Best Songsters Poems
the solitude
the silence
silence of a bee in the forest
silence of the leaves
leaves on majestic trees
leaves my soul quivering
quivering treasures
quivering happiness and joy
joy of freedom and journeying on
joy in my soul beyond time
time entangled in vines
time to pause in the emerald
emerald windswept meadows trembling
emerald velvet foliage creeping
creeping and creeping the embroidery of green
creeping sunlight fills the shadows
shadows are where the violets sleep
shadows hide a hundred chirping wings
wings of the poets dreamy muse
wings of a little butterfly kissing the decay
decay in the tangled branches
decay beautiful and divine
divine tufts of yellow
divine bliss in silence
silence in the garlands of green
silence in hushed echoes
echoes of unseen songsters
echoes of wild streams bubbling and flowing
flowing pen
flowing words and verses
verse amongst the scattered dandelions
verses in the whispering calm
calm the clusters of vines twining
calm the bliss
bliss in a deep canopy of towering giants
bliss under an azure above
above the cowslip and foxglove
above blue birds fly
fly downy wings
fly with the sweet wind
wind that whispers in my ears
wind that lifts the tufts of pretty flowers
flowers wilted and dying
flowers with petals forlorn
forlorn my poetic words
forlorn and weeping
weeping on tattered paper in solitude
weeping poems and rhymes and verses
created in the silence
solitude . . .
_______________________
May 23, 2015
Poetry/Blitz/''silence sweet solitude''
Copyright Protected, ID 05-676-485-23
All Rights Reserved, 2015, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, shhhhh
sponsor, Silent One, Judged 2015
8th Place
In the southern parts of Africa
You can hear me singing my song
A member of the finch family
Maybe the smallest one
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of the sun
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant yellow soul
With an attractive mellow hue
I’m a border fancy singing
Whistling these songs to you
We are the songbirds of America
Hey’ the special roller tours
The beautiful American songsters
The ones you cannot ignore
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of the grass
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant green soul
With plenty of attitude
I have a wide range of songs
Let me sing you the blues
Were a colourful chorus of birds
Competing in the shows to sing
But not during the molting period
In the summer just after the spring
Were the birds of Canary Islands
But took refuge on Spanish sails
The most famous finch in history
Singing beautiful as nightingales
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of a rose
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant redish soul
A brilliant little actor
Hear me bellow out
Have I got the Xfactor
We are popular cage birds
On both sides of the Atlantic
The hen she’s kind of cute
But the cock, now he’s romantic
© Copyright KC.Leake
27th November 2014
All Rights Reserved
Luscinian voices in the thicket of a midnight waltz
single male birds singing from a point of solitude
closing down on city sounds inside a forest vault
the sound of their vocals, nightingale's prelude
calling in mates with whistles, trills and sounds
sending messages of longing from across the throng
listening from cup-shaped nests, eager to be found
they wind up feeling drawn by their melodious song
she, awake as the dawn and free as a bird in the sky
he, as cuffed to her beauty as the wings on her back
they mate on a branch as soft as a nightingale's sigh
away from the songsters, who are trying but lack
luscinian voices singing softly of dawn's pure glory
two nightingales sharing life and love's true story .
June 11, 2021
Summer Minstrels and Songsters
Crickets
Summer songsters
Music of the night
Back porch lullabies, serenade
Singers
Newborn
Cicadas buzz
Yawn and stretch in warm sun
Bright eyes see magnolia trees
Minstrels
Summer
Fireflies twinkle
Magic song of stars
Like suspended bits of glitter
Flash Dance
Buzzing
Grasshopper tunes
Vibrate like a drumline
Invites lovers to sing along
Duets
Chirping
Katydids trill
Rhythmic beats of improv
In pulsating choruses
Of blues
Whirr of
Dragonfly wings
Soft downbeats
Solstice troubadours sing alto
Crooners
If these eyes shall become blinded, and if this
hair shall come to be combed thinly and grey;
No, it would not be the end of the world.
I would still see beauty therein this world through
the songs of Crickets and Feathered Songsters.
The breeze would yet whisper and trees still dance.
I would yet smell the freshly bloom of Spring.
I'd still endure Summer's sweltering heat.
I'd yet feel Autumn's leaves crunch 'neath these toes.
I'd still long to be fireside with Winter.
Disabled or not, perhaps I'd yet walk
therein wonderful imagination.
How I'd be forever young at heart!
Then just as one journey came to an end,
I'd indeed greet another with a smile.
Ebony and ivory, noted for sound,
Digital playback, sleight of hand.
Songsters echo, vibrant pound,
Upright, organ, cottage, grand.
Strings attached, taut with suspense,
The Master Key hammers home
Letters of note; chords of tense,
Past and present; timed metronome.
Naturally played with flat and sharp
Sweeping the board. Ayre of nonchalance.
Orchestral manoeuvres performed with harp
Brass and wind; counter balance.
Peddled depression, ayer lingers on
Distant wave; caressed...pianissimo.
Emotive conductor, under the baton
Chorused voice harks, keyed to the piano.
Yellow songsters chirp,
Singing out their songs loudly;
Canary-speak, is sweet.
sounds
so sweet
regale me
in spring, wafting
not from devices,
but from trees where
songsters trill
lilting
tunes.
February 18, 2022
entered in the Springtime Ninette Contest
Sponsor: M. L. Kiser
August 12, 2022
entered in the Say It in Nine Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Let there be a new song of oneness
Not from the old ruggered gun of lies
That perches on the ego of pride, and
Let butterflies grow in the shoulder of
Hatred that governs this breakable world.
We can be called the songsters of love,
Those who knows how to curl joy among
Men shall we be known for all over;
This will bring us together in unity.
Boys will be boys again and girls, girls again.
Our daughters shall dream dreams again,
Our men shall go hunting rodent together;
The dance of our women shall be of holiness.
We can teach our fingers to hold one another,
Journey through with the world of others in
our heart of gold night and day, smiling.
Let there be peace in your honourable heart ,
Let there be peace among the brethren,
We can suck out terrorism among men;
Lick the verses in the joy of our brothers.
You'll be my hero before the song birds,
Do not ask how it going to come by here,
Do not ask with the eyes of lost and want,
Do not ask; it's possible with one heart.
We'll not die with this voice of silence,
Love those who make your day darker,
Tomorrow holds more feast in happiness.
Love those that poke their fingers in your eyes,
Our land need you and I to develop in purity.
Love those that scribed your name dishonestly,
We shall all drink from one cup soon.
The excitement in our lyrics shall rise soon
And we shall learn the great secret of water.
Unity is the core value of our lives,
Love strengthens our value of liberation,
Development beckon on the rock of oneness.
Give me your hands, we can build more when
we are in one blood that speak better than that of Abel.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
POEM FOR EUNA DAVIS
A very throaty Warbler issued
Quavering Trills in a morning song -
As he serenaded the dew
drops on the grateful trees
Other birds were answering with
songs of praise from familiar days.
No one taught them
how to sing or gave them
the messages they so proudly bring.
Birds form near and far
joined in as if to say -
We will add our voices to remind you,
that we are cheerful and we sing for you.
We are aware-we are awake-
and we are awesome
chirping and singing our songs as
we bath in puddles of raindrops.
We remember the timing of the of the
golden and silver songsters.
Ruffling feathers coquettishly
as each song in the distance stirs
up fond memories of your existence.
The caw-caw, the peeps, and the chirps;
The caw -caw again and
the melodic harmony begins
Orchestrating the morning worship
in celebration of this life.
One songster descanted a high range
as he sang a louder pitch
Distinctly he told tales of ancestors
with welcoming smiles
.
The siren in the distance and the
overhead plane Threatened the calm
The plane resounded as thunder
above all the noise
the birds continued to sing.
I Listened as they go on to conclude
in exuberant delight Warblers warbling
Tweet- tweets deliberating discussions
many more chirp’s peeps and tweets
During the morning meditation.
As the world passes by
I'd listen to the bird’s serenade-
I'd listen to the clucks-
and the cackles, I'd listened
to the throaty warbler-
as he resumes the lead song.
The other birds in turn join in again.
The world rejoices in their songs
all over the universe-
the rest of my day
could never be as great as
the moments in the morning when
I'd meditate and listen to the birds sing.
A loved one closed her eyes
and made her transition;
The chirking birds know-
That the only triumph over
death is to have lived a good life.
So, they continue to sing.
I'd sit and solemnly listen to the message
that their chipping brings
I softly say goodbye.
We shall never forget Euna Davis
as long... As early in the morning
We be reminded in jubilant birdsong.
Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2013
hers are paradise-measured steps
an escalation of the clan’s delight
in a sitting duck of the stream-lets;
& maidens awaken by the twilight
virgins of niger’s hidden chambers
meeting with ancient praise-singers;
“nduru has arrived! nduru is here!”
the echo of the clan’s piper rings
“o, she’s come! o, she’s here!”
seems with her a new life springs!
she: a clan’s fair-haired & elegant bird
with a retinue of songsters furtive & weird.
along a new
whispering palms path
a train
of songsters
throated-ease
& thriving
on trumpet-songs.
You must remember this, the way the young French waiter
pronounced her name, Sarah Vog-gan
singing "April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom,
This is a feeling, No one can ever reprieve..." And how
on a small balcony in Paris where God spends His
summers, a baguette blessed with supper wine is holy.
How Green is the property of street-lined sycamores,
bursting giants of June. And, Blue, the divine province
of Bleu de Paris, a sky gold-kissed in a sly embrace until
no one misses the sun behind summer's spun-sugar
clouds. And, pray you then, think of those mysterious
shape-shifters in the Ebouie' fountain when bereft
of seas, rivers, crystalline mountain streams,
the softly heard roaring of their leonine songsters
took us to a place where the salmon leap,
their hearts bursting for home.
I awake to an early morn, still dark,
to singing birds greeting the day,
Sounds of chickadees and the lark
invade my slumber before sun's first ray,
making sleep impossible to stay.
Wakefullness comes with melodic song,
more soothing than an alarm clock ringing.
As the morning progresses along
more birds join in to the glorious singing.
Such serenity to my morning they're bringing.
Feathered songsters bring such joy
with the music that they choose to share.
The tones and pitches they employ
travel through the still, quiet air
creating melodies, oh, so fair.
Pacific Street
Brooklyn New York 1953
Mud-red clay bricks, hot and worn;
brown-stone blocks carved tenements formed.
Concrete sidewalks slit and cracked
where children skipped a hopscotch tack.
Hear the smack of bats to ball
of palm to rubber against towering walls;
Of jump ropes whooshing through the air
of giggling girls with bouncing hair.
Smell the pretzels salt and sweet,
the chicken soup and borsht to eat.
Bubba’s breast, the rose perfume;
seet cigarette smoke in dark hall rooms.
Taste the vanilla ice cream cone
with chocolate shell that
Dad’s brought home.
The hot red fire ball, candy treats
the egg cream soda down the street.
Do whop Ditty songsters
in August’s heat.
Bubba’s calling from window peaks.
And Tanta’s rocking babies sweet.
Brooklyn, Brooklyn in the street.