Best Nighthawks Poems
The beloved Queen of Hearts was a merry queen, who'd ever loved to bake;
Like confetti midnight stars, sparkling; or the yellow, noon sun, wide awake.
She baked myriad varieties of cookies, and delicious pies of different kinds;
And also scrumptious cakes, so divine. Like pure gold, tinted rainbows find.
The king had a cheerful disposition, too, but betimes could be quite stern;
Like the scarlet blossoms, which fail to thrive, before floriculture is learned.
Faithful friends became part of the many faceted court, like tinted bubbles,
Fancy dressed, and as vital to royal felicity, as a jade rose, with no troubles.
Forthright family were familiar at court, in the fleet, peregrine falcon days,
Fast-forwarding to fabled, fruity tomorrows, and to fitful, spiced, solar rays.
They lived in the house of green ivied walls, in the royal, emerald summer;
When golden sun visited almost every room, eager to touch a world of color.
Silver maples touched sapphire skies, on their street of red, sweet Williams,
Edged by creamy sand, where the surf came, onto teal, foaming, pavilions.
Nighthawks and wild wood anemones, were neighbors, bestowed by nature;
In nameless, never-ending, silvery hours. Red butterflies, loved floral flavors.
Heart tomatoes adored the orange sun, when wood ear mushrooms listened;
And Canterbury Bells plants were ringing, by roses whereon dews glistened.
Toad lilies stared in bug-eyed fascination, at the searing season of surprises;
And Billy Button blooms were getting dressed, as skies split in colored slices.
'The Queen of Hearts, she made some tarts, all on a summer's day;' a Friday.
But alas, 'The Knave of Hearts, he stole the tarts, And took them clean away.'
When purple even arrived, 'The King of Hearts called for the tarts,' in a roar.
The lad relished sweets, but the king was mad, 'And beat the Knave full sore;'
'The Knave of Hearts brought back the tarts, And vowed he'd steal no more.'
The kindly queen quietly quipped, 'After all, the boy has never stolen before!'
The King of Hearts was returned to good humor, and that lad kept his word;
And was back in favor, like pink spring tulips, or a song of blue mockingbird.
his distant still palette
of ambient light
painted the silence
of hawks in the night
catching a sadness
that hides in plain sight
in an air of detachment
that hints at their plight.
These woods once rich with leaves,
brushed kiss from the wind then stolen by thieves
now latent boughs by snow.
Its touch glistening glow
melt tears, I think I know to watch allurement
flow its caress weaves.
Sun makes its way across
the sky sinks out of reach and wins the toss.
A peace in the wood walls,
stunning, once the night falls,
nocturnal creature calls.
Different kinds of loveliness emboss.
Dazzling glow, eyes of light,
a sea of darkness, stars winking good night
while nature falls asleep,
and nighthawks rise to peep.
Cold threaded fingers keep
on snowy evening walk, no one in sight.
Snowflakes resume to flow,
these woods within our grasp such wealth of snow.
The only sound's, the graze
of chilled wind wounds and raise
the fall of flakes that lays.
On a snowy evening walk tempting so.
12/25/2017
I wasn't completely sure who I just was, so
I counted off three-chimes of the bell in the
clock tower.... I'm out late.... Nighthawks swoop
and Crickets hush their tensile ratchet, until I
pass by.
He pushed by me, cutting me off, as I pointed
towards the Hotel on the hill.... he could stay
there, but I would need to remain alert, focused
on matters close by..... like, why is pink my
favorite color? .... and, why are Dutch People
in art, always painted blue?
Doesn't seem fair... with no expectations, rewards,
or pressure, would humans naturally be of a giving
nature? ...... or selfish?
Ah, faith! Golly gosh, life in the city!
Hustle and bustle n' a big metro wander
Exhaustion, life, anger and pretty gritty
Misty, grimy lights loudly grab a beggar
The sidewalk shops like a cold surround
Hot action, big ole' vanilla sidewalks
Graffiti walls, in dab color bound
Hot streets quietly grab nighthawks
Where is the sunny cloud vapors?
In downtown burg retreats
Out above on dark street skyscrapers
Crestin' over in mean dark streets
U' gotta love corner words
Chatter, rattle, natter, prattle
People jabber like yakkety-yak birds
Cigarettes gab under dark doorway shadow
Gazing in windows calmly at low down
In dusty, dry walk-in cafes
Grimy flowers grab at dead grass mown
Fish eyeing brutal building facades, near dead eye alleyways
Oh, noise!
Man like a machine
Never like a jackhammer that annoys
The faceless toiler that is mean and lean
Horn noise, action, in a 'crown vic'
Cabbies scowering for revenues
While crashing, dashing in street quick
O' life in bright light big city blues
Within the blah blah blah, heart of the city
You can endure all that jazz you wish it to be
You could see the lone figure in the pale, fading light,
Bedding down the doggies for a restful night.
He had been in the saddle since early morn',
Now feeling the aches of the drive that made him feel "worn".
The three other horses he had taken from the remuda that day,
Were now being tied and fed, as they whinnied and neighed.
"Woh, cattle...Woh, cattle", he sang softly to the steers,
Another six weeks on the trail and he would be filling his night with beers.
When the herd was quiet, the first 'Nighthawks' came,
He sighed with relief, as he tugged on the reins.
In just a few minutes he was putting his saddle and bedroll aright,
the grub made...biscuits, beans, and salt pork for tonight.
Then he unbuckled his gunbelt and laid down in his place,
Knowing full well, he'd be up before dawn to relieve the man on the trace.
It was hard work but he loved it, or so he said,
More of the Chisolm waited for them up ahead.
Yet it was the cows, the horses, the danger, and freedom he dared,
And those few other comrades whose journey he shared.
Yes, it was this "Cowboy Life" full of its highs and lows,
It was all that he needed, and was the life he chose.
What twist of fate has befallen us?
When nighthawks no longer soar by day --
Ritualistic measures of time usurps moonlight
Where then shall I see upon my love’s face ~
A smile that would light the ancient Nile
Oh to feel the warmth of his sweet embrace
Dusk be not in such foul temperament..
Let pace of dawn be slow to arise
As it steals the warmth of our embrace
Oh twilight stars of night twinkle, now
As, the nighthawk, pleasures ebony soul
For that simple delight, I’d walk the naked miles…
Saddened is this heart when we must part
Let the setting of the sun come soon
Then we shall soar once more ‘neath lover’s moon
The watchman comes nigh, careful now
we must depart this gentleness – Remember,
For that simple pleasure, I’d walk the naked miles…
With children in tow
on winter’s heels set off to
follow fine artists
Lovingly lost in copper,
canvas, bright color
framboise, tanager, yarrow
Picasso, Beckmann, Klimt
Woman with a Hat, Nighthawks
haunting, surreal …
Writing, painting, tones
sculpting, gazing, trudging on
weary, fulfilled, homeward bound …
His campfire coffee is steaming hot,
there’s stew cooking in the pot,
And his biscuits and cobbler we love a lot,
He’s our chuck wagon cookie.
Master of his four wheeled world,
he keeps the Cowboys fed.
He’s the last to sleep at night,
working while others are in bed.
He’s familiar with the sounds
of a settled herd at night.
He knows the shape of each cowhand
and his horse under half moonlight.
The crackle of his fire plays a sweet serenade,
as the nighthawks wander in;
He wakes up the Cowboys
as another day on the trail begins.
Sometimes the Cowboys wonder
if he ever goes to sleep,
But he has his duties
and some promises to keep.
He signed on to cook and feed,
but he’s every Cowboy’s friend;
So we sometimes take it for granted
that he’ll be there till the end.
So, hats off to the man who cooks
and is there when we’re tired or blue;
And thanks to him for all he does,
for being tried and true.
Yes, he keeps the coffee steaming hot
and beans and bread in the pot.
His wagon is our favorite spot.
He’s our chuck wagon cookie.
*Dedicated with love and laughter to
Jay Snider and the Rafter S chuck wagon crew.
Read with image at my blog: purelandsutras.wordpress.com
Night’s shadow lours upon the world
And the streets are silent like the
Netherworld—without a single
Morning soul to be seen or heard.
But amidst the dimness is a lone
Lit nest serving toffee flavored coffee,
And as the jukebox sings “Do I Worry” ,
Wistful nighthawks gather to ponder
From midnight to twilight, minding
Only their lonely aloof thoughts,
And to be adrift in surreal reverie,
During this moonlit lull when the
Sun shines bright but in dreamworld.
Note: Do I Worry is an Ink Spots song.
Poem released into Public Domain
Embryos sing saddle-sore sonatas, beneath
the despot eaves of chromium skies, reflecting
black light down upon the harbours where
ambition claws the air and slowly dies; and
nighthawks scream a siren song of sadness, for
all the lovers lost and ripped apart, their
entrails steaming, scattered and decaying, cryogenic
memories still the beating heart.
Somewhere in a paean of pain and passion, eyes
upturned in sockets sear the night, telescope
and zoom into the heavens, ruptured
vessels crack the milky white; for
all the golden graces of the goddess, stealing
and absorbing love and soul, hoarding
with her sadist smiles of sorrow, reaps
the diamond, reimburses coal.
On the moon my blood drips sour and savage, fills
the craters and the fossil seas, scars
the surface dust like crazy paving, packs
the vacuum deserts with disease; on
the moon my blood is frozen solid, crystallising,
still as tombstone script, cold,
implacably cast as death's dominion, to
love no more, enamelled bathtub crypt.
I couldn't help you,
crying in your shadows,
I couldn't reach you,
walled in distant canyons,
nighthawks soar in grey moonlight,
eyeless blind to inner sight,
I couldn't hear you,
shouts lost in wind,
I couldn't see you,
swallowed by faceless crowds,
can love be there for hearts alone,
soft music drown that desperate moan?
I will wait here,
silent on our hill,
I will hope here,
face turned up and to the west,
if courage pays the mortal's toll,
will fates reward the patient soul?
Hopper and his hand
Showing us what
Coffee consumption
looks like, at 3am...
With a war waging on…
His stroke mastered the
Indemnity
Of the slurp,
The underlying principle
Of 24/7
Strangers screaming in silence
And soldiers savaged only hours
ahead
The lights of Gotham out,
The painting’s hollow illumination
As if it was all happening
between patron and comrade
server and those serving
The rest of the world asleep,
probably never wanting to rise
again
And those awake, just wanting a refill.
Betwixt an echo the night tide dawns
As the nighthawks crow hushed serenades
From behind many a veiled barricades
Swayed I am as wicked symphonies spawn
Unannounced temptation had visited
When a Syrian beauty caught my eye
From the base of my breath faltered a sigh
Upon my senses addiction riveted
Vibrant she gleamed an aria of colour
Crafty she bewildered a sea of men
Blinded by lust distraught they descended
To the cadence of perplexity they wuthered
Between her thighs they tasted of yen
As to prominence she transcended
O' Strawberry Moon
Magnanimous beatitude and abundance boon
A beautiful glint off still waters
A shining hope for sons and daughters
Close and low you hang in a summer sky
With nightjars, fireflies, and nighthawks mystically flying by
Your warm, golden, reddish calmness looms
Man expresses gratitude for another sweet strawberry moon