Best Plovers 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
Categories:
plovers, beach, beauty, bird, ocean,
Form:
Free verse
Santa Barbara, Summer 2017
Monday
I walked on the bluffs above the sea.
Orange poppies bloom in the dunes.
I discovered
the labyrinth:
smooth stones spell the path.
Peaceful pilgrimage.
Tuesday
Walked on the beach and smelled:
Tar from the oil seeps,
fennel,
coastal sage,
eucalyptus.
And, of course, the sea.
Wednesday
Hiked in the foothills.
The grass is brittle and yellow;
the land sizzles.
Spiky shrubs, spiny scrub oak.
The chaparral is ready
to burst into flames.
Thursday
The eucalyptus trees
on Ellwood Mesa
are dying
from the drought.
Where will the butterfly sleep?
Friday
The sandpipers
hurry to the surf, neck forward,
to peck with long bills.
They scurry inland before the next wave
as if they are afraid
to get their feet wet.
Snowy plovers skitter
like cotton balls on wheels.
Saturday
The infinite ocean
under an infinite sky.
A white S among the reeds,
the egret can teach me
poise and patience.
Sunday
Found a piece of seaglass.
Translucent blue,
The edges smooth
Worn by water,
Sanded down.
Beauty from adversity.
I think I will write a poem about it.
November 1, 2017
For contest: From my Diary
Sponsored by Broken Wings
Categories:
plovers, nature, sea,
Form:
Free verse
Sly low tide sneaks up to smooch the smooth shore
that holds old footsteps left behind us
and lends itself to sand castles
standing guard until high tide
plovers dart on fleet feet
across sodden sands
spindle-legged girls
hunt conch shells —
starfish
found!
Blue
waters
glistening
aqua appeal —
white horse sea-magic
spindrift manes rise from crests
awakened from lowest ebb
high tide arrives on thunder hooves
body-surf Neptune’s steeds to the shore —
my wet hair dries to sun-bleached beachy waves…
Categories:
plovers, beach, beauty, life, nature,
Form:
Etheree
Fingers of light pierced the clouds caressing the moors
with life giving warmth, purples, browns and greens of
heathers mingled, blended, in a union of beauty. Yellow
of gorse splashed in the sultry, hazy spectre of natures
superb canvas. The dry stone walling lay sporadic, lost,
decaying in time and memory, the hardy moorland sheep
stumbled from blade to blade, in the breeze they used the
walls as shade. Golden plovers dipped and dived the call
of pee weet pee weet echoed in the stillness, the Peregrine
hovered with silent wings and sunlit eye. Those fingers of
light walked the hillside highlighting the chalk outcrops
on craggy reaches as if new laden snow. Black pools of
peaty water dot themselves borne of winters starkness,
it is a beauty that holds both eye and heart, a picture
painted for the soul. A place where all blends and the
crofter wears no watch only the sun and moon to follow
and the footsteps of the rambler sleeps in the fragrance
of the heather.
Categories:
plovers, inspirational
Form:
Prose Poetry
Seven Birds in Spring
Sparrow in late snow
Gathers straw to make her nest
Afraid to be last.
A dash of swallow
Almost faster than the songs
Of Spring returning.
Baby birds chirping
The nest full with mother’s warmth
Life renewed- the same.
Swallows hit the pond
A quick drink or bugs to eat
Do I need to know
Plovers in the sand
Four tiny chicks in the waves
Almost gone from Earth
Fifty calls at least
A mockingbird on a pole
Why so many songs
Every Spring the hawk
Finds the robin’s hidden nest
As I sit and watch.
Categories:
plovers, bird, spring,
Form:
Haiku
For those avid crossword groupies of which I are one,
I'm offering free of charge vital data to add to your fun.
So you're stuck on 15-down for the name of a barren of mules!
Groups of creatures you can now name if you use this set of rules!
A group of apes is a shrewdness and a gang of asses is a pace.
Tigers are a streak and you'd better streak should they give chase!
Can you believe that skittish plovers are called a congregation?
(I wonder, perhaps Baptist, Lutheran, Catholic or other denomination?)
You might see a cackle of hyenas or a tower of giraffes at zoos,
Or if on a Kenyan safari a bloat of hippos or a fleet herd of gnus.
The name for a prickle of porcupines is an appropriate moniker for sure!
A sleek bunch of ferrets is called a business, and, why, I'm unsure.
Pesky squirrels are called a scurry and a warren is for rabbits.
(There are many warrens of rabbits due to their promiscuous habits!)
Badgers are grouped as a cete and leopards are known as a leap;
Moles are known as a labor and a herd or drove identifies sheep.
Parliaments of owls meet in trees and eagles in convocations.
Jellyfish waft about in smacks and peacocks strut in ostentations!
Screeching cormorants are a gulp which sounds mighty weird.
Steer clear of a crash of rhinos since they are to be feared!
Charming finches are called a charm and larks an exaltation,
Turkeys a rafter, frogs an army and starlings a murmuration.
Locusts are known as a plague and cockroaches an intrusion.
An unkindness of ravens and their raucous caws just causes confusion!
Groups of humans are known as Republicans, Democrats or Nazarenes,
Jerks and morons but this barely includes all human species by any means!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) 2014 All Rights Reserved
Categories:
plovers, animal, humorous,
Form:
Rhyme
SONG OF THE EVENING
In a lullaby song of the evening.
In the background a cricket sings,
corellas fly past, to their resting tree
high upon silhouette wings.
Red sky widens and covers the west
with half sun glowing and gold,
there’s stark contrast between heaven and earth
as life in a pondage unfold.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
reed warbler should be going to sleep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail
and crickets continue to cheep.
In a lullaby song of the evening,
new stars are beginning to shine,
plovers’ static call fills the growing dim sky
and the reed warbler's calling decline.
So when the changeover’s completed,
and day has now turned into night,
these lullaby songs of the evening,
are now hidden well out of sight.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! Clearing your throat,
and crickets continue to cheep.
‘Sweet pretty creature,’ call of willy wagtail,
the ringtail awake from their sleep.
A red fox is yapping, then a mournful drawl,
the mopoke hoots steady and soft.
Radar pings in flight of the wattled bat
echo with it flying aloft.
A koala growls in the manna gum tops,
a sugar gliders’ stealing its space,
maned geese flying blind from dam to dam
moan ‘gnow’ for the night to embrace.
The lullaby song of the evening is dying,
where hunter and hunted exist,
for the art of survival is simply relying
on mute vigilance in their midst.
Bullfrog! Bullfrog! You are silent now,
reed warbler is sleeping at last.
Plovers’ are quiet, crickets no longer sing
the moon in a stillness drifts past.
Categories:
plovers, nature, peace, , Lullaby,
Form:
Rhyme
The beach gathers its dead. Thousands of horseshoe crabs
come home on the full moon’s tide. Their courting dances,
scrawled with claw and carapace in the wet sand, leave
with the ghost hands of nursing Autumn wave.
Their nests of jewel-colored eggs, covered and soothed
seasoned in salt sea, gestate beneath a slurry of debris.
Right side up each skin colored husk with its barbed tail
rocks in the bubbling broth of Cape Cod’s bay.
Belly up, they appear as an open invitation to the plovers
who flock overhead and arrow down en masse to dine.
Piping plovers, masked in black, hopscotch through the
detritus, connoisseurs of this turquois egg-like caviar.
Among the life and death of sea we walk, barefoot, and
cautious wary of the scramble, the jutting barbs, the bits
of un-soothed glass, the desecrated cairn which barricades
the dying life from the living sea.
Published First in Sounding Review 2015
Categories:
plovers, age, autumn, ocean,
Form:
Lyric
As the year thunders on the autumn days begin to get shorter the nights are early,
My old dog stretches out by a blazing log fire only turning over when he's too hot,
Arthritis is slowing him down his hips are so sore he walks very slowly with a limp,
Very soon it will be time to take him out on grassy rich heaths for the very last time.
Although the weather for autumn is calm it is the damp air that makes the pain worse,
Outside he lays watching spiders form radiated circles on every single bush and twig,
And at the silken threads on every blade of grass and he barks and sniffs so quietly,
His mood is solemn but calm, he is in a daze and forgets his way back to the garden.
We walked along forest meadows running chasing sticks and shadows barking with joy,
He would bound up to some lovely hedges or soft willow plots and roll in green grass,
Smoke from autumn’s bonfires has a smell that reminds me of wonderful golden sunsets,
Now it will remind me of loneliness with my faithful old friend running in a dog heaven.
By my log fire my dog’s eyes are brown they are pleading there are tears in the corners,
He doesn't understand that he is old and cannot do the things he has always loved to do,
A haunting stare asks me to help him because you're my dad you will make me better,
Next day I take him out for the very last time a long walk into the vets and I break down.
My hands deep in my pockets I walk where we always walked and soon it will be winter,
Standing and watching the departure of numbers of birds that have shared our summer,
The Curlews, Sandpipers, Snipes and Bean Goose fly across the sky but my joy has gone,
Norway thrush's arrive but where is my dear old friend we watched the seasons together.
The Fern-owls, dotterals, swallows and some of the plovers used bid us a last goodbye,
Today go the flycatchers, white throats, warblers, wheatears and the hardy red sparrows.
Gardens show us autumnal flowers crocuses, autumn snowflakes fall on meadow saffron,
Everything is going and saying goodbye I turn into the wind tears roll down my cheeks.
Categories:
plovers, dog,
Form:
Dramatic Verse
I walk barefoot on the beach
Where the water greets the land.
Waves with their wet fingers reach,
Then retreat from where I stand.
White foam fizzles on the sand.
I pick up some rocks and shells,
Watch the shorebirds dive and fly
As the ocean ebbs and swells,
Plovers skitter, seagulls cry,
Soundless pelicans glide by.
8/3/2017
Categories:
plovers, beach, nature, sea,
Form:
Quintain (English)
At noon we sat down under a large old oak tree on a wild hillside with masses of rocks,
The day was very warm and I took off my knapsack and rested by the foot of an old tree,
Below was a spread of orchards, next to meadows, and the glades sat with watery mead's,
Above, a beech forest that stretched, many miles the greenery touching the white clouds,
White clouds in a beautiful blue sky, shapes constantly changing shape, in a light cool wind.
Looking around there was much to see, there were lapwings and golden plovers in the trees,
Down below in a meadow a carter was leading a pair of horses off to plough a grassy field,
Then a fox crept from a hedge into a ploughed field and dropped right down into a furrow,
On a flooded mead a Great Crested Grebe dived under the water looking for some fresh fish,
And the water looked like sheets of polished glass and the sun reflected great rods of beams.
The track we walked soon vanished and then lofty pillars of beach-boles with thick canopies,
The earth was brown, withered leaves scattered amoung small pieces of rock green with wet moss,
Here and there were shallow bogs with the 'touch-me-not' plant with bright yellow flowers,
A plant whose name gives significant caution, as where it grows, there is treacherous footing,
Legend says mountain climbers make their peace with God if they meet some in a rocky crag.
Half an hour's progress and we were going in the right direction the scene was impressive,
As we wandered through woods with no out let visible the shade was heavy, deep and silent,
Then through a gap in far off trees was an opening and buttercups formed a carpet of gold,
On a bough was a Goldcrest the smallest British bird, he hopped from twig to twig for insects,
Their tiny nests made from mosses and spiders webs, slung underneath the branch of a tree.
Categories:
plovers, nature, old, water, old,
Form:
Prose Poetry
Hand in hand with the breaking pink light of dawn,
A light east breeze dances on tiptoes upon the water’s surface.
I stand on the wooden deck, looking out onto the quiet bay,
Scattered boats gently sway in their moorings.
Making me feel like I am flying amongst them - a bird on a wing,
Flocks of terns swoop and rise in graceful circles close beside me.
Dexterously stepping over the green covered rocks on the shore, three white egrets are here too;
They keenly pick out their breakfast in the lapping tide.
With a swoop and fall, a cormorant dives deftly into the water and disappears,
Moments later the bird emerges several metres away as if out of nowhere.
In a display of alternating flashes of grey and brilliant white,
Plovers so small and so swift turn and glide in controlled unison.
I glance northwards towards a distant gentle hum,
There great ships are silhouetted in the waking harbour.
I stand and breathe in true appreciation;
Oh, the magnificent beauty of this new day.
Categories:
plovers, places, sea, light, bird,
Form:
Oh majestic peaks,
standing so tall,
the points never meager,
uplifting like the beautiful dowager.
~*~
The greenery covers,
like a flock of plovers,
and a blanket of fibrous wicker,
near the rocky slopes that flicker.
~*~
The sunlight is poking through,
and a wall of clouds of suspended dew,
a stand of conifers abridged,
growing across the green mountain ridge.
~*~
Oh Green Mountain, so rich in seeds and nuts,
like the early bakers torte,
your cool mountain streams,
cleanse thy body and make me gleam.
Categories:
plovers, nature, green,
Form:
Free verse
p u l s e s
diastolic
systolic
tides
e l a s t i c
edge of ebb where water and salt and memories mix
steals the breath between my inhale and exhale
plovers chasing stretchy waves
tight-fisted oysters hoarding pearls
winds blowing our laughter this way that way
two kites flirtin’ and floatin’ in a sea of clouds
tin foil tongues with spindrift speech
breathes sea songs upon the shore's breast
sea-fingers strum beach skin glistening
sea-drums thrum seashell ears listening
yet I wince as hungry riptides swallow
my pebbles from the shore
nothing long-lost leaves nothing longed for
I yearn for riptides to swallow my sorrow
instead of small joys and unadorned dreams
swallow me in ragged state instead of smooth but
famished riptides can’t swallow my jagged stone whole
cyan dancers grow untamed and white maned
their crimes their confessions
s w a s h across expanse of dry seabed surging
I recall our cupid kites tUmBLinG in growing flow
wet sands a mirror for west-sky-fire reflections
an ancient temple of quartz-grit-sages sifts waves
confessors with silence-filled voices
just beyond and amid the t h r o b s of tides
Categories:
plovers, joy, loss, nostalgia, sea,
Form:
Free verse
The lake was then dry, not even dank,
The tortoise himself had grown lank.
The fox had departed the field,
Since the scorching sun was no shield.
The geese, like the plovers before,
Voyaged to some hills of galore.
Tortoise who was known to be sly
Became rueful turning to cry.
How can two geese make tortoise fly,
Needs of hills of galore supply?
A long stick put on tortoise’s mouth,
We hold on both ends flying south.
‘Soon we’ll get to hills of galore,
Where there’s water, plants and much more.’
‘What if tortoise speaks as we fly,
To warnings he may not comply?’
Between his teeth he held the stick,
Having promised never to speak.
The two geese held the sticks’ two ends,
Each on one side as Tortoise’s friends.
Soon they rose high into the skies,
How the three thought themselves so wise.
Over hills, vales and plains they flew,
Over cities they never knew.
And the people saw them up so high,
Some marveled, others wondered why.
So funny a tortoise flying
With two geese, they can’t stop laughing.
They said Tortoise will soon fall sick,
Gripping long in his mouth a stick.
Some said it was an ugly sight
To behold a tortoise on flight.
The angered tortoise heard them all,
He’d forgotten he’ll risk a fall.
Then the tortoise reproved them all,
Forgetting that he risked a fall.
Categories:
plovers, philosophy,
Form:
Couplet