Best Plover Poems
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015
Swift does the shallow river flow
beneath the trees that upwards grow,
Kingfishers sit on a shoreline rock
hunting fish in the water below
Starlings swarm in a large blue flock
at dusk and dawn at six of the clock,
A stunning spectacle that's a must to see
while sitting on a boat in the dock
Gulls and Terns bob about on the sea
before they depart like an irate banshee,
they swoop and dive in an aerial tableau
a sight to be seen and a thing of beauty
Sandpiper, Whimbrel and Plover are seen
from high water to surf and points in between.
(In the Middle Ages, tombs and monuments
often bore carvings of skulls or decaying corpses.
The idea was to remind the onlooker that he, too,
was marked for death. These figures were known
as "memento mori".)
Approach me, stranger. Nothing in my story
should startle you. Your flesh has always known it.
I just remind you. I'm Memento Mori.
Yes, this is what awaits you. Don't disown it.
You came in laughing, vital, carefree, easy,
but now your peace is ruined. Go, bemoan it,
and when your Pinot Grigio, risi e bisi
no longer please your palate, and your lover,
so far from comforting you, makes you queasy,
think hard. There's more to life than quail and plover.
Many things may never happen. This one must.
There's less to life than hope, as you'll discover.
For what you are now, that's what I once was. See?
See what I am? It's what you're going to be.
PETER'S SON PETERSON
Peter’s son was rowdy Peterson
He met plug-ugly drug lord Dawson
In a raucous party
Came in "Bliss"ful Dirty
And tipped Dawson off about Lawson
SCOTTISH Mr BRIAN
Scottish Mr.Brian came from the country of Shamrock
Found a plover under cover of a clover rock
Plover clover screeched a little
And sat on a hefty skittle
Both fitted the bill as the pinball struck a cock-squawk
© Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
15 October, 2014 21:55:43 IST
Moment of being a bachelor are not a cup of tea,
Searching out for food just a Bee,
Wandering to and fro for a good company,
We remain alone as rootless tree,
Life without lass, lassie and Lassitude,
Bring me up with exquisite attitude,
What’s wrong if em alone, single we’re born,
It moves me up with high altitude,
Time of no worry, hurry and sorry,
Enjoying a piece of superb glory,
Sovereign of my own life, But
Roaming on the way as a lorry,
The joy of solo, pleasure of being bachelor,
Delight of single hood, Men of Plover,
Life with no aim, fame and Game!
Sleeping right & left burning in Stover.
Shahid Hussain Chouhdry
Sam came from Bollon on the Wallan S.W.Queensland Aus.
Sam Mc Croon came from Bollon soon
When he heard about old Galoon the Batey
She was big an a Ox light in her sox
And she loved her Irish Pp praety (potato)
They married at once she was no dunce
They tripped to the altar so fine
The kangaroo dogs would bark twice or once (greyhounds used for catching kangaroo)
Goannas cantered off with the wine…….damn gwanas…
Religion came round to the poor little town
They dropped in on poor old Batey
The old shack floor was dirt and some more
And they took Cockies joy, just lately…….(syrup) (Cockies = Aussie Farmers)
Bronco Don appeared saw Batey in tears …….(my Dad Bronco Don )
Don cantered right amongst the religious
Cracked his whip in their tent his anger did vent
Demanded, got cans back prodigious
Now Sam he did work for a man with a quirk
One Colin Mc Farlan Okeefe
He had Sam watching out in a paddock for work
Under a sheet of iron for a sheep thief
Old Sam he did sink down a sewerage trench deep
When tripping across after the rain
Bronco Don reefed him out, hosed him off poor old sheep
And rescued him later again…………(Sam got swallowed up twice)
Sam went to hospital with the flu for a week or two
Had his singlet soaked to get it off
For the hair on his chest had grown right through
Water weakens a man he’d just scoff….(bit shy around water)
Jimmy the lover came to call, banged upon her door
Just come out little sweet Batey
He said I’ve got bananas from the store
She said there’s no body home, come lately…
Jezebel McCroon slept in a room
on a mattress of indian rubber
Aren’t you afraid of Jimmy McDade
the great charmer the lover
Jez just said if I strip naked on the bed
he won’t see me instead
Won’t see me less I smile in the dark,
He’ll sidestep away like a plover unfed
Without a squeak or a squark…..Don Johnson
He sits alone, still and wondering
as the cascading wind cleanses his soul.
His mind it does pause, as he looks out yonder,
and muses about life's role.
Unsure I am of how he sees the world,
alone in this tranquil space,
a mosaic of colour,
among the foliage of flowering lace.
Life enters his zone, on a wing of grace,
as he considers each name in the debate,
The Robin, the Wren, the Plover, the Lark,
his mind does elevate.
The soothing, the serene, the space opposing the park
adds a view an emerald blanket, as he stares out through the dark.
Sprinting stick legs carry my midday mission
Stiff breeze whips sand, removes thin prints
Bringing crammed crab, grabbed in precision
Urgent payps brief cease brings peace distinct
Assembled nest, scattered pebbles and shells
Ginger plumage scurrier is ever alert mother
Concaves place, away from encroaching swells
Secure dunes' hush is sanctity discovered
In salt hazed mauve dusk, we pace wary guard
Time arrived for tawny fluff puffs to be shown
Harsh beach to danger prone, threat imparted
Leaving nest safety is necessary, wider zones
Buffeted by their new found brilliance, babies float
Skimmed surface of sand, brisk, excited, whisked
Proud Daddy plover observes with deserved gloat
Dedicated duty rewards during moments like this
Written: 25th July 2020
Contest: Bird Personification
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Bookstore, Musty Galore
Allen's Old Gold Discover,
SecondStory Pages of Glory,
Kelmscott Shelves Soar & Hover,
1st Editions Scarce Recovery,
Fore Edge Paintings Lover,
However It's Cheapo Papery,
Provides a Comfy Nest Plover,
Finding Fresh Author Flesh Scary!
Going Broke Buying A Great Cover,
I'm Not Waiting 'til Old & Hairy,
Grazing Tomes is Similar to Clover,
Diet As Extant Goodreads is Nary!
Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (III)
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
Performing Art
by Michael R. Burch
Who teaches the wren
in its drab existence
to explode into song?
What parodies of irony
does the jay espouse
with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories
lend stunning brightness
to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug
—spinning its chrysalis,
gluing rough seams—
abiding in darkness
its transformation,
till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance?
I am done with irony.
Life itself sings.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.
Keywords/Tags: flight, fly, flying, bird, birds, hawks, plover, wren, songbird, cage, song
D street daydreams,
watered down time,
diluted with a soured lime,
streaming like faces,
caught in tour bus windows,
shading eyes from mid day light,
a winking glint on distant water,
faint gulls cry winging over,
far off sand dunes like snowy plover,
wind blown hinting,
salt and sea,
as laughter floats formless,
flotsam on warm custard breezes,
sunlit sound of summers,
backlit like animated mummers,
captured in an iced tea lemon,
told on a melting sno-cone,
thrashed with an elephant's ear,
boardwalk dusk fallow,
shadows flow down to barnacled piling,
tidal flow pounding rhythmically beguiling,
captured moths in a porchlight,
buzzing backbeat arc lamps,
forms flit on a sultry street,
walking stilted looking back,
the grinding rasp of memory's regret,
those fog bound wraiths that never forget,
a young time touched by a different sun,
warm sand hourglass that couldn't run out,
west coast jubilee could never end...
it ends...
at the corner of D street and Mayne.
A distraught driver drove to Dover
Running roughshod in his Rover,
Crushing cultivated clover,
Mangling marigolds, moreover,
Pancaking progeny of plover.
Liquor-laden lies to lover;
Outcome: outed, ousted, over.
piping plover
brazenly strutting their stuff
along closed beaches
John G. Lawless
©8/13/2018
Piping Plovers run
receding surf yields food
ballet on wet sand
I ham guilty for gobbledygook...
and ruffling turkey feathers!
An innocent miss steak kin...
once former main lion,
resident iz cow herd vegetarian boar
ring beastie boy, who doth
newt practice, what he preaches your
truly battens down chicken
coop hatches so... call me galore
re: us hypocritic,
this honest to dog omnivore – more
accurate said buzzfeeding primate -
*****sapiens, he whelk hams
adieu after quick bonjour
hears ear splitting eeyore
deaf finning chore
tills unable to ignore
admits transgression,
now wonder wherefore
whether art thou still
game to reed my adore
hub bull poetry
understandable if ye deplore
such atrocious, egregious, opprobrious...,
violating ethical core
puss regarding straying
against dietary herbivore
rudimentary eel lamb ants
(chocolate covered my dear Watson)
boot fault in the starfish...por
favor mice elf can
oxe plain twittering like plover
with reasonable rhyme for sure
don't get doggy dimples in bunch
cause to skewer me but... but before...
sending killing squad to slaughter -
this puppy, aye kindly honour
my wish and don
me noggin with pompadour
as fetching drag queen
torpedo sized bosom
squirting parti-color
milk as self defense mechanism
averting casus belli thus
amidst melee I abhor
find self on horns of dilemma
life story these of this poor
cooked goose flambé
caught between rock and trapdoor
special cannibal delight
where madding crowd
chants "send him back"
accursed unconscionable roar
ring anger, but lurch for eats,
an impulsive reflex courtesy extempore
rain nee yes unforgivable poor
craven impulse to up peas hunger
uncontrollably craving regarding carnivore
pang additionally not further injure
ring innocent animal plus more
to this fishy tail than
meats the Wawa birdseye.