Best Forage Poems
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.
Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family,
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.
Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log,
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.
In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black,
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.
Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.
In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.
Categories:
forage, nature,
Form:
Rhyme
The mustard seed
a wild mustard seed took flight
carried aloft in gathering light
over thistle'd sage and poppies
in countless colorful copies
as brash rain showers subside
the retreat of angry clouds abide
scolded by the Northern wind
in search of infinity's final end
once barren hills, now painted gold
snow geese forage with fledgling fold
amid the flutter of swallowtail's wings
from soil sprouted seedling life brings
'til once more mustard's children are blown
from heaven's heights the earth is sown
~~~Dedicated to my Uncle Joe~~~
Categories:
forage, children, earth, flower, nursery
Form:
Couplet
Atacama, Eden of winds,
flower of abandoned rocks and of sapleter,
homestead of flamingoes and geysers,
and above all ,
below an azure sky,
mountains are carrying on their tops
ice of the past.
Old villages tell us their stories,
Toconce, Toconao, Chiu-Chiu,
carry in their canons
life,
water from deep below
let flowers and vegetables grow.
Chiu-Chiu, oasis of the desert,
a green spot,
surrounded by fragments of history
with the colour of orange, red and brown,
embedded in fragile foam of salt and hope,
the history of the Atacama.
Still alive in their churches.
Fragments of an ancient culture
reflecting on the surface of Río Loa.
Like ants – far away,
dispersed in vibrant light
some Vicuñas are looking
for tranquility and forage.
The geysers of El Tatio
send their hot water into the cold and pure air.
How pacient the Atacama is with us,
slaves of modern times
with the desire for paradise
with the dual face of history and hope.
Salar de Atacama, show me your
cracked and wounded face,
your wrinkles of solitude.
Far in the distance the chain of volcanoes,
with towering Lincancabur,
and its shouldered knapsack of crystals and ice,
holding its splendour towards the sky
with the colours of lapis lazuli and light agate.
Toconao, the ruins of Quitor greet you,
dormant since ages
they narrate the history of the Inca,
of their last refuge and their last battle with
Pedro de Valdivia,
who came with his men
to break the bravery of Inca soldiers
with thunder and destruction.
The waterfalls of the hot spings of Puritama
shoot their water into the air with the colours of rainbows,
drawing delicate faces of life
on dry sand and charming stones.
The wind from the mountains carries songs,
flute music, ancient tunes,
stories of salt, gypsum and clay
to the Valle de la Luna,
to let it remain calm and unchanged
with its eyes filled with dust and stones
in the eternal canto of earth.
Atacama, heart of the North,
plant of wind
in the song of history,
you make the day sound
and rock to sleep the nights,
lonely between the arms of the mountains
and the Altiplano.
Categories:
forage, historywater, history, water,
Form:
Free verse
It's summer, and sunlight's syrup pours sweet into afternoon.
We've come to the bungalow's cemetery
to pick over bones of bygone days;
touch time's tender skin, lay flowers on childhood's grave.
The lodge is razed to the ground. We raise
our eyes to sky and take each big breath of blue.
Sharp lemon-light cuts through
the detritus of our days; the oaks once cloaked in dark.
The knotweed nooses and dreamlike domes of fly agaric
have all been cleared; the forest sentinels' leafless limbs
discarded - an abattoir of strangeness, sawdust-strewn.
But all dismemberment is a clearing of sorts.
The echoes of emptiness eavesdrop
on each reminiscence, as we forage for a few last remnants:
blue paisley swirls of 70s tiles,
red bricks from an 80s fireplace.
A yearning rises suddenly, slick sick-sour in my throat...
and yet, it feels cathartic, this purging of the past;
this merging of our then and now,
this blending of bitter and sweet.
23 February 2023
Categories:
forage, nostalgia,
Form:
Free verse
Evergreen pines
Evergreen firs,
Yellow moon size star rays shining through,
Nighttime in the forest.
Red cardinals mutter, mourning doves coo
On branches in sleep
Roosting in their wait for the morrow
To forage.
Rustling mice on decaying leaves,
A roaming cat strangely at peace with the night,
Lets the critters sleep.
So curious is he.
Big footprints sound and scrape loud whispers,
The critters get restless and noisy,
Tell each other there’s a brand new day; a human on the way,
And chattering twitters turn into joyous prattle.
Then the crescent sun of the dawn
With its holy glory on the world awakes
Rise up. little children, it’s Christmas morn.
Rise up, little children, Jesus was born.
And Santa has come to celebrate.
Categories:
forage, christmas, imagery,
Form:
Imagism
Belladonnic poison seeps from your eyes,
like an electric serum of Venusian alchemy,
one that paralyzes my sense of pride.
My mind oscillating,
alternating,
your gaze,
annihilating.
An infusion,
Uranium radiating me into half life,
as I look up small to thee.
How can you be my painkiller,
stretching rack,
healer,
and a killer clown surgeon
with a knack for stealing autonomy?
Your touch burns with the fires of Purgatory,
a solar cycle casting elemental ghouls,
in a rogues gallery of impish valkyrie.
Propheting in New Moon phases
of alignment's interferon mightocon cell mining,
beaming morse code anecdotally-
You dress me in the dark's fairie mood ring-collar- manacle- you cause me to wear in my captivity.
Endangered in the midst of your wilds,
from your strange type of phi
that echoes from the voids-
enchantress- third eye.
I flop like a fresh caught fish
in your net of silk, patterned telepathy.
You are a siren, a villain- bewitching
the stormy seas- to shipwreck adventurous souls
and harbor them on your oasiatic Isle, Circe?
So why do I feel saved, even in your captivity.
Turn me into a fattened pig, then,
do as you will,
but be the truffle of my descent
as I forage for delicacy.
Categories:
forage, art,
Form:
Ballad
**“Those that respect the law and love sausage should watch neither being made.” –
American Humorist/Author Mark Twain (real name Samuel Clemens)
Prestigious lawmaking bodies are comprised of solons*
Some find it hard to refrain from comparing them to cons
Few legislators know the ramifications of bills
And the way they’re rushed to passage can give the public chills
We don’t know what’s in bills or how they strip away our rights
And if we ask our lawmakers, they provide few insights
Piles of amendments are thrust hastily in political machines
Objections are made; no one successfully intervenes
“What’s that?” we ask later when we realize what has been done
(In Kennesaw, Georgia, all citizens MUST purchase guns)
Try to blend the conservative and liberal viewpoints
You’ll find the machine sputters with fat spewing from its joints
It’s like taking hunks of pork and grinding them into links
The process is messy and the outcome usually stinks
No matter! We are supposed to smile and just eat it up
Then we wash it all down with a sip from the lager cup
Pork barrel projects like Alaska’s “Bridge to Nowhere” confound
As on nebulous values of bills lawmakers expound
So beware if for common sense in these bills you forage
And remember old Mark Twain’s analogy to sausage
*Solons are members of any legislative or lawmaking body.
Categories:
forage, funny
Form:
Couplet
Sleep, my love, near placid waters
Under a pale moon that lights the way,
Mosquitos resound their ranks to attack
A humble cottage where you and I stay.
I forage through your hair like the tiger
Whilst you rest your head on saffron pillows,
I press my lips hard against thy milky breasts,
Watching your eyes lift to gaggling swallows.
Your resisting thighs give way to my stern will
You make love as burning hearts confess,
Never shall we come again to this sweet valley
Where the fermented nectar of rapture is pressed.
Have I found you forever, O flower of this land?
Hand in hand together, as we jaunt though the sand.
Categories:
forage, love, lust,
Form:
Sonnet
A storm is brewing, dark clouds advancing in
While tears roll down an embattled face
Betraying the tortured scars within
Each tear falls entwined in rains embrace.
He knows the hardships aren’t over
Soon colour will drown out scorched dust
Time must elapse before forage and clover
Further rain to beat this drought is a must.
Unloading his animals when he ran out of feed
There’s a cost to sell, when no one can buy
When the drought breaks, once more stock he will need
Irony demands growth will push prices up high.
Financial pressure has taken its toll
Each day of sun filled completely with gloom
No income, while a mortgage eats at his soul
Years of recovery on the horizon do loom.
Exploding emotions as rain touches the dirt
A passerby might see something awry
A storm slowly starting, and a man that seems hurt
Kneeling bent on the ground, he's broken in cries.
18th April 2015
A Storm Is Brewing Contest
Sponsor - Kelly Deschler
Categories:
forage, angst, change, cry, farm,
Form:
Rhyme
I'm dreaming dandelion dreams,
afloat on a sea of yellow.
And I feel buoyant as a cloud,
drifting on the fringes of sleep.
Sol rises, his gold chariot
igniting the horizon's edge.
And slowly ascends, vanquishing
the last vestiges of the night.
Dawn's first glimmer of golden light
dissolves ebony silhouettes.
And arouses sleepy shadows,
yawning and stretching into shape.
Blue tints, ink, an absorbent sky,
dappled with white cottony clouds.
And Starlings squabble in the trees;
as foxes forage far below.
Sunrise heralds the birth of day;
with a symphony of color.
And like every true masterpiece,
it's spectacularly unique.
Categories:
forage, beauty, day, imagery, nature,
Form:
Blank verse
She is a kitty that wanders the street.
The other cat, looking exactly like her,
now happy, has tuna and chicken to eat.
Only one kitty has reason to purr.
The other cat - looking exactly like her -
she has to forage and sleep in the rain.
Only one kitty has reason to purr.
Unlike the house cat, the street cat feels pain.
She has to forage and sleep in the rain.
To be with a family is her desire.
Unlike the house cat, the street cat feels pain.
She longs to be cuddled, curled up by a fire.
To be with a family is her desire.
The street cat looks into a window one day.
She longs to be cuddled, curled up by a fire.
From inside, the house cat looks out at the stray.
The street cat looks into a window one day.
The window is open, so what might ensue?
From inside, the house cat looks out at the stray.
Two cats so identical. Nobody knew!
The window is open. So what might ensue?
The street cat jumps up as the house cat jumps down!
Two cats so identical. Nobody knew!
The house cat feels free, and she runs toward the town.
The street cat jumps up as the house cat jumps down.
A child appears, and the street cat he sees.
The house cat feels free, and she runs toward the town.
The street cat, once nervous, will soon feel at ease.
A child appears, and the street cat he sees.
He says to that kitty, “You’re so dirty. Why?”
The street cat, once nervous, will soon feel at ease.
The boy picks her up; she feels suddenly shy.
He says to that kitty, “You’re so dirty. Why?”
The street cat is purring. She’d never done that!!
The boy picks her up; she feels suddenly shy.
The boy says, “Time for a bath, Queenie Cat!”
The street cat is purring. She’d never done that -
That cat once forlorn that had been on her own!
The boy says, “Time for a bath, Queenie Cat.”
The REAL Queenie cat is now lost lost and alone!
That cat once forlorn that had been on her own,
now happy, has tuna and chicken to eat.
The REAL Queenie Cat is now lost and alone.
She is a kitty that wanders the street!
Written Oct. 3, 2016 for Eve Roper's Pantoum Poem Contest
Categories:
forage, cat,
Form:
Pantoum
Native American people had a set rule of living
The men hunted and protected
The women, cook, child mind and made clothing
To maintain both was an accomplishment.
The man when it's time to forage for food
Got ready their spears, arrows, bows and knives
These were the tools of their trade
Bringing home the buffalo, turkey, deer, salmon to survive
Nothing was wasted of an animal
They created weapons with the bones
Stomach acted as a water carriers
Skin or fur would be used for shelter and clothes
They were farmers also, with crops to plant
In doing this it gives them a place to live
A permanent residence along with other settlers
Their roaming days are over, peace is all they want
These proud people who were persecuted by most
Have survived and learned to live in peace
Are they treated fairly, or are classed as lower citizens
Their land taken, no compensation given, hopes crushed.
The before and after of a Native American life
From people being in awe of the tribes
To looking down on them regarding them as worthless
To be rounded up like cattle and put in settlements
But they will survive,they have survived.
Penned August 8th 2015
Categories:
forage, history, , cute,
Form:
Verse
'
where, in the shadow of a winter moon
beyond eternal skylines collecting stars,
does affection unfold in the sheets
of a nighttime whispering on the breeze
desperate wishes cast as stones on a pond,
smooth surfaces now laced with ripples,
spherical patterns meandering towards
a slumbering shoreline, drifting inward
a silhouette of love, an angelic form peers,
soft mahogany eyes reflecting yesterdays worries,
offering visions of a tomorrow woven between
today's dreams and desires, waits silently
thoughts echo through the dense forest,
evergreens listen as footsteps forage for a path,
a lone figure in the dark, beneath a braided canopy,
a mosaic of memories luring instincts and needs
winding a way through bramble and thistle,
scars fend off thorns, flesh withers in fear lost
within the mist of past encounters, pained
reminders though welcomed just the same
when in a clearing he pauses amidst swaying reeds,
perusing a distant horizon, witnessing the final ripple
slowly making it's way to the place she stood, now
vacant as a faint sliver of morning appears
falling to his knees
he pleads for the return of the winter moon,
the return of its shadow,
the return of...
Categories:
forage, good night,
Form:
Free verse
A bridge from colloquial to courtly
fare
A span where idealism and fantasy
pair
A railway to the existential realm;
celestial lair
A conduit through which rational
discourse can flare
Deep medium to: forage, inculcate,
and inform
Broad brush to paint rare beauty;
sculpt surrealistic form
Incisive scalpel to surgically alter
the societal norm
Delicate utensil to educate on
civility and decorum
A literary organ; a prosaic construct
A mechanism our syntax to
deconstruct
An analytical tool; an observational
viaduct
Introspective milieu to reduct;
extrovertive sphere to reconstruct
A semantical edifice that aspiring
wit, lofty orations implore
An experimental structure
gramatical anomalies to explore
A thematic repository in which
concrete ideas, abstract notions to
pour
A vernacular cathedral butressed by
an idiomatic core
Categories:
forage, on writing and words
Form:
Rhyme
Pink Roses of Sharon
hugging the streetlamp
The blue sky with
sand texturred clouds
is like a reflection
of water and the beach
An oasis of green grass...
with pink, orange, red and yellow
Mums floating like waterlilies
in the green water...
Birds stop and fly
land and fly
staying close to earth
to forage for food
Green leaves that turned
yellow - then turned gold
Like a door
The Gates of Heaven
await the winter
when all leaves
and blossoms die
When nature shows
our true colors...
If we blossom eternally
or sear in hell
All shining like a mirror
to the almighty...
Categories:
forage, naturegreen,
Form:
Prose Poetry