Best Nightjars Poems
dust-wearing-wind carries a feeble cry in its palm,
settles it near ears that can no longer hear.
Cries arise from hollows of your hungry face,
a pulpit of high cheeks bones— in sharp relief
to sunken skin-scape sallow and paper thin—
a preacher on the harrows of hunger.
Vulture keeps a still, silent vigil,
a patient witness to your starvation,
comrade and adversary
in a fight for your last breath and beat.
Your loyal companion, a symbol of death
where drones rain with flames on tents of refugees
and sky splitting missiles make shrapnel of the sun,
where dragon fire artillery shoots the moon
and shreds stars till they fate-fall
like the last nightjars from nocturne skies.
Dear child of war,
alone with nothing in your belly but a stone,
rib bones a famine cage,
thoracic fingers squeeze your soul.
Your heart a hostage,
flutters like a lost moth against your sternum.
I long to hold you and feed you
honey made from a million wild flowers
uncrushed beneath metal plates of tank treads.
I yearn to bathe you of collapsed concrete dust
cleanse you of your mother’s blood, her
rattle-boned, battle-owned, maternal body wrapped
over yours as they fed her Kalashnikov lead.
My faraway ache for your plight pales
against your tiny body’s black-rose-throes,
a pawn to thorns of soldiers
grown on rocket-torn-boot-worn streets.
War-zone fig trees bear no fruit,
hibiscus buds die as hornets knit nests into shrubs,
tomorrow but a diseased wheat field laid to waste.
Dear child of war,
deliverance will come when pall-bearer winds
carry your cries elsewhere…
I have a passion to hold a lamp aloft,
to capture one acre of starshine
before the sun writes a new dawn.
Rusting Chevys bloom in the half-light.
Nightjars depart on shadow wings.
Shimmering’s walk toward my window
on silver slippers.
A native mildness calls me out
to the green hollows
where poppies cling to secrets.
I’ve a yen to lean like a greening barn
that’s honeycombed with sky.
The dew bathes, hills run with deer.
The woods hold aloft their nocturnal dreams
while the sky turns those to mist
I am invited to be kin,
to the verdigris of millstones,
to the mist and blood
of feuding legends,
to the weather-worn
secluded places
where dirt roads end
and life proclaims
its right to be free.
sun-kissed briars droop
summer blisters scar grey twigs
cypress leaves ooze sweat
nightjars scoop dry ice
v ripples on rain starved ponds
homing pigeon’s drought
Date Created : 26/6/2020 Twenty sixth June 2020
Tania Kitchin’s Summer Haiku Poetry Contest
Above the Blue Ridge hills
flights of stealth owl
glide in from the moon.
Strange how a jungle is never quiet
but these Tennessee woods
sleepwalk along moccasin paths
watched over by the velvet foliage
of dreaming tree.
Owls are the true eagles here,
they hunt the thriving flesh
and distain all that no longer trembles.
They do not scavenge
but scatter prey before them
hunting the huntable on sonic waves.
Sometimes on a summer night I leave a cabin
to walk among the owls and nightjars.
To sit silently listening to the rustle and scurry
of a timid pulse and the silent wings
of its pursuer.
Occasionally a deer is startled
by an incautious movement
sending it crashing through the dark brush.
I do not carry a gun here, but if I did
I would never break the silence of these woods
for the voices of the dead and the living
sing in the air as softly as stars do
when reflected in the eyes of hunting owls.
Rest now in golden slumber
As shadows fall away
Your dreams to unencumber
The worries of the day
Sleep now as velvet fire
Adorns the evening sky
As Swifts and Nightjars choir
A peaceful rock-a bye
Rest now in golden slumber
Still cradled by the sun
As moon beams by the number
Are counted one by one
Off to nod, you go, I hear the Sandman creeping
Off to nod, you go, he knows you should be sleeping
Soon the forest would reveal its dark secret
Poems are written. Music is composed. Ballets are staged.
In enacting suspense-filled plays, each creature is engaged.
Mysteries, like petals of blossoming flowers, unfolded.
As sketched by nature, the shapes of plants and trees are moulded.
Midway through the brawl for existence, the fittest survive.
From Mother Earth, life-giving nectar, all creatures derive
Do trees pay tax as per their heights, and do beasts as per strength?
Which creature has measured the forest's height, breadth, width, and depth?
What serenity between drops of the flowing fountain!
Isn't there a transmission of peace between each mountain?
The food cycle and water cycle roll like the planets.
Prey and predator eye each other in forage facets.
Owls, bats, hawks, frogmouths, and nightjars share nocturnal secrets.
Some feed others. Some feed on others. There are ruts, no riots.
The gentle breeze soothes the soul, though the gales disturb
Love lives long, between the strongest tree and the weakest herb.
Doors of forests, yet, like puzzle-filled caves, are numerous
Amidst sunshine, unknown nooks in it are voluminous
Long ago,the guinea fowls congregated
Clourfully and innumerably
And sang sweet songs
And played in the savanah
They sang for the for the antelopes
To leap and dance in the beautiful grass lands
The farm boys listened and danced too
And their hearts were merry
At night around the fire the folk tales were interesting;
The wild dogs barked ;
The nightjars called peacefully;
The owls clamorous,booming hoot was heard
The starry fireflies flashed in courtship elaborate dances
But the conflagrations came
And swept across the grass lands and bushvelds
The axemen were merciless ;
And by their millions the trees were severed
The poachers were ruthless
And the animals wild knew not more peace
The guinea fowls were poisoned
The nature loving farm boys beheld
All this chapter in heavy hearted silence
The guinea folws and other song birds
Shall never sing again
And the times shall never be better again.
Warmth grows from the dense cold mist
Call of nightjars disguise the isolation
Majesty of the sun obscured by overcast dawn
Radiance of the bonfire dwindles and dies
Rampant raindrops fall freely on my forehead
Papilio emerge from the rain as the first rain falls
Droplets on the butterfly’s wings reflect turquoise hue
A snail takes refuge under a fresh fallen leave
It crawls on my diary leaving a trail of the first rainfall
I sat by a moonlit window last night
As sleep did not come- elusive as the Dugong-
My eyes but portal gazing wide into a deep vast sea.
The songbirds were hushed except for the nightjars and owls.
A dreary blackness was unrolled across the sky,
And moonbeams brimmed over into the room.
My mind set adrift to gloom and droll dreams
In those wee hours of morn. I spoke to ancestors
(if only in my mind) for they lived in simpler and perhaps wiser times.
I thought how I envied them in a way,
Though not really, as their bones lie dusty in
Rustic vessels, traveling further back with each passing day.
Their lips sealed mum, as still as the stars, and cold as winter's teeth,
Yet resting above in glory cradles, numb to the tangles that
Plague this old and somber world.
I wondered what they would think of the present day,
Which oft embraces adverse and complex things,
That would perplex the keen-witted, scholars of yesteryear,
And make the grave of Einstein sway.
If those dear, timeworn relics traversed from
Chivalrous and austere ages into the rages of this world,
Where knowledge weaves through webs of microchip swirls.
And people sail into streams of mouse-clicking dreams...
Could you then, oh sweet vestiges of ancient yellow bones,
Slumber on in quiet, mellow solace beneath your
Inscripted bloodstones, and romance the
Advancement of present times?
Would you imagine these machines as
Sleek schooners slicing through the midnight blue,
Chartering primitive lands? Or rather dreadnaughts
Waiting to wager warfare against the inculpable innocence of
Youth, or the ignorance of man? Would you quiver and quake
at the malice of mankind and perhaps find a better road to take?
I wonder now, as I sit with the moon so bright, and listen to
the stillness quietly hushing this sultry, sleepless night.
When the earth's shadow
falls on the moon.
In the loneliness of twilight
I keep you alive
and fresh in my mind
You seem so near
every time I close my eyes
Oftentimes I venture
into the eventide
When the moon invites me,
reminiscing as nightjars
chatter your name
Do you miss me
as much as I miss you?
The light of the moon
shines enough light for me
to see nebulous memories
of us more clearly
Under moonlit skies,
we savored
nature's cacophony until
our eyes grew weary with sleep
The memory of you
haunts me still
Though you'll never return,
I'll always think of you
In the hour
of the vanishing sun
Date written and posted: 02/04/2017
In the Appalachian hill country
there are night birds;
they call to each other in the dark
yet hunt alone.
These birds are not
owls but nightjars, they are known also
as whip-poor-wills, goatsuckers,
or bug-eaters by the locals.
When they utter they shiver
the ear-hairs of all that harken.
When clinging to a tree trunk
their dim mottled plumage
makes then almost invisible.
When they fly
they fly with no whisper of wings
but in an eerie silence.
Some folks around here
reckon they are more 'ghosts
of the air' than birds,
and are bad news.
The wise women
believe that they can curdle milk
and spoil the overnight vittles
left on the stove,
the menfolk smile
knowing
it was them that left the food out.
The night-birds swoop and flutter
without a pitter or a patter
until the dawn light reveals them
to be nowhere found
and still as silent as the stony ground.
The night was a raven's wing,
soft and black,
waiting to be adorned with
gold and silver chips
which never showed,
as the stars had spun off-
hidden deep in the backdrop,
and the moon had yet
to make its grand debut.
Soft sighs murmured through
the cottonwoods and
weeping willows
as the air loosened a bit.
Even the small, yellow orbs looming
through the cattails seemed
sleepy and benign.
Nightjars crooned lullabies,
and a faint rumble promised rain,
but perhaps it was only a train
rolling beyond the distant hills.
Not much more than that.
The evening lay still
as nature's script slept,
tucked inside dull, lethargic pages.
Then slowly, the ruby-eyed Cyclops
crept over the pond,
and as its lazy eyelid rose to
gaze upon the night,
all living creatures were
amazed- awestruck- at the
glorious sight of the
mysterious Blood Red Moon.
Pondering about life at high noon
just sitting by this beautiful lagoon
gorgeous plants, flowers in bloom
all of nature seems to be so attune
all of our Worlds ills I feel immune
bathing in its glory this lovely afternoon
relaxing on a log that’s been expertly hewn
no worries, knowing it will be night soon
I will splendour under a bright new moon
now a wonderful sound of a nightjars tune
thought that anyone could harm this boon
then I would surely, most certainly swoon.
May 28 2018
Contest Late May 2018 Premiere
Sponsored by Brian Strand.
I imagine her pearl-pink clouds crashed into gray and the wind
grew too stiff, blowing leaves into sparring wars over a dull earth.
I imagine the sun flashed peculiar rays and slanted in odd directions
leading her along mossy, twisted lanes. Distorted knots of limbs and
rotted clamor of vines caused her to stumble along wooded paths as
she circled around dark, murky ponds and forgotten storybook rhymes.
I imagine her strong, youthful body was lulled into a frail pattern,
and unfamiliar melodies, softly sung, clashed in harsh tones that
once lilted sweetly upon her tongue. Her ballroom dances became
tangled behind stones,and shadows of a cruel thief lured her through
endless doorways. I imagine she grasped at stars that dangled from
a black sky, then melted away with her touch, and the moon was
scrubbed from her hands and tossed to the nightjars. Clocks died,
and their numbers ticked away into foreign bays while her mind
ebbed and waned in the thick ocean mist. She could no longer
embrace all she held dear as she rocked between the present
and past, then tripped into white, sticky webs that held her still.
But I imagine she catches glimpses of brown candy sacks from
The Five and Dime, of lanes taking her down to sand plum groves,
and of time spent under a swollen sun as she tuned in crooners
belting out songs from the past while holding the moon and stars
once more. And I know her heart leaps when she sees my face
and hears my voice before it is cast to the wind...for some things,
I imagine, are strong enough to last.
The Owl hooted, the Badgers scampered
black and white suited. The Raven slept
with open eyes, as moon glow fell from
starlit skies. Silence broken by a babbling
brooke, and the Stag drank with a watchful
look. Reflecting light from moonbeamed
skies, and through the trees nature sighs.
On a post not far away, a Buzzard sits in
wait for prey, cants his head left and right,
all are feared this moonlit night. The word
is peace as flowers sleep, awaiting sun for
life to seep. And Gods tears in form of rain,
will kiss and bless their growing frame. The
undergrowth hums a soothing tune, this
soulful night in midst of June. Where the
Nightjars echo these hallowed halls, and
the Bats fly free on sonic calls. With all
thats nigh I close my eyes, heed the
breeze and its ghostly cries. In this I
understand, on nights like this I am
never alone and eyes will follow where
ever I roam,