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Best Heron Poems | Poetry

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BLUE HERON by Gauthier, Line
A GREY HERON by Gauthier, Line
A BLUE HERON by Gauthier, Line
HORON- HERON by Brake, Mel
The Heron by Marty, Lyva
An Elegant Heron by Smith, Gary
Dear Heron, I promise by Deo, Anil
The Heron by Devers, Tony
Heron gerentolgy by Chanan, Taoi
The heron and the minnow by Davies, Jeff

View all new Heron Poems

The Best Heron Poems

Details | Heron Poem | Create an image from this poem.

August rains

The steadily falling cold August rains
Continue to pour upon Cheshires lanes;
Over flattening fields of soddened wheat,
Soaking the grass, splashing the feet.

Stands the Combine in the shed;
The unripened apples hanging rosy red.
Stands the caped heron all alone -
His glinting eye as cold as stone.

And in amongst the many puddles
We step around like our troubles:
So lurch ahead with our retreat
Like drunken fools in the street.

And through this months darkly frowns
The cleansing downpours wash the towns;
Scrubs the spire from ingrained time -
Absolves the guilt from the crime!

Copyright © john fleming | Year Posted 2014

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The Billabong

There’s an old river course with beginning and end,
now the river runs straight without this river bend,
where the water is still and the reeds do grow strong.
New life has taken over in a billabong.

The mat rush is spreading replacing the sedge,
and old fallen gum trees lean in from the edge
creating a haven in the shelter below
for smelt or gudgeon, and the common minnow.

There’s a ring on the water, so danger is nigh,
and life is now over for one caddis fly.
Dragonflies hover on their predator flight, 
so mosquito and midges best keep out of sight.

There is many a song around a billabong 
to break up the still with an assembly throng
from birds of the forest, and wading birds too,
so the billabong offer is there to pursue...

... for blue heron and egret, coot and the teal,
and for the banded rail that the bulrush conceal.
In the billabong shadowed by gum and ti-tree, 
bellbirds are tinkling; wattlebirds disagree.

An oft-diving grebe keeps on searching for food
for the striped downy chicks of its latest brood,
and a hunting kingfisher waits keen for its prey 
from a twig of a gum tree it frequents all day.

There is many a scent around a billabong, 
filling the air with the perfume quite strong,
from black wattle and mint bush, or mistletoe
cascading from gum trees where only they grow.

Painted lady butterfly flit upon flowers,
and blue banded bees keep on working for hours
on lilies and orchids, heath, sweet appleberry
and clusters of flowers on a native cherry.

Ribbon weed, nardoo spread out in the shallow,
with buttercup, duckweed; an introduced mallow,
struggling for survival near the water line,
aiding coral pea that does lightly entwine.

The banks of a billabong are dangerous too
with predator snakes not so often in view,
but they are aware, that the growling grass frog 
will climb from the water onto an old log.

But tigers and copperhead, red-bellied black
often lay in the sun on an overgrown track,
where the wombat or wallaby travel along
to graze on native grasses near the billabong.

So life still carries on around the billabong
where water looks stagnant, a bond is still strong
with a river now rushing it’s way to the sea,
past the billabong living, where the course used to be.

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie | Year Posted 2015

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Blending in so beautifully in the endless everglades The heron waits patiently The warm wind ripples the water He waits regally Standing still like a statue in silent blue waters He waits hungrily Catching his first fish of the day No more waiting - he dines like a king Inspired by Majestic Pose 3~11~15 Contest Florida Nature never judges Submitted to Premiere Contest #13 sponsored by Skat

Copyright © JAN ALLISON | Year Posted 2015

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The heron is the color
of a November morning.
Fog wets the river rocks.
Fossils faintly echo
a grey past.
I shall take one stone 
to look
through its waterworn hole
and perhaps 
the future.

For contest: Two Word Challenge
Sponsored by John Lawless

Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2017

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I the ocean

I the ocean
watch sailing ships
in the salty air 
pass over me

I hold mystery from
the cusp of the moon
an endless view
for all to see

Where laughing gulls
sit on driftwood,
my crashing waves deliver
to shore

Where Great Blue Heron
stalk the beach 
Where the tide pools
gather in the rocks

Sandpipers dodge 
the under toe
as wind collides my waves
with land

Leaving sea shells broken
in scattered pieces
of color in the sand

Lonely in winter time
on barren sand dunes,
my starfish lie
as if fallen from the sky

I am vast enough 
for the moon to see
as it moves me 
through the seasons

Heidi Sands

Written - 1990's

Copyright © Heidi Sands | Year Posted 2017

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Bird of Prey

A cerulean heron
perches in cloisonne
among jade shoots
of a topaz tree
as shadows of platinum fish
undulate in silence
of teal waters.
The tableau of moonstone,
fulgid in azure sky,
hovers in citrine dusk
above pearl clouds 
and indigo coastal bluffs.
Night's onyx falls quickly;
the food chain pauses
until sun's lambent carnelian
emerges above a pewter horizon,
when jeweled birds of prey feed
and the gemstone cycle continues.

Copyright © Dale Gregory Cozart | Year Posted 2018

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A Great Blue Heron

A great Blue Heron

The park behind our house recently redone
And a Great Blue Heron has discovered fish
I saw the heron standing in tattered wings
Like a tattered skirt and tattered grass
I wonder, what scissors have cut them all?

A graceful neck, curved at crest
Ready to catch and strike when hungry
Strolling around the pool to snatch a fish
And sup on the fine supply.
Oh, what riches, thinks the Heron
What a delectable dinner
Among the tall grass, a stop to dine.

Oh, Heron, teach me to stand alone
Without hunchback’s coat on one feet
Show me how to bend my legs
Teach me how to swallow without chewing
Show me how to puff down into a secret
So that only those who know me can find me.
Teach me how to open wings of six feet span
Unexpected and perfect, a crone in the sky.

September 29, 2014
Form: Free Verse
Seventh Place win
Contest : Animal by Regina

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2014

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Great Blue Heron

Great Blue Heron

Oh Great Blue Heron found along our shores,
Your stately presence in the water shows
A setting so sublime in quiet marsh
Where flowing grasses sway in gentle breeze,
And water ripples glisten in the sun…
Untamed and free, you follow nature’s way.

Alone you stand, majestic bird, with feet
In water flow, your lifeline to survive…
So motionless, you seem unreal indeed,
While listening for prey beneath, aware
The frogs and fish lay victim to your strike
From agile neck and snapping hungry beak.

What are you thinking in your vigilance
While tuning in for movement near your feet?
Are you envisioning that special prey
That might be sustenance for you today?
What lurks behind your eyes, intent and still,
While you await your chance to make the kill.

Untamed and free, you follow nature’s way
Where flowing grasses sway in gentle breeze,
And water ripples glisten in the sun…
A setting so sublime in quiet marsh…
Your stately presence in this water shows
You are the Great Blue Heron of our land.

Sandra M. Haight

~11th Place~
Contest: For The Birds
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Judged: 11/22/2015

Copyright © Sandra Haight | Year Posted 2015

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A Photograph Captured

          Deep in the Florida steamy everglades,
A single blue heron strides in cobalt blue water;
     Regal and grand with grey and azure plume feathers,
               The call-  a harsh croak that penetrates the calm.

          On the water's edge amongst wild grasses and ferns,
Perhaps a bulky stick nest is hidden with pale blue eggs;
     The landscape is graceful, quiet and oh so beautiful,
               Rich with hues of green foliage blowing in the breeze.

          The atmosphere is soggy, humid and hot,
And in the deep stillness the blue heron stands majestic;
     An image held in time-  the beauty captured,
               In a photograph that I will treasure ever.

February 14, 2015


Submitted to the contest, New or Old 3
sponsor, Eve Roper

Second Place

Copyright © Dear Heart a.k.a. Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015

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The bluebells

We wandered
into the realm of the bluebells
that dwell in the flood plain
after the spring rains.

we stepped 
through the blue kingdom
along the streams.

We could not hear
the tiny bells, 
ringing with mirth.

But we saw
the great heron lift off
toward the river,
his silent blue winged shadow
gliding over the flowers.


Copyright © Agnes Krampe | Year Posted 2017

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Sacred Lake Titicaca

Sacred Lake Titicaca

High atop the Andes, between Bolivia and Peru,
sits the birthplace of the Incas, sacred Lake Titicaca.
A powerhouse of nature through and through,
it was created by the Inca god of the lake, Viracocha.

A treetop view showcases unique flora and fauna that abound,
from llamas to fresh water snails dozing in the sun;
rainbow trout and other colorful fish are found
as sunlight reflects golden on the lake’s horizon.

Flocks of snowy egrets among the rare totora reed
share this natural habitat with slate-gray Andean coots,
snowy egrets, and white-tufted grebes diving for feed,
while parrots scratch their heads perched on mangrove roots.

Sounds of nature overcome the silence of twilight, 
as huge water frogs on lily pads croak their lullabies.
The black-crowned night heron forages in the dying light,
and gloomy catfish float underground for a tasty prize. 

Incas believed that when their time on earth was done,
the mystical clear blue water was a portal to the stars,
and into the depths of Titicaca, their spirits would return,
to reunite with their gods and venerable ancestors. 


Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2017

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Wavelets On The Pool

Tiny wavelets on the pool today,  a gentle
breeze and raindrops fall with a rhythmic
pitter patter. The ducks and wildfowl pay
no heed, around the sedge bob and feed. 
The Heron standing as if frozen, his
cunning eye a prey has chosen. And the
elegant Swan glides, the Cormorant
beneath the water slides. And the grey 
clouds float on by on this quiet day at the
pool, the reeds sway and insects hide away,
dry wings are required to survive. The Otter
on its back dines on an unlucky Crayfish,
seems well at ease with his surrounds, and
the Water Vole enters a hole to the squeak 
of hungry mouths. In the centre of the pool
a love dance, two Crested Grebes court, 
ducking, bobbing, all magic to the eye. All
this beauty in the pitter patter, life goes on 
it does not matter. Nature gives in many
ways, and as always this heart enslaves.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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Rain on the River

Mist rises from the mountains and meets
rain clouds spilling down the canyon.

Fish ducks fly up river, their
breasts just skimming the water.

The heron stands in the shallows, his
neck arched, looking deep into the riffle.

Fish rise to feed in the cool water; the
river otters play on the grey rocks.

Rain drops like diamonds on the surface
of the water; peaceful moments on the river.

Just returned from a fishing trip on the Klamath River
in northern Ca. Glorious!

Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2009

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Cuckoo Dancers

Cuckoo Dancers

Discarded dusty beer bottle lying dormant on the tracks
Commuters await their carriage
Adorned in business like macks
Trees sway in gentle breeze
Capable of more tension,
Performing their shedding of leaves
Far too many to mention.
Pigeon jumps on pigeon
Mating season for all to see,
Another squirrel scurries across the tracks,
Across leaves and debris.
Solitary heron surveys the scene,
The dance of the platform,
The cuckoo dancers ensue.
Discarded shower gel lies half empty on the tracks,
How this could have got there, no one can tell
One person steps forward to check for his train,
Another steps back with woeful refrain
This pattern continues to emphasise my point,
Stemming from this anxiety a new dance I anoint.
Discarded crisp packet bounces gently across the tracks
Reminding me very much of a man on the moon,
Station clock shows the train arrival is now late,
Man grunts, swings his brolly...he is clearly irate.
Discarded cigarette pack fades gradually on the tracks
Whilst woman fixes make up, man kills time by playing with his phone,
Amazes me how people just can't leave them alone!
Man lights his cigarette in a reluctant fashion,
His car has broken down and he hates public transport with a fervent passion.
A multitude of people are gathered here today,
Business attire the name of the day
A brief case, a brolly, a black bowler hat,
And in some extreme cases
A flasher mack and a comedy 'tache!
Suddenly in the distance
A growing light appears,
A communal silent sigh of relief
As the train begrudgingly nears
Man stubs out his cigarette
As the train makes its approach,
In anticipation of his selection of coach.
Discarded Autumn leaf floating lazily across the tracks,
The platform is now empty
Awaiting its latest cuckoo dance!
S Rose

Copyright © Stuart Rose | Year Posted 2015

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My future Song

(suggestion: look at the pictures first)

O pussy cat, pussy cat!
Do be careful, dear.
Look at the moon so bright,
A slice of magic from above.
See the birds enchanted
Still flying though it’s night,
Careful, my sweet babe,
You’re too much near the edge 
And it’s so easy to fall in the sea.
Remember neither you nor I
Know how to swim.
We are too young, my sweet.
But we’ll grow up
And I’ll become a lady.  
I’ll wear beautiful black gowns
Adorned with sequins all over.
They’ll sparkle in the night.
For that is my favourite time.
I’ll go near the water’s edge.
Maybe go for a swim too.
Look a heron flying high.
It is a sign of good fate.
I’ll follow her
Even through the woods.
Who knows, maybe, just maybe
There will be fairies there.
Hark that is a harp playing
Magic melodies for us all.
Perhaps we’ll have a summer party.
Oh what a great event that will be.
We will be happy you and I
Forever and forever more.

But for the moment we’ll just sit here,
Above the placid sea,
Me, pussy cat and the moon,
And dream our future dreams.

(Idling the time away……)

Copyright © Victor Buhagiar | Year Posted 2017

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Just Whiling Away

All before was green
The pool like glass, serene
Waterboatmen skated by
A Kingfisher flashed the eye

The Dragonfly mates on wing
As distant Warblers sing
The rushes bend and sway
As the Heron stalks his prey

Flowerheads stretch their petals
The Red Admiral lands and settles
Spreads his wings , takes the sun
Soaks the heat as nectars won

All is calm beneath blue skies
Ripple given by the odd Trout rise
Breezes borne of butterfly wings
Sweet the air a fragrance brings

Earth and air the quiet share
Picture drawn of natures care
Colours taunt, flaunt the eye
Sit and watch as time goes by

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

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A brown and an ash horse

I am both a brown and an ash horse

As ash I limp a little and tilt too
In the blue field

As brown I keep words in your jar
Till they are butterfly to disappear
In the multicolored air
I wanted them for my hair
Time did not care

I want to put my white rings
In your embroidered oval box
Awesome nothings that are everything
Come out as rhododendrons
As we draw the crayons
Some of them in the wings of a heron
Gold and orange splashing lyrics
Linger please
A little

As the lamplight chats with the keen leaves
Of the money plant beside my bed
I pant for words of poetry
Fireflies laugh with green glee

Last night some stars fell there
I look for them now near my pillow

The ash laughs
Red and green up and down
In the cardiograph
Billows are all gone

While putting on the gown
Eyes reach at the mirror
The brown wears a crown

November 21, 2017

Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2017

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Weather Report


Forecast anticyclone settled and unmoving
The descending air evaporates and dries
Over Wales and England weather is improving
We predict a full eight eighths of cloudless skies

Or in other words our God had blessed the land
In the field the grass transforms to flaxen chrome
Deep summer green the oaks surround in margin stand
Bearing up a perfect cerulean dome

On the lake the isle floats on its own reflection
Heron measured steps and swan flotilla glide
The stillness of a painted scene retention
So the image may ever in our minds reside

Meteorologists may tell us what future holds
I will bless the unforetold as it unfolds

Copyright © Geoffrey Brewer | Year Posted 2018

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HAIKU 7-17-2018

the great blue heron
chop sticks seeking sushi
shallow sustenance

John G. Lawless

Copyright © John lawless | Year Posted 2018

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To The Beat of Jazz Poetry

From bebop, swing to hip-hops thing
True poets had it best
For there is a rhythm in the soul, 
Which they all just had to express

Some could not control
This powerful thing 
 Was so often put to the test

It began to dawn coming on strong
Within the birth of a thing 
Called the Harlem Renaissance 

That jazz, that poetic-jazz, of intense birth 
Possessing syncopated rhythms 
And chronic expression of surreal tunes 

That perfected blend of jazz-poetry 
Developed into what it is today. 
Thanks to poets like Carl Dunbar and Langston Hughes 

That jazz, that jazz, that wonderful poetic-jazz
Being bred of pride, lyrical form and grace
Transcended cultural barriers 
Readily accepted in the 1950’s by the humane race 

Therefore, the mantra had begun to be 
So freely expressed within poetic lyrics 
To syncopated beats moving on through the 60’s and 70’s
By way of beat poets like Amiri Baraka

Returning strong throughout the 70’s and 80’s 
Thanks to artist like Gil Scott-Heron
Oh, snap he was one of the founding fathers 
Of spoken word poetry known to youngsters 

Borne to free-styling or hitting the beats 
On stage or in the streets
Yes, you’ve guessed it, most def its rap
Re-educating the poet in me, thanks to that thing 
In which made many a heart sing 
As these icons did their thing

Starting with something called modern day jazz-poetry…
Born during the Harlem renaissance and still going strong

Comments: I hope that you have enjoyed this free verse
tribute to some of the greatest modern day
founders of what is known as Jazz-Poetry.

Copyright © Adell Foster | Year Posted 2008

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Animal Love

The heron bowed to the kangaroo
With sparkling eyes he fell deeply in love
Her heart he tried with all his might to woo.

The devious crow offered her bamboo
She chewed it up and gave him a shove
The heron bowed to the kangaroo.

The hippo snorted saying howdy do
While the rain fell in torrents  from above
Her heart he tried with all his might to woo.

A turtledove gave her a heartfelt coo
As he sat in a tree high above the cove
The heron bowed to the kangaroo.

The camel got his hump sprayed by chew
As the kangaroo spat out leaf of clove
Her heart he tried with all his might to woo.

The heron and kangaroo love may rue
Her lovers she did not treat with kid glove
The heron bowed to the kangaroo
Her heart he tried with all his might to woo

written 3/17/2016

Copyright © Shadow Hamilton | Year Posted 2016

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Your Exotic Scent

Your scent,  
Like a wet forest on a misty morning
in a half-yawning glade with the
sun splitting into a thousand beams.
Cutting through the dank and fanning out into infinity

On such a morning
I feel the spikey hairs of your Kiwi skin
prickling my senses; and rising upwards
I see globules of damp moist
creating layer upon layer of soft watery scent

My fingers sink into the ripen fruit.
Tearing gently least it should grow.
Malleable Avocado stones 
wobble through the fluid filled ripen skins.

And gently from its lair
it rises like a warm gentle wind
and remains there 
like a heron fixed-still.

and then
flapping slow  
its gentle wings.

29th November 2013

Copyright © Tony Kirk | Year Posted 2013

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Florida Nature

Maestro woodpecker taps his beat to the symphony of a rising sun, casting rays on Boardman Pond. Great white heron, the prima ballerina, strikes her pose as blue herons pirouette. An ibis takes flight with grace as a tri-colored heron waltzes, displaying multi-hued plumage. Alone on the observation deck, I am blessed to view the ballet, a most welcome, daily, sunrise ritual. Even the nesting wood stork adds his cries to the harmonious melody, echoing through rising mist on pristine wetlands. Peace and poise reign until the predatory osprey swoops across the stage, causing other birds to scatter. Even a basking gator’s eyes rise to observe the flutter of wings. Only the great white heron remains composed.
*Inspired by Robert Butler’s “Majestic Pose” Written February 21, 2015 Boardman Pond, located in Volusia County, Florida, has a deck for watching the many amazing birds that nest and play in the wetlands surrounded by the forest of a state park.

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2015

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The Sand And The Sea

Sun-kissed cheeks and bare-footing
Along the rolling shoreline ebbing.
Wavelets frothing swirls of white
Where sand meets the sea.

Standing, breeze lightly blowing,
I look around, I look far and wide.
I look to the sky, to the sand
And the sea.

Beach combing, treasures I do find.
Ghost crabs fast burrowing
Like ghost apparitions disappearing
Not far from the sea.

An infinite variety of shells I seek,
Collecting in my pocket jingling.
Some spread apart like angel wings
Cast forth from the sea.

As I barefoot along the shoreline
Sandpipers run, always fleeing. 
A great blue heron stands stately,
All feeding from the sea.

Looking back from where I came
My footprints left upon the sand.
I breathe in deeply the salt-rich air
Savoring the blue green sea.

Copyright © Connie Gildersleeve | Year Posted 2013

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What Have I Seen


Sunrise, late winter
skunk smell
turkey flock
playful otter, too.

The white heron
a great blue,
white phase,
in the abandoned beaver pond.

Purple clematis
its long-awned achenes
in globose heads
spidery, fiery, extravagant fruit!

To identify or classify
birds by
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.

And so
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.


What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.

Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,

consequential. We classify
and specify.
The commonplace and everyday
is sanctified.

What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoon, kids come back from school.

Evening, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.


Pray to Allah
and maybe he will spare you
when he sets the world
on fire.

Where or with who
will I be on that day?
And how many people and adventures
will I find in the wind storm and rubble?

I may live, but will it matter
whether or not I help anyone else to live?
This is no Last Judgement.
Those who have learned or who still know how to live

will survive.
Nobody will go to hell, they will just die.
There is no limbo either.
Anyone who didn't find a way to be immortal is just dead.

So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
and alcoholics
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?


The doctor's conscious, organized,
naive attempt to do good,
his legacy, versus the randomness
of the road and the war zone.

There his legacy is his rectitude and natural
rough compassion for the damaged people
he encounters. The difference
between planning a legacy

as if you knew enough to control events
and letting the legacy arise
from events themselves, controlling,
insofar as you are able, only

your own actions and reactions.
The doctor's leadership role such as it was
grew out of not his material possessions
like the car

but his mission, his personal quest
to find the young doctors he had naively trained
and sent into the war zone
where all died.


July-a cold city
not as great or as gritty
as I thought, summer theater left
the shoe shine bereft of customers

eyes cold as a bureaucrat's
except for our soles
and their leather. Sweat-soaked
girls, the beautiful ones left town.

Emotionless as a bus.
Sparrows, no chickadees.
All that's important happens indoors.
Exercise to philosophies.

You get what you see.
The panhandlers ask
just once, won't risk
friendship, justice.

No sale today
in the finite city
where, for the shoe shine,
pedestrians are infinite, times two shoes.


Faith = wait + trust.
But don't anticipate.
Popper prohibits prediction.
Niebuhr expects destruction.

I believe in God
doesn't mean there's a sketch
of a man in my head. It must mean
all will be well in the end.

Satisfied with snow
or summer. And now
with dying old or younger.
Gold or paper clips. Gulps or sips.

In the final resting place
in the city of the dead
are there all night card games
and sometimes open swims?

Each inch, square, or cube of Earth
brim with grasses and sedges, dragonflies and spiders, sparrows and eagles.
The tiger lily and the water lily and the lily of the valley, the calla lily.
When a girl on a bicycle smiles, that is a smile.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2015