Best Hawks Poems
Two hawks aloft
crows anxious banding together
neighbor comes over to my croft, likes the warm weather, November
a California Christmas and maybe species will migrate to reflect that,
paints watercolor ornaments, gentle Jewish lady
how far from her past is she now? or is she quite aware just not talking
about it now
I wonder what she thinks the solution to Israel-Palestine might be
ask her sitting around the pool next summer
almost always disappointed people haven't given the single state solution
more thought
we discuss Thanksgiving, the cleaning and cooking before and the
cleaning after, then the insane Christmas potlatch
deciduous trees have a special winter beauty, conifers among them.
“Hawks, Owls and Kestrels”
No man is coming to save you.
This wisdom gathered uplifting
in the wings of Owls, Hawks and Kestrels
under the years that are cloaked
in passing Moons and Suns,
spoken close inside by those that raised them.
Peace is found within the Queen of the Night’s
own storms of flight, treasure held in knowledge
acquired from walking through the mud, and
rising up across an unforgettable ocean, Life,
the past washed backwards on the tides
dissolves, as ego must eventually;
each Isis drops the search for missing parts,
and in the shedding of this suffocating belief,
ruffles feathers to achieve
the spreading of their belief in much better worlds,
the carnal birthing and creating of all that truly matters -
small exists here - it is birthed larger in all other after-worlds,
no need for fear when no man comes calling to save you -
Mary in her robes of blue with halo shining bright,
still stands firmly on the lower realm’s tail, its artificial light,
its pitiful scaled and measured worthless blight,
strength is proven like belief in something
more powerful contained inside you - it is evolving;
"No man is coming to save you. I lead first", each Innana says,
"I gave birth to the original strength of faith,
that which walks on water at its greatest,
that which is inherited from me, I Am that I Am,
such a God arrives eventually
unveiled within the You of You,
its true face undressed before a mirror
holds out its hand and eventually, pulls you through,
it's the second coming for You, to such better worlds."
Hawks, Owls and Kestrels.
Their talons hold on fast -
they never give up on that true I Am that matters most;
they drop the unnecessary, to the underworld below, as worthless dung.
If not here, then in another life
in a much better world,
the Goddess in you is held as One
Candide Diderot. ‘25
An advent of raptors haunts the scant gray woods
or loiters over mall roofs.
We wake to their screams as if this were high sierra,
not Ohio where parents try-out or manage children,
open party stores, hunker through the coming
and going of baby Jesus; de-ice puffer jackets,
tend to flocks.
Gloom is plowed behind snow dunes.
The red-tails roam in loose federations.
Their young, mob-handed and loutish,
the mature work in pairs
scything small birds, ripping through
the thinning, the hold-outs,
the weakened and walking.
And the first born listen with the last of us
while the hawks dance proclaiming their time.
A time of fervid litany and electric barricades,
of bobble hats and mittens,
while a black brier
raises bloody thorns in chary praise.
~~
Wandering along the winding trail I watch as hawks play
ducking and diving, swooping and tumbling and climbing
up again, making a magnificent display backed by their
shrill cries to each other
Riding the thermals
climbing up in unison
wild spirits air bound
They have three fledglings to rear, so back to hunting
they go, sharp eyes spotting the rustle in the undergrowth
wings folded they plunge down like raining bullets
striking hard they carry it back to the nest to feed the chicks
Three fluffy small chicks
baby plumage now changing
they look so scruffy
Now fully feathered they flap and stretch their wings
then first one takes to wing finding it hard to land
it misses its mark a few times, at last alighting
undignified on a branch
New generation
one day they too will have chicks
and so the cycle goes
the clan's totems
have been stolen -
between the awakening white teeth
of the twilight stars
they came
their blood-sucking beaks & talons
hidden under the soft feathers
they came
singing the sonorous songs
like the weaver-birds of the clan -
the songs of the hawks
lured the eagle & her eaglets
into a new dance of the forest -
& the clan's totems
have been stolen
Shall I say I have known the arms already—known all
I don’t need the eternal note of sadness before I believe you...
I’ve walked in the night-wind with its roar
carried dreams on the back on this darkling plain
yet, I never knew those supple eyes
had a maelstrom of unkind desires
hidden in their peeps and tweets
I never knew your embraces
had such cruelest spites,
the most unkind in the divinely design
The lips are no source of life either,
they birthed venoms spit death threats
conceived in the darkest shadow
In our search for pleasure
we never knew it will be a consort of pain
that erupts agonies even in my slumber.
Beneath the giant lady Liberty I stand confused
about the road to the land of dreams……
They say, living fire can beget cold impotent ashes
you’ve become yesterday's hot fire
that begot today's cold ashes…….
Hmmm, wish we never met
A handsome hacienda down San Fernando way,
Whose curled sunburned tiles once gleamed from Apollo’s rays
Was home to gentle farmers who worked their crops each day;
And slept in peace while brown night hawks would flirt and play.
Furrowed flowing lines full of fruits and crops, row on row
By workers in torn jeans, with strong hands, made to grow;
Clearing weeds, harvesting as soon as they were able;
To fill up trucks to haul crops for waiting tables.
Big wheels rolled progress in bringing asphalt and cement.
Bold builders paid out cash to further their intent
To turn land beyond agricultural revisions
And erect malls, high rises and subdivisions.
The nurturing life of dirty hands in days of yore
Left for bountiful crops of Valley Girls galore.
Hankering hordes of hungry hovering hawks haunt hoodoos in Utah.
Underfed California condors cruise canyon cataracts for corpses.
Nesting, starving swallows swiftly search for slime and straw in Saginaw.
Gorging ravenous ravens roam Wrangell’s razor ridges in Alaska.
Eager pelicans patrol and plunge for perch in pallid Pacific waters.
Returning red robins round up ripe raspberries in Rhode Island.
4/1/2019 Writing Challenge 6, March 2019 - 6 lines Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Dear Heart
I warn the hawks
Sparrow says thanks and kicks
His **** in my face
seaguls in the sea
~low expectatations to reach~
easy life to live
eagles above clouds
~small eyes with a big vision~
catch life at first sight
Sleeping at daytime
~those great strangers in the night~
owls are heard sometimes
cuckoo bird in spring
~its delightful sound to ears
missed with august mist
the nightingale sings
every season, small but huge
~he stays forever~
travellinng always
~albatross surfs the blue sky
coming back to home
clever hunter hawks
~up from the hights stalking the preys~
lunch served in the air
ones or the others
big or small ~the birds' song brings
happiness in life
Hawks love winter and the
smell of death,
riding on bonfire winds,
dancing in cancerous snow flurries,
hanging razor icicles on overflows,
hawks love this aroma.
It’s not like napalm in the morning,
or the perfume of glory,
more the sewer whiff
of old mustard gas,
of dead sheep bloated with bad oxygen,
of flesh surrendered to decay.
Not like kerosene and detergent,
fire and fairy liquid,
throat-scouring clean,
nasal passage acrid,
pretty red and
phosphorous green to the eye.
Not like that at all.
Hawks are hunter killers,
black marbles for eyes,
beaks like stitched wounds,
wings like feathered shrouds,
spines like lightning conductors.
Hawks love such terrain,
wastelands of possibility,
tactical genocides,
surgical strikes
pecking orders.
They love winter and the
smell of death
like a lark’s tongue mistress,
a carrion lover betrothed,
a feral nightmare,
a neuropath dream,
or the favourite ghost
of ideology and empire
passing unto dust.
The New World vultures – buzzards and hawks,
Circle-soar as they look for prey, among stalks.
Chomping smaller bird out of their feeders, so keen.
Turkey buzzards, so ruthless and intensely mean.
Spindly pink flamingo, a water-bred bird,
Loving South Florida, though it may seem absurd.
Proud orange in pink feathers dresses carefully.
Caribbean’s delight, they roost near the sea.
Forest and Woodland buzzards and hawks avoid the Sunshine State.
Not tempted to go there for water birds, who cannot relate.
Missing this opportunity in their limited vision.
To partake on flamingo meat, a ready provision.
Written January 8, 2019
Buzzards and Flamingos – Contest Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
The Sea Hawks each one vowed
You know what we love is a loud
Huge, incredible and great crowd
We made all the people very proud.
Go Sea Hawks.
James Thomas Horn
www.poetrysoup.com
Did you shout out in shock that day as she suddenly stuck
her spiked heel into your spine kicking you to the curb
through the open car door before slamming her foot
on the gas and speeding away tires shrilly squealing
leaving you lying there by the roadside
red faced in disgrace
your heart shattered
your brain reeling
struggling to process what it was you were feeling
she having planned in advance which card she would play
to proclaim her innocence
You should have known better
She was just a young kid in a cashmere sweater
so to do the same for which she condemns men is ok
she would go on to say
I knew what she intended to do
though if I could have warned you
I doubt you'd have listened anyway
for who am I but a woman who knows very well
what her kind is capable of
That hawks such as she soar in circles above their prey
pretending to be a dove
Unhindered by birds or stars, hawks fly over the sky.
In his fanciful glades, pursuing a fog growing heavier.
A cloud, he realizes, will fall in an unfathomable spot.
Thunder rumbles afar away, and my heart skips a beat.
The mists are moving toward the stirring leaves.
The mountains are also home to young and ibex.
Nothing isolates us from the everlasting cloud.
Where the water fills parched rural areas and hearts.
Written: July 20, 2021