a river made tumultuous by ice-melt.
in Winter's gray light
a Red-Tailed Hawk paints the sky
with its feathers,
my soul lifts, follows the bird
over an ice-gorged river
The hawk lands on the base of a church steeple, and disappears behind an ornately carved corner. It appears as if the steeple is attempting to pierce the snow-clouds with its tip, trying to tear gashes in the sky, until spring blue bleeds into gray. On this Tuesday afternoon, does the church seem personified because it is devoid of Sunday parishioners milling in and out of its thick wooden doors? No matter how hard the steeple tries to break-apart the clouds, the grand sky dwarfs the church, causing it to look like a toy model. The church fluctuates between looking like a miniature-scale model, and an architectural feat.
the steeple pierces clouds
looming overhead -
the snow-laden clouds
make the church appear small
Passing the church, I find it ironic how today the church is empty inside, yet on its steeple and roof-lines, countless animals are nesting, making this House of God their sanctuary. Slowly making my way home, I ponder about the hawk, how it is not only a predator amongst prey, but a predator amongst predators -- it flies around in plain sight, yet also hides right in the middle of the city. Coming up to the path leading to the back-door of my home, I scan a small trail of footprints in the snow. The footprints vary, but all are familiar to me.
It is at precisely this moment that I fully acknowledge the Red-Tailed Hawk and I to be kindred spirits; how similar we really are.
the path leading home
is a winding snowy trail
of few footprints,
for only my loved ones know
where I truly live
Copyright © Chris D. Aechtner | Year Posted 2013
Another haunted night, I watch
raindrops fall from consoling clouds,
track each plane flying south, and
I think of you.
My lungs empty a lonely sigh…
I bullet a dark, heaving sky
with my angry words as I curse you
for walking away again. I remember
the starlings that came earlier; they
circled low, then perched along
the eaves while the sun held me in
afternoon glow, as if to say goodbye,
friend. We will meet again.
I should have known.
Night after night, shadows march
a solemn procession across a long-faced
moon. I know he is mourning, too.
Weeds tangle my thoughts until I dream
in a web of mismatched memories
and neglected clues - so many questions,
left in a heap at the foot of our bed,
no answers said out loud. Loneliness plays
blackjack with my heart; mocking me tonight,
the house wins again. Why do I gamble
after losing you before? How many times
have you walked out that door?
I try to mend cracks exposed when
darkness fades into golden dawn.
I try to color my crumbling world
like a child. I paint smiles on your face
in our albums to tell myself lies.
I replay that moment you walked away;
I envision every detail down to one lace
that dangled from your new shoes,
new shoes bought to step into our new
life together. I remember when we wrapped
ourselves in our dreams to keep warm.
One day, your face will dissolve
like a rain puddle on a summer day.
One day, I’ll say goodbye and start again.
Maybe today will be that day.
At least today, I’ll try.
A lone starling in a dark, glossy suit
lands on my window sill at break
of dawn. It wakes me with its sweet,
warbled song and waits long enough for me
to rise from bed so I might feel the promise
of a new day shine through my soul. Then,
as my tears fall soft like flowing silk,
he spreads his wings and flies away.
In light of dawn’s blessings, I am
the starling, singing a goodbye song. I pray,
tonight, I dream of anyone but you.
written April, 2014
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
Voice of Scandinavia
(learning to fly again)
In the twilight hour
Blue mountain range
Changing to dark giants
Mysterious figures springs
.. out of the steep hill sides
Hour of mysteries and fantasies
You`ve been runnin`for too long
Now you`ll be hiding in the dark
Protected behind Mother Nature`s shield
At the break of dawn
Mother Nature, relieve my pain
This time it may very well be my last
Take this injured bird up to the mountain range
Let it spread its wings, and learn to fly again
Soar above high mountain peaks
Colorful valleys - all from a birds eye
Its all I know.. All I ever wanted to know
Great Spirit of Nature.. keep me under your protective wings
Lift my soul and let it fly, let me learn to fly again
June 29th 2012
* Inspired by finding a little bird who had fallen out of its nest earlier this year.See ya:-)
Copyright © Arild Andresen Ertsland | Year Posted 2012
Gazing, at its own reflection is the Magpie.
A magic bird, a mystical creature, with a soul
and the power to see things, the power of scrying.
It sees a tomb in ancient Egypt. It sees death.
A soul locked within a glorious bronze mirror,
Cleopatra and her Maid in a bond unbroken.
Time passes in silence as deep as the unbroken
promise of endless wisdom, gifted by the Magpie.
whose caws the Maid hears, within the depths of the mirror,
calls to the Queen, her Cleopatra, to her soul.
Magpie speaks to She on the Eastern Barge in the afterlife of death,
and to her Maid entombed. The sacred bird so near scrys.
The Magpie sits within oasis staring into the pool. It scrys
for all this time, its vigil, its protection, never broken.
Even when the sarcophagus is carried to the necropolis of the dead,
without, unknown, the bird speaks wisely through reflection, her Magpie.
Entombed, his Queen and her Maid, their bodies but not their souls,
Queen, Maid and Magpie, each cast a last gaze, alive within the mirror.
The Vows of Innocence, the Maid bespeaks the mirror.
Pleas to the Swallower of Shades, both Queen and Maid have scried
to The Burning One, and claim no lie, upon their soul.
As the light dims within the Maids eyes, in tomb unbroken,
she sees the life of her Queen and their Magpie
pass fast upon the brass, last breath of life and dying.
Oh, too soon the end, moans the Maid, I am dying.
Her life's reflection moves bronzed upon the mirror.
She screams, "My Queen," but hears only the caw of Magpie.
All around her other servants succumb and cry, whilst she sits scrying,
and the Magpie flies above in life entombed, eternity, unbroken.
As she beseeches all the Gods to save her soul.
The Magpie's spirit self moves within the mirror's soul.
He swoops gathering Cleopatra's essence, past the dying,
and brings her to the Maids side unbroken.
In afterlife upon the Eastern Barge they join the mirrored
whole, for he, the bird of magic, Magpie, has called and scried
it so. Part light of life, part dark of death, the Magpie.
The essence of each entwine united within this eternal mirror
for the Magpie cannot bear their deaths. He will protect and forever scry
in life the mirror sits unbroken a stolen bauble, and in it they dwell with the Magpie.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2010
Looking all around me and becoming more aware,
Of the people and surroundings at which many children stare.
I come to terms and realize the acts of hate I see,
And now I fear that this same scene will soon envelope me.
Walking on a lonesome road, though crowded it may seem,
I pass through silent hordes of people hushing silent screams.
Beside me standing hand-in-hand, older man and wife,
I wonder if they thought like me, what happened to their life.
I reminisce now further back before these broken days,
A time of wasting food and drink and dressing different ways.
But now we all look just alike in tattered grays and browns,
Drifting through these damaged streets and sporting matching frowns.
I thought we'd left the two world wars and poverty behind,
To linger in our broken books and fill an older time.
A time where death would cloud the world with sorrow and disease,
And fear would plant itself within the innocent with ease.
This made me think and look around for Noah and his arc,
And for the first time since the night I heard a flustered lark.
I quickly turned around to spot within a child's hands,
An injured bird whose time had brought it here from other lands.
The child stole a piece of thread from a redbreast robin's nest,
And wrapped around the ailing bird a splint so it could rest.
An hour past the lark took flight and answered to the wild;
The only resting place of hope is in the bright eyes of a child.
Copyright © Elaine Ho | Year Posted 2007
If I were a song bird
I'd soar on feathered wing
to light upon your window sill
my song for you I'd sing.
Each note I'd fill with tenderness
as much as I employ
if you would let me sing for you
I'd fill your heart with joy.
If I were a song bird
to you I'd sing my story.
If it would fall on willing ears
my sad heart would know glory.
Each note infused with sweetness
I would sing with all my heart
the songs you have inspired
right from the very start.
Copyright © Robin L. Gass | Year Posted 2008
Hoot! Hoot! Came the call
In silence I listened,heard
Suddenly, hoot! Hoot!
Came the cry,tree
Seems the world was in
Went I to the window
and Looked into the
empty Darkness. As I lay
down,I Knew somewhere
I would Hear that sound
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
As Inspired by The Death of a Bird . A D Hope
From rhyming to Free Verse
A last migration comes to every bird
as every winter before her heart afire,
she follows a pre set-course
divinley guided half a world away.
Coming or going her destination is home,
there to nest, to raise another brood
knowing that generations drive her grand obsession
the self exile that weighs her heart and breast
She sees around her unfamiliar landscape
longs for lush valleys and trees of evergreen
With each day her inner call grows stronger,
fills her with an urgent sense to flight
to take to the endless skies- one tiny bird, uncertain, of her flock,
alone in the vast and blue unfriendly sky
Her wings falter, she feels the end is near
Whatever held her course before
is snuffed with no warning-
she tries but her path is aimless
Below, the landscape is a sign less blur
a puzzle of mountains and lakes
that baffle her tiny brain
From dark valleys below a black fog rises
Hostile winds impede the frail speck
And the earth not grieving or malevolent
bears the small worry of her death.
See :About this Poem link above for the original text.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2014
I am a heart full of love
that shook the pilars that held her colussium up
her heart filled with sorrow,
I swing such fury toward her heart and soul
she cowards away from me,
in fear of falling in love and not knowing what is in black
and not searching what is in the light of pure white.
I am a heart full of love,
she runs and takes the long dirt road,
through the raging mountains of the quiet countryside,
as the meadows of lilacs slowly die when Spring comes,
the blooming of the rose,
like the blooming of my heart,
a blossom on a cherry tree fall and harbour in the wintertime.
I swing toward her, she falls in fear of wanting attention and love.
Lost in the midnight twilight,
the flaming torch guides her through the dark holes of meaningless souls.
and like a frightened hummingbird,
she flees away from the secrets of falling in love.
A heart full of love ready to love,
it is diffcult to feel and to show,
but as if a rose that blooms in Springtime
my love is ready to bloom.
Pettles lay along a darkened atmosphere
lit up only with four wax candles
a portrait of a woman hung over a mantel piece
in honour of my one true love.
As the twilight shine though my bedroom window,
I show a heart full of love,
to take and to hold for eternity.
And as she slowly moves forward,
she takes me home with her,
and opens her chest and shows me her heart
with a glass of red wine and charming cigarette.
She sheads tears of pain and sorrow on my broud shoulder,
I curise her hair, silk laced hair,
shining against the twilight and the moonlit sky.
My heart full of love,
so divine, so original
a one of a kind.
We make love in the midst of the twilight,
as my dream girl is now reality and my pain is no more,
her pain is no more.
Too show such love makes a man feel free
and his soul lighter.
She holds him there,
as the sun rises over the mountains.
The birds sing a tune of cheerfulness,
and they talk about everything beautiful and kind,
that is still left in this cruel and empty hearted world.
Romance and love shared
with a heart full of love,
smile and kiss upon smooth lips,
feel me against your tight body,
and love me till the morning
when Blue eyed Death is staring us in the face.
and we go with him,
and play a game of risk,
and together forever,
onto a diffrent world
we shall love each other forever,
for you and I both have a heart full of love.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
And now the weeping willow turns to green.
So brilliant red, the robin’s breast,
Just like the sun, now sinking in the West,
And down the lane more signs of spring are seen :
The spiky blackthorn blossom’s shining white –
It looks as if the hedgerow’s decked with snow.
Beneath, the peeping primrose seems to glow
With luminous and creamy lunar light.
Come hear the soaring skylark’s tuneful song
And listen to the jackdaw’s chimney chat.
See squabbling sparrows startled by the cat
As through the undergrowth he slinks along.
We mark these signs of Spring so early in the year,
But damage from late frosts may dash our hopes I fear.
Copyright © Mike Jones | Year Posted 2014
Cherry blossom tree
swaying by an ice glazed pond
lonely skylark perched
singing a song for it's flock
a chill wind blows alone he waits.
3/30/15 contest sponsored by: Rick Parise 'One New Tanka'
T Reams 4th Place
Copyright © TAMMY REAMS | Year Posted 2015
Beauty comes to seek
words of tender calm.
Love and laughter reign
in the heart refreshed.
Eyes behold the view.
Hope will rise up
in the sweet dawn.
Skies will open
as the birds soar.
Life sings out
brand new notes.
Built with strength.
for the contest Diminished Hexaverse sponsored by Dr. Ram Mehta
Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2015
The Apple PASTURE
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture.
Were once was and all well meet.
A pure and dear site.
Where silver reflection cover the still waters that holds the golden
grains of morality and the grazing souls lie young amounce no stars.
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture
Were winds smell of melon and the trees whisper spring corals in the mellow dark and best of light and time creeps into no tomorrow.
Copyright © JAY JOHNSON | Year Posted 2011
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
How do we begin to live with this sin
Will the pain lessen in time
Shall it beat me and always be mine
Why would anyone choose something so vile
Was it worth it
I will never know.....
Today four cardinals appeared in my yard
A glimpse of hope an peace once more
Maybe there is life beyond this day
and Beauty and Love will again find a way.......
To once again rule our day.......
Copyright © Ninette Carey | Year Posted 2014
Once upon a fortunate time
I saw a princess that was so sublime.
She was *embellished with the beauty of a Seraph.
Therefore, in her heart, I sowed a seed that would etch a lovely *pyrograph.
That special *calescent egg of divine source
Was implanted to guide the maiden on her predestined course.
Then, as time passed by, the eggshell began to crack.
'Twas a rare bird breakin' through the sack.
And behold! a baby Pheonix.
Oh...there was the babe in love's *matrix!
Right away the little chick began emitting sparks-
Tiny sparklin' flares which left fond marks.
Despite that, as the bird grew, she ignore'
Due to the shyness that was resting in her core.
Thus the foul began to feel *claustrophobic.
So... that was the moment to perform fervor's magic.
Overwhelmed with an ardent vehemence the Pheonix lit on fire,
And, inhaling and exhaling, flames he did respire.
Then, the horizon of the young girl's heart got ablazed.
Suddenly, the lass began to feel amazed.
And right after, a conflagration of passion consumed all resistance,
Thereby leaving peace on the fiery bird's semblance.
Now it was able to soar through the sweetheart's soul.
So the Pheonix accomplished his fate and the damsel her goal--
'Cause she pursued her prince,
And *enamoring him, they lived happily ever after since.
*Pyrogragh-- a design produced by pyrograghy. Pyrograghy is the act of producing drawings
on wood, leather, etc., by using heated tools or a fine flame.
*Calescent-- increasing in warmth; getting hot.
*Matrix-- an enclosure within which something originates or develops; a womb.
*Claustrophobic-- suffering from claustrophobia. Claustrophobia means an abnormal fear of
being enclosed in a confined space.
*Enamor-- inspire with love or delight.
For Sami Al-Khalili's contest
Copyright © Ismael Nieves | Year Posted 2009
Let me go
show me out the door with kind words
I want you to Love me ..
not punish by Force
My Prison, my warden
Let me go
My choice to be Free
Free of suppression, of my own creativity
let me decide for myself
Let me go
let go of me gracefully
I belong to myself , children and God
Let me go , let go of me
I am free
to choose to love and give
I am Free
from what burdens me
now I am Free
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
There cannot be two identical things in the world. Two
offer infinite locations within their shells for electrons.
Thus, nothing can be definitely eventually known.
All to the good
because golf and chess and basketball, as well as
mathematics, language and genetic recombination
for discovering the possible (which is more attractive than
in what we thought we thought about the sun and clouds.
In Borges' The Parable of the Palace, the poet's attempt
the world in a word results in what, surprisingly, is
personal obliteration a piece of anti-matter that
occupies no known shell in this or any other instantiation.
Got the plot?
We are "moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped
Actually, the recombinations
which make prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless and each
gone well or wrong, are represented by equations of such complexity
not at all from the very stars and neurons whose interactions we wish
The world keeps up or ahead of the collective attention span by offering
or otherwise rapidly contracting universes, big bang by big crunch.
I like that, I like that I can't know what I'm doing (until it's done).
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum motion, a lovely
a thunderstorm, a terrifying and (for someone) final tornado or volcano.
From his earliest published work, Ronnow displays a fascination with
the world without the self, a ridiculous consideration considering time's
6.5 x 1010 sunsets and sunrises over mountains and deserts (for every
themselves rising and setting via magmas, oceans, tectonics, meteors,
Do your homework I said to Zach. Why bother was his attitude.
time is an illusion, an invention man made, there is only change. Birds
But the calendar and colors, genus and species, bacteria and galaxies,
are the innumerable wonders about which Sophocles said man's
why because we identify or classify birds by the complexity or beauty
of their songs.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
It’s so hard to balance myself every day on a pole
With my wings all clipped, and cut out with my soul
Hung on a ceiling, it may just as well be a hole
Where I am perched at the edge where I rock and I roll
As an old church bell rings out the names of many a free soul
It’s so hard for me to find my way, and to ever be free
Where on this pole, I only see the outside of a glass wall
I dream of flying away each day but will they ever let me?
Even if I fell off the perch, and hurt, there is nowhere to fall
I am just so tired of balancing myself on this old cold pole
If not I can’t see outside and dream I break thru the glass wall
If I drop to the bottom again, I know I won’t see anything at all
Like in the dark of the night, there is nothing to see at all
As the curtain each night is pulled over to hide the glass wall
As I wait alone hung out on a porch on a hook and a pole
With only dreams to fly, one day on the other side with you all
And with no one to help me out of this dark caged hole
Where I sit and I wait to hear the bells ring their very next toll
Hung out in the cold dark night, on a hope and a dream to be free
As I wait by the window hoping the next bell that rings is for me
Copyright © Cynthia Ferguson | Year Posted 2015
Young love bird wounded during your flight
Worried now where your companion landed
You sing a beautiful song, but still no sight
Certainly now he must have gotten stranded
The magical serenade continues to no avail
Some concern now for your own well being
This winter flight treacherous you feel frail
The singing stops, you are hardly breathing
One pilgrimage not completed you feel pain
Some guilt overtakes when you start to heal
The flying before your partner was it in vain
Or is there.a bird needing your singing still
Bird of flight your journey is still not done
Heal now, continue to fly for the other one
Penned by Wayland Bunch 2/12/2013
Copyright © wayland bunch | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
Always in my mind,
My thoughts driving my mind crazy,
More than you can imagine.
Deep inside my heart
Is pounding and asking,
For you to come near me.
Like a crazy bird,
I wish I could sit on,
Your shoulder where ever you go.
Copyright © shirin neshat | Year Posted 2009
Today I saw a bird in flight and began to wonder why
God made us to walk on earth and made the bird to fly
Then I began to think way back when I was just a kid
I often dreamed of flying then some time I think I did
I still can see me flying high while looking down below
oh' the dream it was so neat I wish it had been so
God had a plan for man and what he wanted him to be
it wasn't flying through the air or swimming in the sea
But now as I think back on this I see God's perfect plan
he never meant for beast or foul to take the place of man
Yes he made the birds to fly and made the beast to roam
but man he made to rule them all and walk the road alone
Then God saw that it was wrong not to give the man a mate
so he took a rib from Adam's side and women he did make
God put them in a garden there and took great care of them
now I think you know the rest what separated them from him
But God still had a plan for man and sent him Jesus Christ
and now we have to pray to him to forgive us of our past
now I still dream of flying high and know some day I can
when Jesus Christ will take us home forever to be with him
Copyright © Oma Bennett | Year Posted 2006
A sound of bedtime prayers are in the trees,
where the doves have nestled among the leaves.
They smooth the feathers of a restless day.
Like the night-birds,... my worries lift away,
sailing far, into twilight's crimson seas.
5/17/15 For The Contest: Five Lines/Metaphors and Simile
Sponsored By Sara Kendrick Form: Enveloped Quintet
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
This large dark creature fluffs its wings at me,
causing fear and shame.
However, I have done nothing wrong to it.
Yet, it snares at me in pain. I am afraid, but I call to it
and it comes close, but not near for fear. Why is this creature afraid,
or is it just the Human trade.
I call, it comes, I show by my outstretched hands, then gently
touches my hands and pecks. Then, flies away a greeting we
have made known, no more to be afraid.
The Raven twice removed to come back another day.
Copyright © Marilyn Williams | Year Posted 2015
Would I were a yellow bird,
No woes would be on me
I’d fly me past the Sawney roofs
And past the canopy,
O I’d fly so high above this earth
Above this great frontier,
You’d think me but a yellow bird
Just a-gone and disappeared.
I’d soar out into sunlit skies
Where the clouds have all gone home
And I’d soar out over churning tides,
Bleached white with briny foam
Well I’d soar above the lofty peaks
Of mountains gray and blue
Just to perch atop those crowns of rock
And sit in wait for you.
O I’d fly tomorrow if I could,
In fact I’d fly today,
But my wings have not grown strong enough
To fly me anyway
So here I’ll sit, atop this nest
These skies I’m doomed to roam
Would I were a yellow bird,
Then I would fly me home.
Copyright © Le Sony'r Ra | Year Posted 2010
The month was cold and hard, scarred by frost
and glacial ice, then grained by cutting winds
as Winter sliced through the skin of life
to violate the flesh and bone beneath.
Some weeks before, sparkling strands of tinsel
and glowing golden lights warmed the world
when the frenzy of bought-in entertainment
grew the transient comfort of Christmas.
And then? Pale sunlight, snowdrops, daffodils,
dark rain-soaked earth, bluebells and primroses,
as songs of Spring-Hope from nest-building birds
push away the Winter-weary darkness.
Copyright © Elisabeth Sheaffer | Year Posted 2015
The white-breasted nuthatch
upside down the ancient bole.
If it has no soul, neither do I.
Pencils criss-crossed on the desk,
sticks tangled on the ground.
Oblong lenticels, yellow stars.
We try to worship the divine
in our sexual partners. They shit and sweat diurnally
and fear their deaths. But the abstract
God has also died. He lied to say he was
eternal. Earth must burn, universe grow cold.
Old field species become ornamentals.
Mosquitoes prey on us, and black flies.
The body decays, and this is what you come
to love. And the ants that carry it away.
This morning, the profusion of species
contents me. The temperate zone is warm, late May.
The posture of that bird is good to emulate.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
dropped out of your nest
my daughter begs for your life
love you little bird
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2008
As life roars on I keep my grace.
Just watch the love light on my face.
This inner strength is mine to own
to soften a heart once made of stone.
Natural beauty dwells inside.
The truth of that I need not hide.
A broken spirit's finally healed.
The joys of life will be revealed.
So I will swim these waterways
making the most of all my days.
I'll hold the sunset in my eyes
and sail beneath the moon struck skies.
I chose Swan because it means true beauty ,power of self, love and grace. I feel this is a good depiction of how my life has turned around and how I have now got love in my life which has helped to heal me.
Copyright © Deb Wilson | Year Posted 2015
That birdie was singing a beautiful song
I pretended it was for me
The notes played like a musical flute
Its melody a symphony
I looked around that little bird
Sitting in an evergreen tree
What could make it sing like that?
Was it really singing for me?
Manna fell from heaven
As breadcrumbs found their way
And the birdie sang even louder
It had something it wanted to say
To live in the moment
And appreciate this gift
I look at the birdie
And my soul it does lift
For even heaven knows the birdie
Its every need and care
It worries not for tomorrow
It appreciates the breeze - the air
I want to be the birdie
Singing a beautiful song
Let me remember this moment
May it live ever long
Copyright © Grace Cyrus | Year Posted 2013