Our garden perimeters
are hung with notes
A thrush sings its morning songs.
No other of its kind dares cross
these musical borders of trilling notes
Would that we - could defend our boundaries with songs
instead of bombs.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013
A husband, a father, an uncle, a son
A soldier, a brother, a man and a boy
Never one or the other, united, just one
His boyhood was lost too soon in the war
His manhood affected by all that he saw
His dotage came early, yet longevity reigned
He shed tears for his father, shed tears for his son
The tears of a man cried by a boy
Tears for the boy wept by the man
Haunted by a past he longed to forget,
Surrounded by the life that somehow seemed set
Yet speeding towards a future he was unwilling to greet
Hidden within the old man’s body, bravely the boy still lived
And for a fleeting moment a glint in his eye revealed,
In the innocence of youth his carefree spirit prevailed
Copyright © Huberta van Akkeren | Year Posted 2015
Gazing out upon dusky barren moor,
Where gray grass grasps the air
Finding no purchase but sad allure
Straight stalks elapse their endless despair.
Teased by tales of golden reach
Tricked by gales, whose song they preach.
Redtail’s velvet wings breach the sky,
Maroon lips who kiss the grass
Stirring the song, its desperate sigh
Catching the words, her beak of crystal glass
Behind her, midnight shadow draws
Fells her beauty with unseen charcoal paws
Scarlet tears dampen the earth below
Nurture the roots held by dusty truth
Finally, the wind, gray grass’ will bestow
The hawk once, now the fountain of youth.
Litany of silence reigns in dusky glare,
Each blade bowed in mournful prayer.
Copyright © Avery Swarthout | Year Posted 2015
Life is a creative
A dance with
A non-sensical Mystery
Extending through and beyond logic.
Nothing holds it at both sides
Yet here it is. (There it is)
Copyright © Graham Eakin | Year Posted 2013
Tree of life
Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014
Pies Politics And Birds
300 lbs. can’t hide my weight from stealing pies from bakeries
But I need my pies and will not be deprived
A warm pumpkin pie slides inside my shorts
Blueberry and cream go in the back and sides
A large slimy apple and a peach fit beneath my shirt
Icy against my thick hairy chest; is a little messy
Then a cheese cake stuffed inside my socks
As I waddle to the door to make an invisible escape
Ninja like and subtle, hoping no one sees my size
The baker stops me at the door
Questions why I’m stealing all his pies
Good sir, you are mistaken I assure you!
I am a politician on a mission
Gathering crumbs for my constituents
There are birdies just outside as clear examples, who adore me
Sir, do you realize who you are talking to?!
I am the president of Venezuela, former bus driver par excellence
Appointed and anointed by Hugo Chavez himself before he died
I have evidence; see for yourself at this address
I kid you not
Here I am speaking to the former dead leader today on national TV
He has taken on the form of a very little bird
Speaking fluent through his tiny beak to me
In Spanish, Parakeet and sparrow, Spanisparrowkeet for short
Therefore you cannot have me arrested, that’s for sure
I am the law and former bus driver of the people for the people
Now as president, I place pies in my shirts and shorts
Stay clear from me or I will start a war
Starting with your store
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2015
Murders in congress
grimly ponder on parapet walls
on the grim reality of lost homes
and loved ones yet unborn -
their casual caws more muted
than the usual cacophony
of careless camaraderie.
The still dark night
of scintilla-ed canopy
and eerie filigreed fingers
of flora bereft of foliage once lush
limned against the pallor of
moonlight mocking at men
reduced and humbled now
from their hubris then.
bereft of the trappings and finesse,
a gourmet's grumps bring together
of familial bonds under the thickened web
of electronic sludge and slime
now briefly removed.
The sweet lullaby of a
distant mercenary generator
puts me to sleep
in the comfort of knowing
that i am not alone.
Troglodytes in surreal settings.
Copyright © Karam Misra | Year Posted 2016
For the accountant, the librarian, on this cold day
there is no revelation. He will go his own way
to the roar of the tinnitus in his ears.
About our war what is there to say. Yesterday
a flock of bluebirds was the only color in the woods.
Have they arrived too early for their good?
Of Judith and Inanna I have Korf's fears.
Inanna is generous, Judith is dangerous.
On each the wise elders depend for sustenance,
protection. Agriculture is sexual
and wars end when men remember cunnilingus.
To savor the young woman's thighs and the old one's food,
to water her womb and cut her wood.
Is this not what's real, the actual, the animal?
The women I have known were bluebirds and crows, such
nuthatches, cardinals, robins, an occasional thrush.
They did not consider their bodies holy,
they found my seduction easy. What good luck
on the bed, in the light of the land, in our youth.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015
The prophets forewarned us in ancient words
Of monstrous, metallic, reptilian birds
Igniting skies with a flight of fire:
Below them the smoke of charred Earth will spire.
These death-pterodactyls are coming true:
Their pilots turn bleak the horizons of blue,
Sleek avian avatars, spilling down
Their droppings that cinder the field and town.
The creatures themselves are consumed in flame,
And man is a dinosaur, obsolete-name,
Forgotten as prophesied, slain by sleek
Low-swooping pteranodons, bones-in-beak.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2008