Best Song Thrush Poems
xanthic daffodils
sway on a cool morning breeze
song thrush breaks snail shell
Captcha haiku contest
Sponsored by Harry Horsman
my log in captcha was XSS
8/7/18
ADVENT OF SPRING
It was as though a sign had been received.
The master plan, held back, now caused enaction
As if nature’s endocrines had been released
Flooding our world with catalytic action
Pre-dawn the Song Thrush first perceived the moment
Her triple prelude showed she could recapture
(As day broke, light in a softer glow bestowment)
Her symphony of blissful, careless rapture
On this cosmic stage light rose imparting sheen
And sun lent equinoctial warmth to nourish
The hedgerows that had barely hinted green
Were now transformed to full fresh verdant flourish
In trees the sap is surging in ascension
A delicate jade mist now veils the canopy
Across the land life wakes in each dimension
Sweet Spring is clothing Nature in her full panoply
ADVENT OF SPRING
It was as though a sign had been received.
The master plan, held back, now causing stirring
As if nature’s endocrines had been released
Flooding all the world with catalytic spurring
Pre-dawn the Song Thrush first perceived the moment
Her triple prelude showed she could recapture
(As day broke, light in softer glow bestowment)
Her first symphony of blissful, careless rapture
On this cosmic stage light rose imparting sheen
And sun lent equinoctial warmth to nourish
The hedgerows that had barely hinted green
Were now transformed to full fresh verdant flourish
A delicate jade mist veils sylvan canopy
Sweet Spring is clothing Nature in full panoply
SPRING MORNING
The Bluebells hail the morning sunrise
tears of dew grace stems of green,
the valley nestles in God’s franchise
foliage awakening across the dene,
here a spring morning reigns serene.
SPRING DAWN
Morning tide enhance sweetness of the songstress call
buoyant curlews in oceans of copious grass,
wave after wave shattering against dry stone wall,
spring dances to the rhythm of the weatherglass
obeying whimsical whims from the moor top pass.
SPRING VIEW
Song Thrush calls reveille
morning in infancy
penetrates the valley,
spring day of clemency
portrait of regency.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
A
call
to love-
repeated
many times over.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul
and sings the tune without the words and never stops at all.
- Emily Dickinson
My search for gold dust glow in harvest moon
depletes me when once fertile ground’s plucked bare.
Yet hope, it rises like a stretched balloon,
and begs of me to rise above despair.
The ripened dreams of youth cannot escape
me though some may be buried, worn, and wrung.
When bitter seeds are all that I can taste,
oh hope, dear hope, you burst just like a grape!
An unexpected, sweet juice on my tongue
to relish like a love the heart’s encased.
I feel a steady pull within my core
to step from haunting shadows into light.
Lured out by warm winds, seeping through my door,
in sun-steeped clouds, my soul stirs, rouged by flight.
As love, deep love, drifts free with hope on high,
like sapphire stars, together how they burn!
But hope, my hope, I lost for quite some time,
though awe-struck, watched its bough reach brightest sky.
Some nights I thought it never would return.
Some nights I dreamed of limbs on which I’d climb.
Oh hope, dear hope, I struggle to hold on.
You slip from shaky hands, I outstretch wide.
But like a Song Thrush commencing the dawn,
your soft and ceaseless voice could be my guide.
So now I ask of you to care for me
just like a newborn struggling first to breathe.
My drowning lungs feel black and knotted tight.
Oh hope, dear hope, alight on darkened sea.
Give garland from stargazers’ sights to wreathe
around my path in poetry and light.
Written 5/12/22
for: Form O - Ode - New Poems Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
Theme: Idea
Blackbird Haiku
Blackbird sings so sweet
Song Thrush adorns black clothing
Bring joy to the World
Written 25.7.18 for Tania's
Haiku Bird themed contest
My poems can be written straight from my heart
So I ensure my notepad and pen are never far apart
I’ll write humourous lines on a fun situation
Or on disastrous events, which affect a whole nation
I get inspiration from everything that’s around me
I’ll try and describe it as best I can in my poetry
A stunning sunrise painted as if by Monet’s brush
Hearing the tuneful twitter of the morning song thrush
The patchwork quilt of colour on the autumn hills
Seeing motorbike races with its thrills and spills
Watching a tiny baby sleeping so peacefully
Or moonlight dancing on a silvery sea
Listening to beautiful love song on the radio
This can evoke memories from so long ago
The death of those who were once in my life
Of good times and bad, life issues and strife
Some poems are fact, although many are fiction
But I’ve found poetry has become my addiction
What inspires me to write poetry
Sponsored by Julie Rodeheaver
09-04-17
Awoken from fitful sleep, too uncomfortable to resume
Stifling heat prevailing one morning in early June
Through dawn's weakly strained golden haze
Fresh air my lungs desperately craved
To reach the front door, I descended the stairs
With door ajar, cooler air, under a fanlight glaze
My attention was alerted to warbling of a lonesome bird
One continuous note distinctly suspended, as in mid air
Uplifted my soul, as another bird's rendition I heard
With one accord, in duality, birds pitch perfect paired
Heralding in unison further bird answering calls
Culminating chorus of blackbirds, larks and song thrush thralls
Chirruping in octaves, as though orchestral blendings
Glorifying their earthly sojourns in joyous renderings
Listening, I stood in deep contemplation
As all industrial noise was still in cessation
All life in perpetuity as from centuries before us
I then realised, I too had been called by
the BIRD'S DAWN CHORUS
Once upon a budding arcadian green
a last veil winter hoar melts on the bud -
Romney low country lambs fattened to wean
chew in flocks upon the ruminant cud.
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear that first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
In stone moss stream, wild aromatic grass,
the sleeping flower does the sun invite
but an ancient blood moon shall come to pass
on the shadows of day and dark of night.
Soon the muster will shatter a false peace
in cornucopia of herd and bloom -
nigh the yard gates will fill with milky fleece
and only finest wool spin on the loom.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
Smell the petrichor and jade scented hedge,
the lambs, the honeybees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds and fledge
of young and new moonrise to moonset.
The morepork on night hunt moonlit prowl
casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing -
and in the mists see swamphens and waterfowl
rise again the prismatic dawn of spring.
Written: August 1989
Summer Fairy Land
Beyond mounds,beyond dells,
Thorough thickets,thorough nettles,
Athwart sludge,athwart crag,
Into creek,Unto mist,
I dost err upon the ether crest,
I dost stray deep brine,
Rovering hither and thither,
Forth pasty cloud saddle be,
Soaring swifter than the blazing speed,
Soliciting heaven's shower for the peasants
Flow! Flow!Flow!
Flow,thou summer rain pour,
Fall accessible unto plowed soil,
For boors sing their carol of high hilarity:
Ho-Ya-ya!
Greensward bides for bedewer,
Hopper delays to hop,
High and low:
Chirp-chirp -chirp
Far and wide hum,
Pipers doth sing dear,
Coo-oo...Coo-oo! Sing ecstasy.
Oxen bellow, kine low;
Let this weighty yoke be loosened ,
Toiling bulls whine,sigh.
Song thrush,with symphony,
Sing in sweet melody,
Lulla,lulla,lullaby!
Where the butterfly land,there land I;
On the periwinkle sepal I lie;
There I dance whilst bee buzz.
With summer breeze I do blow
Bracing tiring grower in paddy field
Oh! Mercy grower! Swallow me enough sip ! Air crys
Blithely,blithely, Yokel done and yearns ;
Churls unfold smile on lips,
Hope and fantasy lodge in their eyes,
Pleasant whoops,
I sow my yellow kernel below earth,
So shall I reap my fortune to yield lavish,
Leap and rest
I float back to the higher Elysium.
Blessed I!
Date :26/06/2018.
(To one’s Birthplace)
In the glory of the morning
just to see the sunrise
take the place of the moon,
at this time I love the best
this memory this place truly blest.
Through the ages one had not forgotten
blue skies some that turned to grey,
knowing one day we’ll meet again
in this land that holds no sway.
Yes indeed I need to walk again
within the balmy moor,
meet my reflection from the past
sense once more locked away happiness.
Hear the dawn chorus of the song thrush
a rendition of a morning tide trill,
that seemed to say
‘forever I love you’.
Visit the old cottage in the dale
where one’s sensibility sweeps,
like the spring clean broom
upon a naive childhood.
Relive the chasteness
of dandelion seeds floating
in the warmth of dancing light,
spreading the message of rebirth.
Walk amidst the mist that mingled in ceremony
a subdued veil upon conformity,
stumble across sinews of dewy tears
glistening within verdancy.
Endure the reverberation
of rhythmic waters
over moss riddled rocks
beneath the old stone railway bridge.
Meander again upon the hillsides
where meadows collide in dishevelled jade
and one’s over indulgence
of ‘Pure Nostalgia’
cements a portrait of foreverness!
© Harry J Horsman 2010
Thunder clouds roll back, rain does succomb
shepheards emerge their flock
sunrays, brightens the horizon
mountain range, as far as the eye can see
The far distance , a sand block castle
the fore ground a humble village
goats lapping the bulging lake
sparrows emerging with song thrush
As children run playfully from their home
pointing to the sky, rainbow a picture
two lovers take to the lake,she seated
he stood, poll rowing.
That thrush so high up on the tree,
does it sing for you or me?
Its trills I hear with such delight
even though it's not in sight.
Then it's quiet. I peer and stare.
Has it flown? I wonder where?
And now it's on a neighbours' tree.
Is it's song for them or me?
Over the fence its song proclaims
worms and snails are mine to claim.
It's singing not for you or me,
yet from snails it sets us free.
Confined by virus week by week,
isolation may feel bleak.
Yet while it's quiet we can hear
sounds of nature far and near.
For each of us till fading light
thrush's song does us unite.
Little speckled thrush
always in such a hurry
more Spring Songs to sing.
8th June 2017.
Contest one Haiku,
Sponsored by Rick Parise.