Best Auk Poems
These birds of the Auk are so cute
With their colourful beaks and their looks
So gorgeous are they
I could stare every day
Their name Puffin, is now linked to books
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/nature-16.php
Conspiracy Theories
Don’t be naïve do you really believe
That man could walk upon the Moon.
Just theatrical Cold War propaganda,
Do I look like your common buffoon?
Satellite pictures cheap shot trickery,
The Earth that we know is all flat.
Look at the maps both ancient and new
Spherical, we’d fall off and that’s that.
Quantum mechanics, Big Bang theory,
For Heaven’s sake do me a favour.
Thirteen point eight Billion years ago,
Milky Way and yummy Galaxy flavour.
Religion is the answer deity divine,
Finding ways to control populous mass.
Unquestioned devotion for final reward,
Heavens gate and a special gilt pass.
Giant creatures roaming the plains,
Millions of years before ascent of man.
Simply pictures made up in glossy books,
Entertaining Jurassic Park movie fan.
Climate change lies great Millennium scam,
Line the pocket of Mister green politics.
Ministers and Presidents will never agree,
Which of them is guilty of crass dirty tricks.
Dodo, Quagga and Flightless Great Auk,
Giant Woolly Mammoth and Sabre Tooth.
They aren’t extinct for they didn’t exist,
Conspiracy theories messing with the truth.
Show me a place where I can be in a little island far above the sea where the skies touch the hills and transmit a message to my window sill. Show me a place where I can be to touch your heart and sing sweet melodies to thee and when the night rings out in the skies I will gaze at the stars and sing you a sweet lullaby. It seems just like yesterday when you kneel down at my bedside to pray and the moon was my covering and the miracle appears in the morning.
Show me a place where I can be to join your friends and company, a place that bears its bosom in the sea and I can lay my head in the sand and sing sweet melodies for thee.
Show me a place where I can be to romance with the fish in the great big sea, to ride out in the fishing boat and catch some trout. I would hold the sword fish by its mouth and put the Atlantic cod in my bag. I would catch hundreds of mackerel for my deceased dad and put the great white shark in a chokehold.
I would catch some red mullet and make some Barramundi tea for you, and catch the mahi-mahi for the aquarium and prepare the haddock and anchovies for dinner and reserve the red seabream for supper.
Show me a place where I can be to find peace and tranquility, to listen to the birds in the hill as they fly from tree to tree and watch the pileated woodpecker conversing with the bald eagle. The robin and the pelican have nothing in common but when the sorrow join them, they can sing a happy song.
I can see you standing there yearning to join me over here, your heart is real and you are full of zeal and the artic loon will meet with you at noon accompanied by the cormorants, the great auk, dovekie and the storm petrels.
Show me a place where I can be so that I can spend quality time with thee. Take me to Gibraltar in a boat and leave me at the French border with white wine and steak frites. Show me a place where I can be.
Countdown to *****sapiens extinction
predicted millenniums in past
ordained but never occurred December 21
two thousand and twelve after common era
whereby catastrophic spark
detonating inferno incinerating blast
eradicating extant flora and fauna
activating bereft hegira
with no means to interrupt the die
since the dawn of civilization cast,
but last minute reprieve granted.
Impossible mission to escape ominous
predetermined fate of human rat race,
nor turn back hands of time
with origin of species on clock face
thus ticking closer to hour of doomsday
without faith to brace
allowing, enabling and providing Gaia
to redeem terrestrial space
vestiges of teeming billions soon erased
criminal minds without evidence traced
forcefully relinquishing simians
planetary stranglehold amazing grace
proffering tabula rasa
for another dominant species to claim the place.
Sirens promulgate emergency impending
toward inescapable cataclysm
yet no place to run or hide
lest one boards a rocket light-years away
which makes suspense thrillers
birthed by John Grisham
enviable plot to keep
total Earth's destruction at bay.
Matthew Scott Harris, a lifetime America Online
meme bur hastens to convey dire
crisis sparking to offer electric nom de plume
a papa who did help sire
deux darling daughters,
now grown into young gals
yet for ages hive stung
with hurt early, whence fatherhood did fire
meow n childhood's end fostering people
strangers even fork getting this communication,
per S0S sprinkled with auk shucks corny,
egret - letting opportunities take flight aspire
now pleasures soft as gossamer feather bedding
down play hardened angst riddled psyche, where ire
Ronny gully stubbornly thrives
amidst adversity as father time spins gyre
row scope at greased lightning speed,
intimating with dead reckoning to hire
grim reaper, who whiz patient as Job,
and exemplary at ridding mire
and muck bogs down this dada robbing
existence with joie de vivre, where funeral pyre
doth flickr-beckoning GoDaddy, cuz
Juno I haint gonna hear angelic choir
or equivalent enlightenment re:
home sweet home, this atheist doggedly tire
so haim trying keep sea legs
one step ahead of tipping point
envision self pitched into abyss -
thus finally ends discombobulated wire.
I imagine it was once slow and grey
then color came to a lackluster world,
tinted throats drank sunlight
through bowls of honey and light.
Eons shed a useless weight,
until a flint of flight hummed bright,
on shimmering winds.
This morning, one comes to my decking,
an iridescence, its long thin beak held high
as it hovers beside a red and yellow feeder.
It casts a shadow on the wooden floor,
a silhouette much larger than itself.
If I look only at the shadow
it could be some fanciful auk
descending out of a lost world,
but no, it is only a hummingbird,
a speck of color
blown from a windmill of creation
like the rest of us.
Suddenly over the sudden years
I have felt an encumbrance; I sense an albatross -
the weight of sundry uncharted days.
Times I chronicle today as if I were a wax cylinder
or a broken spool in a cassette tape.
A gray goose wing flight is my personal sky.
I must write 'personal sky’ ten times a day
so that the abated will not be forgotten,
yet how to keep a dull sky fresh
when the days are so metallically shiny and blue?
How to recall those monochrome stories
we once told our fully colored-in children,
for they have grown far beyond
such unchanging horizons.
I have so little time, yet must set down
the legend of little boy gray,
his story has almost passed away,
now eyes have no corners to see around,
I knew him well, alas the roads to that tale
are backhoed by cartoon rainbows.
The bygone calls me out into the dinge and drizzle
where a lineage of dog turds leads the nose
to a yesteryear. a knuckle end of time it was,
free from the wow and weight of newness.
We lived under our own cloud cover,
Poetic meadowlarks meant something once,
but now look at them, they strut like gawdy roosters
over our gray-worn journals.
Times past cannot be cured, they are far gone,
all is hump-backed like a speed bump.
Wordsworth and his damn sunny daffodils -
as if we did not know already.
A long moment ago history ran through open fingers
as ungainly as any grayling gosling.
A flint faced sky was abuzz with love, war
and a brawny heraldic Kevlar,
It was understood that the compassion
of the ordinary is to drain away
any hint of an uncertain tint or hue.
I unshoulder now this burden of tawdry things,
shed this molting, wingless, emblematic Auk,
and for one last page of time
record all the trappings
of the then and thereupon,
dumping them most irreverently
into a vividly golden
ash can.
I imagine it was once slow and grey
then color came to a lackluster world,
tinted throats drank sunlight
through bowls of honey and light.
Eons shed a useless weight,
until a flint of flight hummed bright,
on shimmering winds.
This morning, one comes to my decking,
an iridescence, its long thin beak held high
as it hovers beside a red and yellow feeder.
It casts a shadow on the wooden floor,
a silhouette much larger than itself.
If I look only at the shadow
it could be some fanciful auk
descending out of a lost world,
but no, it is only a hummingbird,
a speck of color
blown from a windmill of creation
like the rest of us.