The campfire reaches
Lighting the night
Rolling the logs
Red embers take flight
Sharing our memories
Eating nuts for snacks
Spitting shells in the fire
The fire spitting them back
We laugh at jokes
And sarcastic remarks
Smoke waters our eyes
We run from the sparks
The conversation lags
As the evening tires
We all kick back
Put more wood on the fire
Center of attention
Entertaining as well
We become entranced
Succumb to it's spell
On the bark as it burns
All lack of concern
The warmth lives inside
As we slowly turn in
Our friend the fire
Has cleansed us again
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
I wander in the nature’s green, trees in rows the birds preen
Like a gem glimmers the morning dew, with a precious diamond’s hue
And flowers bloom as I gaze anew, eggs hatch to welcome lives in queue
I can smell the wondrous earth, the distant flow of water in mirth
It’s a new dawn another day thereof, wherein I sense his breath of love.
As I prod on the old man smiles, he delivers milk by cycling miles
Passing the farmers sweet abode, the cry of new life reaches the road
A child wails by the neighbour’s door, with a sweet candy her eyes adore
Roaming the street is a hound grown, pups trailing behind unknown
A jocund street undreamed of, wherein I sense his breath of love.
My dearest rush out sighting me afar, without whom my life is a war
The tiny tots in their cradles lie, as we sing a lullaby
This is the world I am part of, wherein I sense his breath of love.
© (4 Feb '15)
* Honourable mention in the contest 'Enter a poem #1' by Poet Destroyer
Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015
God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…
who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009
A solitary piece the diamond
precious rare gem most treasured
by those lucky enough to hold
Once in possession it is rarely out of grasp
Like the gemstone the mother
requires very specific conditions
in holding fast her (family/) childrens love
Treasured forever in her heart
she will go out of her way
to preen and protect them
holding them dear to her
deep within her maternal safe – the heart
closely guarded by the mind
Her infatuation of all treasures to her
are totally understandable
especially when you think to the complexity
of structure and process taken in creation
Just as from the ‘unbreakable’ in ancient greek
this allotrope of carbon
with strength of bonding between atoms
is representative of that strong love
between mum and child
The maternal being could be compared
to the superlative physical qualities of the stone
Even the characteristic luster
of this gem so prevalent from its ability
to disperse light and colour
compared to the many strengths
roles and qualities of the mother
seen by the many she deals with daily
A most high pressured job
versus the high pressured temperature
within the Earths mantle
that forms the delightful rock it gives birth to
Infants delight and ignite the forbearer
just as the jewel would dazzle the room
a mother’s love encaptures the magical luster
of those she’s birthed and nothing
stands inbetween this richest of cargo’s
Copyright © Anna-Marie Docherty | Year Posted 2013
I left my
of wonder and
awe. A place that
knows me better
than any other place
I’ve been. This place
has changed me and
molded me into the
person I am now.
The forests, trees, creeks,
and open skies instilled in
me a love for God’s works.
The harshness of the winters has
taught me to be patient and to endure. My small
town is where I learned the small-town work ethic;
you don’t get what you don’t earn and earning what
you want takes a little bit of sweat and tears. Here
I learned that you don’t have to be blood to be
family. Brothers and sisters are made throughout
years of school together. We relied on each other to
be happy. This place will forever hold my heart and
soul. I am a small town girl through and through.
It’s who I will always be. Forever. Thanks IDAHO
for shaping me into something more than I was.
Copyright © Samantha Farr | Year Posted 2013
In a flower’s velvet petals
There dwells a divine scent and hue
Soon a tiny creature settles
That will help pollinate a few.
We are blossoms of our dear God
Born each in colors of our kin.
It matters not our birth of sod
Neither the colors of our skin.
For Andrea Dietrich's "Tell Me Your Number Contest" I am 8
8 line form Heroic Rispetto (Month and Day) Path May 3rd. 5+3=8
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014
(This is a "childhood" poem, written many years ago.)
High above the pristine falls
the looming mountain lifts its walls.
A monolith of stony gray,
with bulky lips, it seems to say:
"Eons passed since I've been here;
nothing have I seen to fear
while above my walls, from year to year,
about the world below I peer.
My walls so high, so steep and strong,
protect me well from all that's wrong.
Would that Man below could see
how I keep all harm from me.
Would that he could build a wall
about his home, his family -- all --
to keep them safe from Evil's charm,
which causes Man unending harm."
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
Here further down the hillside slope
Down close to the creek with hope
My husband bought a house, land
Fenced in and made many plans
Subdued the land to cow pasture
And planted a garden, fruit trees sure
Fathered another child to call him sir
The creek seemed to like the stir
Enjoyed the children for a little while___
Loved them so that it made her smile
Today she loves grandchildren the same
No girls there are in frills ___tame
The creek keeps on flowing to the sea
The land is mostly stripped of trees
(This is my adaptation of Robert Frost's poem "The Birthplace". I hope that it does not insult
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
“There is a time for each season…
To everything made…
There is a divine reason.
A time for purpose under
the heavens above…
A time for meaning from a God of love.
A time to be born. A time to die…
A time to farm the ground
under the beautiful sky.
A time to kill. A time to heal...
A time to tear down and
to build up with a passion and zeal
A time for weeping. A time for laughing…
A time to mourn. A time for dancing.
A time to keep...
A time to throw away.
A time to tear. A time to make amends today.
A time to get. A time for losing…
A time to keep. And to give
away at our choosing.
A time for silence. A time to speak…
A time for each hour
and day of the week.
A time for love. A time for hate…
A time for war. A time for peace at your gate.
How will you spend the time
God has given to you?
What is your choice? What will you do???
May this be a time living in
God’s purpose and design.
He created you and made
everything beautiful in his time!
By Jim Pemberton 05/22/10
Read Eccl. 3:1-11
Copyright © Jim Pemberton | Year Posted 2011
Orphaned footsteps round the old place.
Pitch black soil, packed deep with bartered
coin and Indian heads – wood and otherwise,
coat her worn leather shoes, Hutterite chic.
The long land screams within its own silence.
Prairie sage burns somewhere, a ghostly smudge
for the undulating grass and, those it serves.
Its alive scent makes the dead turn towards
its head - and the barely living turn to listen.
The impossibly endless horizon holds its bright
blue at bay, begging acknowledgement for
its self-professed being and looming enormity.
She looks at the broken window glass and
through the tattered, delicate gray lace. “Those
were hers.” She whispers to the one who listens.
This great-great-granddaughter sees the curtains
as they once were – wistful in the hot Manitoba
wind; fresh and lowing with the honest elemental
scent of aspens, hope and bare-knuckle wash boards;
always fresh; shifting in the cry for solace in summer
shadows – never as still as this moments endlessness.
Blowing through the deep brown of splintered pine
front doors; cracking the announcement of cast iron,
rot and burnt wood comes the simple statement of –
I lived. This mother of five young does not cry,
just yearns to walk in the old ones footsteps;
to know them loved; hear the birdsong through
unbroken bedroom windows for a 5am waking;
feel the resistance of dough on fingers that beg
to be broken, and kiss the twisting undead, living.
The burning of the noonday sun taps her whole,
marking; branding her pale Swedish skin its own.
The red sting of burnt breaks her inward silence,
welcoming her familiar face home.
© Kristin Reynolds 3 29 2009
*Reposted for John's Summer Celebration Contest. This is a personal celebration;
celebrating and honoring my great grandparents who settled in Manitoba after leaving
Sweden and Denmark. This celebrates the summer of family, at least for me. We went there
every summer until it was gone...
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
One moist patch, like dewy grass,
surrounded by a field of weeds,
emerges first and breathes at last,
through openings, the air it needs.
Cut off from, and cut off of;
counting on, and counting in;
from down below, to up above -
A smack on tender, crimson skin.
There is a pulse.
One spring bud, like seedling stems,
surrounded by a garden wall,
is standing out from all of them,
despite the fact, they're just as tall.
And though the bud has not yet grown,
the soil and the water see
more than just the seed they've sewn.
They see the flower it will be.
There is a pulse.
One tall stem, like climbing vines,
surrounded by its petals' plumes,
shares its elegant designs,
and stretches as it blooms.
And when the wind begins to call,
the flower spreads it's pollen 'round.
It falls in love, and loves in fall,
and falling love renews the ground.
There is a pulse.
Copyright © John Taylor | Year Posted 2010
Dusty roads and fresh grass
summertime rodeos approaching fast
riding with a friend down on sandbars
A piece of hay hanging out of his mouth
though some trapped water, out the other side
I had forgotten this wonderful life
I still see some twenty year old boy helping me up
now a sixty year old man rides in front
pointing all the changes in the last five years
I could not believe what time I lost
4 am to a cowboy is not early enough
my pants soaking wet my boots fixed
We rode on down to his dads favorite spot
to meet God when the sun comes up
we turned to face it and did not say a word
God's spirit was the only thing we heard
as earth to air, and water to fire, met in the sky
right there two old friends prayed to God
Copyright © Danielle Wise Baxter | Year Posted 2012
Confetti flutters the sky
A bride dressed in pearly white
Footprints pave bright virgin snow
Steps to her future
Copyright © Eiken Laan | Year Posted 2011
So young myself, I was naive'
Without a doubt, I did believe
the babe, then latched inside my womb
was bound to me, and would always be
Latched on, was he, as he was fed
Then later on, our hands instead
Not tall enough to open gates
I'd reach the latch for his escape
In time he grew to need more space
The bond we had, would stretch in place
With loving smiles, I watched him play
He longed to grow, and threads grew long
He reached to climb, and fly the wind
Yet ties remained, still ever strong
Years would pass, too soon, a man
Old ties would change, yet carry on
Love came along, as it should be
My eyes, if wise, must let it be
This union blessed, was good to see
Her love for you, the world could see
It didn't mean my son was gone
Songs are sung when lovers part
But no song for a mother's heart
When new adventures come one day
Those new roads take him far away
The man he is, has been set free
To be the man he wants to be
The child he was is never gone
She's letting go, yet holding on
If once, one wish were mine to choose
So many do my thoughts pursue
But one within my heart still yearns
If just one day, the clocks would turn
Together you and I would be
Sitting here among the trees
I would hold you close, upon my knees
then turn you loose, to join the leaves...
First Poem Submitted To Poetry Soup
Written not long after the weddings of all three of my children
who were all married within 1-1/2 years of each other!
I must have been feeling the empty nest blues and all the changes that came along ! :)
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2008
“Well,” She asked; her eyes wide. Beads of hot sweat glistening on her brow like miniature
crystal suns. Her angst was palpable. “What is it!”
The air was still. There were no words. Just the sound of bodies breathing in – and
“Congratulations.” He held out his arms, handing the mother, her baby, “You have a son.”
The moment shone like glass in the center of the heavens – pure and eternal.
It was redemption from every wrong thing she’d ever done.
It was the shining eyes of God smiling onto her exhausted face; lighting it with hope.
It was the only place there was – the only time, the only space.
It was the only feeling that existed.
They were the only two incarnate souls in the room; on the planet, and in the universe.
This was her child –
And she was his mother.
(there are no words for such things. suddenly, I feel like an intruder. there are too many
eyes, words and moments here. so it is here, I take my leave; leaving this mother and the
only soul in her universe to their perfect moment. they will have many more moments in this
lifetime; but none as sacred, as human, or as eternal as the first look from life to life;
mother to child; heaven to earth, as the very first. None.)
“It’s a boy.” she whispered. Her throat a crumbling tunnel; stunned, but not really. Like
she’d known it all along. “My baby boy…” She smiled into his ancient, brand-new face;
tracing his delicate cheek with the back of her finger. “He’s perfect.”
She ran her palm along the bottom of his soft, miraculous foot, and laughed. “Look at
your feet – they’re huge!”
And as she wiped the tears with the heel of her shaking hand – smearing what was left of
her mascara - she looked in to his, as close to heaven as one can get, eyes, and said, “Hi.
I’m your mama.” He smiled at her. He knew. He’d known it all along. “And I’ll love you
The world closed its shades then. Leaving the sacred to its history; the moment to
eternity; and their universe to its quiet, little room.
*Inspired by Deborah's, You Must Have Been A Beautiful Baby, contest; and every mother
who has graced this sacred room.
Copyright © Kristin Reynolds | Year Posted 2009
I am whatever you say I am...
but, let's get back to reality...
Three short years ago, this room shined welcome mats across a screen of doldrums.
A place of unfamiliarity that screamed,
"You don't belong!"
Yet, a voice of reason spoke and said,
"Expand yir' roots. Venture beyond the comfort zone. Academia resides inside that room, but know you won't be alone."
Repeatedly,brainwaves declined what my wife and editor had told me.
"no way, I'm givin' up my soul for free, they read, they pay, like it's always been, the way it's going to always be!"
Unbeknownst to me one day, and with a slight of hand, my "Open Sores" were put on display and surprisingly more than a handful of great ladies and nice guys began to give feedback on what I had devised.
This interaction was something very new, helpful, and impressive. For a change, it was something real.
For years, those around me were quick to give praise with hidden reasons. Constructive criticism is amazing, and I welcomed being corrected or set straight.
Now there are those who choose to shut me down without explanation, and call me names.
DO NOT mistake me for sophomoric! These words bleeding from my guts have no style and need no approval. There is no thinking involved here, no plan. If you don't like it, fine...don't censor or bracket me in. So what if I am illiterate? If you don't like "street poetry" or the pathetic stuff I write, don't read it. If I offend you, tell me.
We should welcome those who are different than us.
Words of truth inspire movement, like fire.
I came to this room to expand my horizons, step outside the box, learn, help, grow.
There will be no apologies dealt for being different, or for being labelled as something uncomfortable to you.
This has been an ok room so far, but there is some clique trickanery going on.
If the dictionary must come into play, let me recommend looking up the term "Poetic License."
True, I may not be the writer you prefer, or aspire to be....but tread carefully my friend, for you have no idea of my profession. I've made a fine living, for a good long time, spewing words onto paper. I came from nothing, and may still be nothing to you...still, I do what I love, have no boss.
I am not an aspiring writer who dreams of a life, I live my dream. In conclusion, I must wish you luck in finding what you peddle poetry for. Until then, keep
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2011
Imagine lakes of dreams
Blood contained streams
Imagine oceans that behold undiscovered beings
Imagine human life depended off of cheers and games
Man design’s umbrellas
And eventually would play a part in acid rain
Imagine not wanting to smell another rose
Or touch another soul
Because of despair and shame
Imagine in the mist of your demise
You have the passion to rejoice and sing
Imagine driving pass shattered glass
The interior is soaked with blood stains
Your mind can't comprehend the fact
that it's a dead family in the next lane
Imagine dreaming for freedom
As a result by your neck you hang
Imagine for the sake of progress
You whip a man on his back and call him a slave.
Rage, Pain, Fortune, and fame
You don't have to imagine this
Because that's what life brings.
Copyright © Andre Sanders | Year Posted 2012
Haiku one of my first poems on soup
venomous dangerous foe
hidden in garden
A Rattlesnake In Georgia
To the herb garden meandered
Some squash needed picking
Gloved hands and a six inch long blade
No thoughts of snake sticking
Rockie our Rat Terrier pet
Jumped 'pon retainer wall
Then back down as fast as lightning
The snake did forward crawl
Putting some herbs in the basket.
Out of corner of eye
Something in a flash moved
'Twas a snake going by
Looked like a rat snake mixed in straw
"Twas a Copperhead then
Sticking him with my blade so hard
He crawled off, coiled just when
I thought I had him conquered_ he
Rattled, raised up, fangs showed
Backing off out of reach, gave thought
When he dropped, my blade goad
He crawled off injured; Hope he died
I didn't want him to strike
At unprepared family member
Enemy still dislike
The form is similar to Quatrain but not exactly.
It is a form used by Emily Dickinson in many of her poems.
It is a type of Poulter's measure.
It is 8,6,8,6 with the six rhyming.
Verse is a stanza of a poem so these are stanzas or I can change it to Quatrain..
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2013
Dancing flowers plop at fullest bloom
in the rustled yellow burnt fields.
It sways an echo after the winds
and hits the grass aside who sheilds.
The dawn casts its tangerine color
after the flattery feilds of Daisies,
and a child runs the sunrays of early dawn
to pick a daisy for her Aunt Stacey.
With her white tipped finger she pricks
herself with yellow honey substance
and tickels it under her nose for scent.
She runs out the fields to her aunt in instance.
She looked at her and smiled, patted her head.
Aunt Stacey spoke, "Honey go play for awhile and I'll meet you
back in." And the little girl ran out the door.
She put the daisy in a tiny vase where she admired it once more.
Copyright © brittany martin | Year Posted 2008
We loaded up for a Sunday drive
The Ozark Mountains were alive
Wild dogwoods of pink and white
Every shade of green in sight
Blooming jonquils and daffodils
Woodpeckers, blue jays, and whippoorwills
Even though the painting was unfinished
Nature's bounty was being replenished
On switchback mountain roads
Past gray bluffs where eagles abode
A long slow roller coaster ride
With buzzards feeding alongside
Headed to our favorite place
A canyon God's finger had traced
Where echos and memories yearn
Friendly fires cleanse and burn
The raccoons, the skunks and the deer
Cared less that we were here
A nervous lizard escorted us to the creek
Clear running ice water froze our feet
A white misty blanket of fog
Spread out for the picnicking frogs
The rocks played a gurgling tune
In the middle of Mother Nature's bedroom
Sitting under a cottonwood tree
It all comes back to me
Generations of family laughter
Roaring in the treetop rafters
I saw an old man with his two sons
In shadowed waters catching crawdads for fun
My children's voices heard in the wind
As they both were learning to swim
I started coming here at age five
We've camped here hundreds of times
Back then this water was deeper
Each year the stream grows weaker
But time's wind blows no weather vane
All around memories remain
I come here a lot to look
And color in my life's coloring book
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
Singing happy song
Love in its purity bonding
Daddy slips into the arms of another woman
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
Where has dad gone, momma dear?
Hush, my little lamb.
Your dad's gone to the thicket dear
And mad old Abraham
That man went early this grim morn, and took his sharpened knife
And with him took his own first born, to offer up his life
With servants and with firewood, both, they journeyed to Moriah
And on the hillside there they built an altar and a fire
And Isaac, when he heard the plan, went willingly, it's odd
That he should let that daft old man, so worship his cruel god.
Your father, he was passing by, and heard but could not see
And foolishly could not deny his curiosity
So closer did your father scramble peering through the thorns
Unaware of how the brambles tangled with his horns
Just to see a crazy man who planned to kill his kin
Your father did not understand the danger he was in
For then again that mad old man started hearing voices
His god was speaking to the loon and giving him new choices
And so his plan to slay the boy came about to falter
And Abraham, he took your pa and dragged him to the altar
But that was never fair, mama, can you tell me why
When Isaac he was all prepared and well prepared to die
And all had been decided on, so what cruel trick mama
Was played upon that grand old ram, who was my own papa?
Life is not fair, my little lamb, nor is it like to change
And fate plays tricks on all of us, both sinister and strange
So you take care, my little lamb, with this advice from me
Do not visit places where you know you should not be
The moral of this story dear, is take heed of the odds
And stay away from two-leggies worshipping their gods
Copyright © Lee Leon | Year Posted 2011
Have you ever really looked at a tree?
Have you ever thought of the ancient roots,
Those that support it ... to behold its majesty?
The boughs and limbs carry leaves oh, so green,
We are again reminded of God's handiwork,
When we see the budding exuberance ... come the early spring.
They make us mindful of beauty by their quiet repose,
They are willowy, and shade us from the harsh summer sun,
Beneath their gentle sways ... we rest comfortably below.
Fall ages them and their greens turn to brown.
As winter's cold blasts blow upon them,
Do we ever feel their plight ... as their leaves tumble down?
Families are a personal and spiritual tree.
Their ancient roots so long ago planted,
Grow in size and shape and form ... in gifted majesty!
Generations of limbs and boughs support the child leaves,
In every new face God's handiwork,
Radiant in the splendor of life ... each one of us receives.
Time slowly ages each one to their own event,
While we who remain here grow and love,
Still remembering those whose winter ... we could not prevent.
It is the strength of their memories we add to our own,
They give us the values, insights, and perspective,
Which we in turn pass on ... to the seeds we have sown.
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2010
Past my window
they swoop and fly.
First they're low
then they're high.
A nest they've built
in a tree
covered with ivy
so we can't see.
and wide of wing.
Back and forth,
food they bring
to the nest
for their young.
So at last
Spring has sprung.
Eagerly I await
the first view
of baby ravens
shiny and new.
Copyright © Francine Roberts | Year Posted 2011
Grandma's vase waiting
on Mother's lace table cloth
for lilacs to bloom
Inspired by Carol Brown's
Haiku Waiting for Spring contest
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2010
Karma was my best friend...
Until I fell for her deceitfulness...
She always had my back when others would try to harm me...
I would laugh at her and the way she would play with others emotions...
Not knowing that I would fall as one of her victims...
See Karma is mysterious...
I guess that's why she is perfered as a female dog...
She has no feelings...
That's why she always wins her battles...
Me and her never see eye to eye now...
I guess we're to much alike...
I also have no feelings...
Some may say that's impossible, being a human with no feelings...
See, My mother is Sorrow...
My girlfriend is Pain...
My enemy is Fear, I have none...
I came in the world naked...
So Karma can't take anything from me that is rightfully mine...
So when I leave this Earthly Hell...
I will leave, knowing that I have won the battle that no one else has ever
Copyright © Lamar Johnson | Year Posted 2007
I am the predator you watch up in the sky
Blessed by the Lord with the keenest of eyes
I nest in the canyons high up on the walls
Keeping my babies safe from it all
When my babies grow hungry and it's time to feed
I rely on my senses to provide what they need
As I take to the sky it's so clear to see
You think of freedom while looking at me
Protected from hunters I've no need to hide
As upon the currents I gracefully glide
As I circle the sky throughout the day
I scour the ground searching for prey
When prey is spotted I go into my dive
Know that speed and accuracy are how I survive
You duck and you dodge for no use at all
With you held in my talons I fly back up the wall
Back to the nest to the fruit of my seed
For you are the food my babies need
Then back to the sky where I notice under a tree
One peaceful poet is writing of me
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2007
Armano the Auracano of Rock Star fame
Will never be singing on his stage again
A fan. a critter, or even a possum
Has taken his life, he will no longer blossom
He was a handsome dude, tall and preened
With shiny red rustic feathers, and did the girls scream
A newspaper reporter asked his manager Dane
It must be hard for you, as you will miss him playing
Yes i will, things will never be the same
But another star will be born, to look after his dames
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2010
My father and I stood outside the old farmhouse in which I was raised and he still lived.
The black sheep had moved back in temporarily until I found a "handyman special "house to
work on and live in. It was about nine thirty pm. and really quite peaceful standing out there
with him. That felt good because if there ever was anything between him and I , it surely
It was quite dark as only the hairline of the moon's robust face could be seen bobbing in
and out of a sea sparkling with star milk; which is what my siblings and I called it from our
perch on that mountain in Vermont. That blonde hairline was occasionally being hidden by
clipper ship clouds seeming to be sailing back in search of the harbor from whence the moon
had shoved off.
I could hear the chorus of crickets fading into background noise as the frogs filled the air
with the rising stacatto of their incessant peeping.
My Father's voice broke the spell while he was taking it all in and said," I wonder where
the peepers all went." What?", I asked. "You know , the frogs ..used to be you could
hear 'em peeping all over the place at night like this. You just don't hear 'em any more.
Wonder what happened to 'em." He was quite surprised when I told him they were still alive
and well and just as noisy as usual.
That's the first time we realized the "old man" was losing his hearing. Soon afterwards ,
he got himself a hearing aid and the peepers came back for him. He was glad about that.
Those little nature things made him very happy. I enjoyed that about him.
Copyright © Robert A. Dufresne | Year Posted 2009
As I listen to the lark’s surreal melody to her mate.
I wonder does she ever feel there’s too much on her plate?
Ever beside him juggling, tediously feathering the nest,
in her discomfort struggling, incubating without rest.
I wonder if in her daydreams does she laze as her mind lingers
in bygone days pursued by teams, of young and gallant singers?
Or does she occupy her days with tending her small brood
not entertaining winsome ways as gaping nibs crave food?
Does he while out a’gathering, squirming tidbits for their young,
ever give way to lathering ‘cause his work is never done?
Does his keen eye ever wander over lighter creamy breasts
allowing himself to ponder his days of youthful quests,
or does his steadfast honor seek but to gather and bring home
supper for each tiny beak never thinking once to roam?
As I hear the song bird warble, with expectancy to her mate
I’m thankful for each morsel placed in love upon my plate.
And listening to the lark refrain his bride’s devoted call,
I find being called a birdbrain the best compliment of all.
Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007