Best Juncos Poems
The spring breeze plays music
With wind chimes nearby
Sweet songs in warm sunshine
With a clear bright blue sky
A patchwork of snow
Is left to melt on the ground
Where slate colored juncos
Are hopping all around
Green buds on the lilac
Are just starting to show
Spring is finally here
The changes smoothly flow
With music to my ears
Fresh breeze on my face
It is time to watch and listen
Enjoy this long awaited place
Heidi Sands
4/15/17
robin watching
throng of juncos
backyard dances
In the holy spot
with the sitting rock,
an oak. Out back
shagbark hickory
and maple.
Ants climb the rock.
August, birds
celebrate flowering
weeds, the seeds
of autumn to come.
I am here to name it
and know it and help it
to grow. These mountains
are my grave. A good grave
to go to.
The crows have been
in conference, again.
A jay, blue, pokes
a hole through reality.
I find sumacs fruiting
and the male sex organs
of the Queen Anne’s lace.
Juncos glean the lawn,
an occasional nuthatch
in the butternut.
I hear a pileated
woodpecker jackhammering
and my neighbor’s skill saw
chirring. Ants crawl
on connecting interlacing instructions.
Imperfect world, purposeless person.
I retired to pursue perfection
learn jazz tunes, woody and herbaceous plants,
read every inch of English literature,
Scientific American and Foreign Affairs,
have an affair with an American.
Oh, and by the way, before you ask, I'm from Mars.
Orbiting your planet, admiring the girls.
Paraphrasing prayers by George Herbert to share
with Jesus believers on talk radio shows
where we try to bring your lives into expressible states
before it’s too late and climate change inundates you.
Reversed thunder, savior-side-piercing spear,
one day you’re feeling fine, the next not.
We’re pretty matter of fact, clear about
the fact of death. Once you’re gone most of us forget
your face and previous accomplishments. The place
you lived is repopulated with the next generation (of aliens)
and that ought to be a comfort, a sort of restful
certainty all is well, nothing special need be done.
Bluebirds are back, crows are mating on the sky
and chasing hawks away from their nests. Juncos
and sparrows glean together. I hear pileated woodpeckers
jackhammering and barred owls hooting soothingly.
Herons smoothing feathers and spearing fish.
Everything is as one would wish.
Numberless are the world's wonders
but none more wonderful than aliens.
Cold breeze cutting to the bone
as pitter patter of sleet hit leaves.
Squirrels running around gathering acorns
blue jays, sparrows, juncos
flying tree to tree.
Fountain spraying free
in the lake
as I walk at its side.
Leaves in winter array
lay on the ground
crunching under my stride.
Flakes of white
begin to fly from above
as I round the bend.
Rocky outcropping covered with ice
as go through the valley
my mind floats free
with joy and peace.
Cold wind swaying mighty trees
side to side
in their naked array.
A frosty whitewash, whirling winter snow
smoothly shrouds a secret silent slumber.
Skies all awake, flying mosaics of row
music chirps cavort the sunset amber.
Gelid air turfs, chilled in birds of wonder
gliding through miles, unknown lands asunder.
Crackling wings flutter, snuggling in romance.
Distant forage calls, "Move till Sun is back".
Searching lakes and meadows, looks not askance.
Soaring high they perch, steer and gear in stack.
Feet tucked in wings, they roost in adhoc shack.
Coats, scarves, gloves, plummets an echelon track.
Cardinals and Bluejays, plump with fork tails.
Martins, Owls, Robins, in chorus engage.
Lens of cameras spy, beaks, wings and scales.
Moulting leafless trees, flamboys in plumage.
Willow, alder, birch, dark eyed Juncos stage.
Seeds and nuts in tree crevices, cold assuage.
Hope surviving Life....as Twitter migrates
Mystical Winter........ Marathon Flyways.
Dated 17th December 2018
submitted to Gregory R Barden's Strength thru Adversity contest.
HOW THE POEM HELPED ME GROW
As a beginner to the world of poetry, I always thought that sonnets were something very very difficult only to written by people as talented as Shakespeare. This was my first attempt to write a sonnet. For one whole week, I read all details about migratory birds, and almost gained an encyclopedia of knowledge. First time i realized how difficult it was to limit your thoughts to syllables and lines, and I struggled for another week to find and use correct words, counting syllables. The poem didn't get placed, but it gave me lot of confidence to attempt writing other forms of poems.
This poem was originally submitted to Winter Wonderland Poetry Contest
Urban Sonnet form ABABBB, CDCDDD, EFEFFF, GG
Poetrysoup Syllable counter- 10 syllable each line.
Sponsor Emile Pinet
Bird watchers say
there are birds that return in spring to play
build a nest, raise their young
but as seasons change there are always some
who stay the winter, forage for seeds
familiar ones that cling as autumn bleeds.
The robins well know
the proper time to come and go
and as the chill begins to fall
black-capped chickadees and wrens tweet their call
with caped juncos and titmouses slipping thru the trees
riding in on a wintry chilled and icy breeze.
Others stay like the screeching blue jay
clinging to a set of traditional ways
there is a click of cardinals bright orange and cherry red
slip in and out the old decaying garden bed,
woodpeckers like the big red-bellied and downy
glide sideways up trunks to find their bounty.
As winter ice and snow begin to fade
familiar feathers return to the glade
robins, sparrows, orioles and waxwings flit in and out the yews
nesting in houses left from buntings of red and indigo blue
you can catch a glimpse of the bevies in their gathering
mocking catbirds, wrens, doves and finches blabbering.
Birds of spring return in March on varied dates
some earlier far sooner than late
born for flight, scanning the earth escapes
reaching back in time unable to hesitate,
called by an ingrained memory
back to the place of their fledgling treasury.
Surely there are more feathered flybys
but climate change and migratory spies
and sadly on occasion, some clusters face
extinction by the human race
finding fewer familiar species in the states
the greed and corruption of primates.
They're just birds some will say
but if Rachel Carlson's Silent Spring arrives
how many will we find, survive?
For Spring BIrds contest
sponsored by Constance La France
2/19/21
I like my winters "neat" ...
But they all come "on the rocks" here
So a day will come when palms will dominate my view
Instead of evergreen trees and pine cones and juniper bushes
(Though I do love my Chickadees, Cardinals and Juncos)
I grew up here and skiing was my life ... once
As soon as I walked, I skied ...
Freestyle, moguls, powder, and air
The bigger the jump, the better, always pushing limits
But I have lived in the tropics as well
My heart yearned for it long before I went
And I realized home-away with my first breath of Caribbean air
The white sand beaches of St. Croix
The swaying palms and smell of sugar cane on the wind
Those incredible waters and reefs, teeming with colorful life
I adored it there, but couldn't stay ...
I lived a few months in Florida, and then back home to Boston
I have made no accords on unknowns like "reincarnation"
I believe the "big" spiritual questions to be just that - unknown
Faith itself INSISTS on a lack of knowledge or explanation
But I have dreamed of the South Pacific since my earliest memories
Long before I'd read or heard about it
Long before I'd seen a movie or television show of it
And though I've yet to go there
I have very distinct memories of it
Specific memories that include faces and sounds and flavors
Even the special way the sun shines on the underside of the clouds
The way the volcanic mounts bite up from the aqua seas
Nipping their dark, earthy teeth into azure heavens
And the way the sweet breath of the palms and fruits
Mixes with the dusty trade winds from Australia
To dance on the palate with each inhalation
Seems we humans always want what we don't have
And I'm sure there are many there who long for America
But a part of me is there, a part I haven't met
And I must at least try to make it ...
Or he will always be ... a stranger.
The gathered birds are making such a cacophonous sound.
It is their way of telling me they now are onward bound.
They are rounding up the young, reminding every single bird.
They are so loud I am quite sure that every bird has heard.
The blackbirds, starlings, swallows, are headed on their way.
It’s time to fill the feeders now for the little ones that stay.
The chickadees and juncos, the towhees and that bunch,
Will be pecking at my window and begging for their lunch.
For just a few small handouts, they will keep me entertained
And chase away my doldrums, when all I see is rain.
With unspoken agreement, they’ll provide the fun and song.
My part their food and water, the whole cold winter long.
received hm in this one
Just outside my window,
As I sip my morning tea,
The crossroads of the local bird world,
Rain or shine, is there to see.
It dangles from a shepherd’s crook,
A dear friend gifted me.
Squirrels climb up to have a look,
Then scamper off, seeds spraying loosely.
Cardinals, jays, chickadees and sparrows,
Flock there for my view.
So do flickers, grackles, finches and juncos,
Mourning doves and yes two ducks waddling by too!
It’s the only one in my neighborhood,
Though I wish others would.
It took so long to attract them,
With just the seeds that could.
They found the pricey pistachio feed quite grand,
Settling into a pampered rut,
And totally ignored the bargain brand,
What choosy beggars – we’ve settled on one with peanuts.
I wonder at the variety,
Even pigeons and gulls find this suburban yard,
And marvel at the lack of propriety,
From birds that get only seed, no lard.
They squabble with their own kind,
Yet like humans are patient with winged cousins.
It makes no sense to my mind,
But I’m glad for their cheery company by the dozens.
M. Renee Taylor
3-19-17
Around bushes, trees and pathways, race two lively squirrels
Scurrying speedily up and down playing games of tag together
Spreading its shaggy tail one would sit up tall by taking a halt
Prying off caps, happily chomps on healthy delicious acorns
With flashy chirps a lively Scrub-Jay pair takes off from an oak branch
Swoops down taking sharp turns performing an animated vocal dance
Flying from branch to branch spreading gorgeous blue and gray wingspan
Supports propagation by harvesting and hiding seeds and acorns
Migrated dark eyed Juncos enhance the beauty with their ground-hops
Taking leaps, flit low in underbrush to relish tasty leaves and grass
Lunging forward and hopping backward brown towhees tap dance
Pounce on foliage and berries by scratching their feet to feed on
Tosses of nutty, delightful acorns attract large turkey flocks
Roaming around scraping ground for food under leaf litter and lawns
Clucking and pecking they search and stroll the whole backyard
I watch the visitors with grateful heart filled with nature’s mystical calm
Winds rush thru the whispering pines,
To play with mantle of green;
And gossamer thread of a spider's web,
Hangs in sunlight's sheen.
Laurel leaves that crown the head,
Frame face with drops of dew;
And misty eyes with whispered sighs,
Shield lids that hide the blue.
Where maidens walk on winding path,
And elfin spirits repine;
There daisies lay and bluebirds play,
Beneath the tangled vine.
When shepherd boy pipes tunes of joy,
In meadows dipped in gold;
Music plays to sing a phrase,
To lambs that rest in the fold.
To tread upon the mountain peak,
At sunlight's fleeting noon;
And trace the sight of an eagle's flight,
As she soars o'er silver dune.
When blossoms play and sunbeams stay,
With daylight’s soft caress;
While juncos feed on honey mead,
In summer’s vibrant dress.
Where pyramids of chestnut blooms,
Fly high in yonder skies;
And clematis pine on leafy vine,
To tempt the bird that flies.
When daylight dies and twilight comes,
And nature finds her rest;
While flowers sleep and moonbeams keep,
Midnight’s timeless quest.
If I am not here to see
Let him in, my little chickadee
If the bell rings twice it’s a pair
Don’t shut them out, its’ not fair
If I don’t hear this little bird
He’ll fly away, not leaving a word,
From whence he came, it’s unclear
I could not see and could not hear.
If by evening he does not appear
First thing in the morning he’ll be here
Spread of food just waiting for him
Others are welcomed, no matter when.
Two doves gobbling up the food
Maybe sweethearts, in a good mood.
Finches and sparrows waiting on deck
Juncos on the ground, sunflower to peck.
Darting woodpeckers head for the suet
Nuthatches serenade in a splendid duet,
Crows line up on the upper tree branches
Anticipating what they might have for chances.
No special day or a reunion gathering here
It’s always open throughout the year,
No brunch menu or table for two
Just good manners and no tip due.
They will come in early just before their flight
Gobble up some grub and dash out of sight.
On occasion they will sing me a tune
Hummingbirds should arrive any day soon.
Some will stay awhile and make some chatter
Others will get in line and fill up their platter,
A hearty feast, according to my perceptions
There’ll always be room, without any exceptions.
Last year's daffodils
greeted spring with laughter,
waving their bright heads
at dark-eyed juncos
who paused at the fountain
on their journey north.
This year, we waited, watched
their appearance in jubilation.
Yet today, dawn rain poured,
gave weight to their blossoms,
bowed them to earth in surrender.
Sleet mingled with the rain
and ushered in heavy snow.
As daylight faded, the daffodils,
mounded under white,
became merely a part of the dark,
as though their long winter sleep
didn't count.
The chittering birds draw his attention.
He sits at the doorway watching them eat
The only thing separating them is a screen
or I am sure those birds would be dead at his feet.
He watches the sky, he watches the food dish,
He's fascinated by all that he sees
and those chittering birds, they have no fear.
They come and they go, just as they please.
He likes the fresh air, he likes the breeze
but mostly he just enjoys the view,
Hummingbirds, juncos, sometimes dragonflies,
every few minutes he spies something new.
He imagines himself to be a great hunter
but of course he isn't , he's just a housecat.
So he's an observer and the birds are all safe
and there's really nothing at all wrong with that.
28/07/2020