Best Crowfoot Poems
River Life
Between ancient rolling chalk hills the age old river flows
Where orange and blue cloaked Kingfisher over chalk stream feeds.
Water Voles hunt and the family of an Otter grows.
White petalled Water Crowfoot among fresh water reeds
And in clear running brooks the Trout, Crayfish and Grayling swim.
For the Contest 'River Line' by Rick Parise
14 syllables per line checked by 'howmanaysyllables.com'
18//11/16
Barry Stebbings
Walking ancient pathways on high chalk ridges,
Climbing steep sided valleys; sheep cropped slopes
Over rolling hills where the Red Kite fly
And Chalk Blue butterfly flit in sun warmed air.
Settlement names derived from Saxon tongue,
Time matured villages where the Saxon lived.
Treading shaded lanes in woods of Beech and Oak
Muntjac Deer peer from the shadowed forest’s edge.
Clear rivers eddy under old stone bridges,
Kingfisher dressed in blue and orange cloak
By brooks where white Water Crowfoot flower
The Brown Trout swim and clear chalk streams flow.
Barry Stebbings
31/12/16
Twilight Flight by Monty Wright
What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night.
It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime.
It is the little shadow which runs across the grass
and loses itself in the sunset. – Crowfoot (Blackfoot warrior and orator)
I am life
created to praise my maker
in rising song,
faithful words,
poetic verse
and loving deeds.
Where I go my spirit animals lead,
but if I lose my way come night
or lose sight of where I came,
Dreams of fireflies will cover me in light
and an eagle's wings will lift me in flight.
Born in gentlest breeze,
floating on dainty wings.
I am taught by the firefly
to drift in serenity.
I follow, I lead, but I am never alone.
I feel freedom, creativity, new awakenings, and rebirth.
Inspired to fly,
my spirit is guided through darkness.
and where I land,
I am nested in the shadows
of an eagle keeping watch from above.
I am blessed by the eagle’s courage
that strengthens my spirit.
I am blessed by the firefly’s grace
that grants me peace.
Through their soaring eyes,
I am more aware
of beauty and danger on my path.
I value my victories,
dream of destinations,
and grow stronger from mistakes
drifting,
reaching,
climbing,
soaring.
The eagle guides me.
The firefly lights my way.
On life's journey,
I am lifted higher with every breath.
Until on wings, I am carried home.
Written 6/3/20 for Dear Heart’s
Spirit Animal Contest
Quote :“The darkness of death is like the evening twilight; it makes all objects appear more lovely to the dying.” Jean Paul
“What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the winter time. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the Sunset. “(Crowfoot).
The time has passed me by, At one time I thought I was immortal, But now I feel my both feet are hanging in grave, It will be just some time, before I will be dead.
What is death, how do we see it? “The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and sea are one. For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?”(Gibran)
"Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation." ( Rumi)
With my mortal weakness, when I would hear how nice person I was? When I would find out that I was loved by so many? Would I have to wait? To find it, when I will be dead.
As the days go by, The death lurks by my side, Every day I struggle to own my piece of the world, But I will leave behind everything, when I will be dead.
Death is an unpleasant thought, I would not be able to see the tears rolling down the cheeks, I would not be able to watch the grief on my loved one faces, I can't imagine that someday, when I will be dead,
I will be dead and smiling in liberation, May be smiles and happy memories, Will uplift my soul from here to the heavens, Do I need to be mourned? when I will be dead.
On a beautiful June morning very early we made our way down to the fields,
The men had scythes to ring in all the bustle for the annual hay harvests,
We were a merry bunch and we stripped down to the waist in sunburnt groups,
At close of day we sat down in the deep cool grass of a hidden shady valley.
A cool stream clear as glass the shadows on the stream rippled and danced,
The shadows reflected circles of light on the stony bottom, a perfect day,
On the small bank an azure crowfoot waves to you in an evening light breeze,
The purple comfrey goes one better and dips its leaves in the crystal spring.
Hanging over the babbling stream branches droop over weighed by chestnuts,
We pick gooseberries, currants, ripe strawberries as the month slips away,
The cuckoo's departs and as a dark tinge of evening comes, glow worms glow,
We walk to our homes happy and tired over sweet bails of hay, lovely days.
willows in symmetry
ripples in crowfoot
swan goes with the flow
Sitting watching a June summer king establish his reign over hazy hills and dusty dales,
I could just hear a sharpened scythe's ring across green fields cutting away at the corn,
With the hustle and bustle of the annual hay-harvesters bringing home a brand new season,
Happy sunburned workers work the open fields gazing skywards smiling at the noonday sun.
Hay hangs out to dry in the trees of the narrow footpath's and down haw thorny little lanes,
Everything now prepared and Mr.Summer rolls up his sleeves working to help with harvesting,
Each person delighting in deep cool grass in the shaded part an abstract of lovely flowers,
Then paddle in a cool stream washing the chaff dust from feet thus ending a hard days work.
The shadows of leaves dance along the streams a silhouette waltzes upon the silvery water,
Lovely azure crowfoot salutes from a bank to a forget-me-not an old friend from last year,
A purple compfrey dips its leaves to sweeten the water joined by a warm and gentle breeze,
The birds sing from the trees and in the hedgerows while the nightingale tweets a sad tune.
On trees chestnuts begin to grow and acorns young and green sitting in their little cups,
The nuts from the hazel and the apples on trees in orchards promise a ripe autumn harvest,
Gooseberries for pies, currants and strawberries ripen growing in the hedges of old lanes,
June has taken his fair turn making spring shoots grow strong, ready for the later fruits.
The cuckoo departs and glow worms emerge on a summer's night and glows a tiny little glow,
Along heath and over the meadows across landscaped fields dotted with pretty wild flowers,
The June summer heat gives strength to nature making grass lime green next to red poppies,
As the summer harvest quietens the work nearly done people rest and reflect on golden mead's.
Dragonfly lands atop the stick that stands in gently flowing stream.
Bubble trains and dried leaf boats blow
and briefly strand before they slip between the stepping stones
then skip beyond, where quieter waters flow.
Speckled trout, dappled thrice, with sunshine spots,
just seen through mirror shimmered waters
swim between the Crowfoot’s tangled shocks
waving to and fro to follow as the current’s go,
white-adorned with flower pearls
set bright in green and flowing locks.
Somewhere far, wood pigeon’s throaty coo,
three longer, one double follow through,
floats high along soft summer’s breeze,
while flagging briefly, one by one, willow’s silver bellied leaves
turn and turn to signal with the sun that all is as it should be.
All is peace, and all is lazy summer’s eaze.
You came in a beat up old blue Landie
with tales of sleeping giants on your lips.
It was your first night in the cottage
when the Wye was skipping over stones,
dividing the spiked water milfoil
with sacred Pumlumon Fawr sunk into the sunset.
We watched a heron draggle
in and out of the water crowfoot beds,
trusted we’d see muntjac or wild boar tomorrow.
Look, there’s a kingfisher, jewelled above the otter’s holt
and later a dipper, teeter-totter,
near the yellow-cress.
Watching frogs collared by ripples
we wish for a grass snake or polecat.
Skipping past horse-tail and great willowherb
you trace the sand martins with your miniature fingertips
while I collect peppery chives from the bedrock
and turn my once carefree soul to my stomach.
from 'Scratching The Surface' 2019
https://amzn.to/32GSMGl