Best Sparrow Hawk Poems
How beautiful the sounds, sights of nature
In the distance alarm call of a cuckoo,
beautiful sound of summer Tanager
Blackbirds hopping around getting in a stew,
Acrobatics of swallows, swifts, Martins,
Crows of the carrion, rooks, jackdaws, Raven
Cooing of turtle doves and wood pigeons,
Chittering robin, eyes closed what heaven,
Finches so sweet, green, bull, haw, gold and more
Speedy blue, great, coal, willow and marsh ****,
nature is such a pleasure never a chore ,
Seeing these wonderful birds thrills two bits
Serenity while watching our game bird
Pheasant, partridge, grouse, geese and mallard duck
Graceful swans glide, sights and sounds must be heard
Wading birds sifting for food through silt and muck,
birds of prey, kestrel, sparrow hawk, Peregrine
Eagles, buzzards, goshawk, ospreys skilful hunters
Larks hovering, lap wings, owls, magpies so pristine,
Sea birds, waders, hunters, lovely colours,
These moments of relaxation, undisturbed
listening, watching our beautiful wild birds.
bittersweet vine
twist like pipe curls on a finger
blue birds sings
bird song arias
wake the sun-soaked cat napping
feathers fly
down laced twigs
incubate the Robin’s blue eggs
puss licks his whiskers
lofted sparrow hawk
warm basket of new born kittens
noon whistle
Tantalizing wind
Meadow ripples, full of life
Caterpillar morph
Bird of prey, predator's eye.
Silent glide across pasture.
There is a sparrow-hawk souring high and low around a huge forest,
Searching, just above the ground into the farm lands and gardens,
He swoops down in a morning sun an atmosphere soft and delightful,
Like a bullet over cowslips and primroses, there is one less robin,
His tail is long and slim it sets him apart from the other hawks,
He flies through his skies clipping the abundant nightingale wings,
Although his eyes see for miles he flies fast and near the ground,
Young pheasants hide in the rich green grass of a lush hidden meadow.
The secret meadow has been left untouched and alone for many years,
Home to the Austrian briar, Guelder roses and fiery orange poppies
Enjoying the peace of a spring morning the grass rich with clover,
The hawk catches a small bird that hangs in the air and swoops away.
The air of the grass is delicious, scattered flowers nod in a breeze,
Butcher-birds are noisy a sure sign that they have some young chicks,
Turtle-doves are abundant in the near by forest well hidden by thorns,
Above all, in an old oak a hawk sits watching, waiting for his dinner.
The sparrow hawk is so near dear!
Shush, shush, or, he will surely hear.
Yes, yes, you are a rare beauty
with a fine voice, a real cutie.
Enough tweeting, be silent please,
we’ve a nest full of babies, geez!
My sweet song bird, I’ll free your beak,
if you would only shush, don’t tweet!
As a sparrow hawk
Talons fully extended
Time, devours all things.
the red kite whistles
to it's mate soaring above..
from their nest of love
chatter in the sky
northwards,in neat formation
migrating geese fly
a magpie arrives..
the starling's melody dies-
soundlessly death cries
just one flap of wings-
the sparrow-hawk makes its kill
pouncing down at will
I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Chapbook on acrylic tube palette, janus-faced cave in
at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to circus of the soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrow on my
hayrick haggard brow.
Backwater sonnet form leaning towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter fragile eggs on
loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tight rope knot escarpment found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another
blue-sky canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork but a tapered column
lost in grey day whimper.
Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed in woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.
The hedge sat quietly on the side street while people passed by on their daily chores
She bathed in spring and summer so sweet as red roses and campion grew by her side watching and listening while family's grew and died
Meandering colours of Persian jewels daisy's and buttercups she shelters sunflowers reach the sky protected from the northern bluster
Sometimes she would get a trim to her sides
As she grew even higher birds made nests or sometimes stop to rest or hide from the sparrow hawk
She would listen to children play and adults talk
Wondering what life would be like to live this way
And when you pass by take a thought for the hedge stands today like her brothers and sisters throughout the globe
And even in the cold of winter refuge can be found
In the hedge
-
I saw my sparrow hawk one summer back
It landed on my wooden platform specially made for him or her last year
A chest of creamy fur and a keen black eye.
An unusual sighting I ran to my mobile phone and flashed
Oh dear first shot messed up.
Second shot success as it flew away
Excited to see I developed the picture and the bird was not there.
How come. Then I noticed the smallest tip of a wing. My bird was lost.
Lost against the blur of the leafy bushes as she flew M shaped away.
My wife saw it so often I was jealous. My moment had came at last.
It came and went in a flash a wasted one.
And I have to now wait another summer.
What was that I just heard
I think it was a baby bird
The sparrow hawk has come today
To take some baby birds away
He doesn’t come to be nice
It’s all a question of life
He has his own brood of chicks to feed
And his supermarket is in the tree
He doesn’t have a qualm
Neither does he have a farm
He just happens to be calm
When he dives down and snatches supper
It’s all about him having the upper
Silent flight, hooked beak, sharp claws
Will break down the door
Bye, bye, baby sparrow, your short life was gifted for another
And so life goes on
DAMO
To the tapping bird
by KateM @ 2015-03-12 – 12:48:21
A bird taps on this window every day,
Frail as flying leaves are in a gale.
But now he perches on the potted bay.
He feels the weather like the blind do braille.
This bird is faithful and I hold him dear.
He's fearless as he pecks upon the glass.
We hope he has a modicum of fear,
For who knows when a sparrow hawk will pass?
I see him like a human soul forlorn
Struggling to discern his fateful way.
For soon he may be taken by a storm
But blithely he will eat, and after play.
The smallest bird has trust in the Unknown
By his example, our own way is shown
RAPTOR
sparrow hawk alights-
the chattering
stops
just one flap of wings-
the raptor makes its kill
pouncing down at will
Whenever I’m able I raid the bird table
I snap up some mealworms and go
The nearby house owner a bad tempered moaner
Berates me because I’m a crow
That snotty Rob Robin just sits there bob bobbing
And snaffles as much as he can
He’d better stop soon he’s the size of the moon
But this doesn't bother the man
Those flashy goldfinches are only five inches
But make a cacophonous sound
Like lambs to the slaughter they come down for water
But I’ve called the sparrow-hawk round
But hey what’s point of a crow having brains
If not to get ill gotten gains
Raiding that fella’s bird table is fun
Caw blimey... he’s got a big gun!
24 May 2021
Contest: Personification poem 150
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Dare I This, To Such Marvelous Dreams Dream
A baby, once in a small wooden crib,
Humanity's seed, vestige of Adam's rib
I watch as he nurses then falls to sleep
The afternoon sun, beaming golden deep
Quiet spreads, contented soul sets to muse
I wake, he is six now trying on shoes
Lo! I marvel at how fast the years flew
I pray that, he becomes a brave man too
Such that sets himself a poet to be
A great dream, such as once stirred in me.
As night falls, he mumbles rhymes in his sleep
I hear that music, my soul begins to weep
Dare he to such a heavy burden choose
When wicked world and odds say he will loose
I hope, I beg, fruitful blessings on he
And that a sincere poet he may be
A true believer, still a child at heart
One to study the masters, their great art
Promise of a world and a life to grow
Born to feel this deep love, its mighty flow.
May treasures of words fall into his lap
Afternoon sun glows, I wake from my nap
Aghast, I see my son bottle in hand
Yet a baby, 'twas just a loving dream
A magical trip down a wondrous stream
I ponder, do my words his mind compel
And perhaps gift poetry's loving spell
I fear, knowing in dark times it is hell
To him, I shall not such morbid thoughts tell
Tho' I toss coins in that wishing well.
I shall speak of poetry and its gems
As sparrow hawk across blue-cast skies skims
Floating in summer air, happy and free
Just above forest's magnificent trees
And flower meadows singing out that tune
The splendor of bright sunny days in June
And I, his proud father cheering him on
My son, a man, a fine poet now grown
Dare I this, to such marvelous dreams dream
That son and I, one day be such a team!
Robert J. Lindley, Dec. 9th, 2006
Edited, Feb 5th, 2021
Rhyme, ( A Dream And A Great Blessing Once Wished Long Ago )
Note: 2-05-2021
Alas! A dream that has not yet come true
my son now fourteen told me he likes poetry but
thinks writing is not for him.
I ask what then?
He says, Dad, I do not know yet.
I think perhaps a glimmer of hope yet remains,
as he gets older and a bit wiser.
I will let him choose his path in life, but will also
attempt to set him towards writing poetry as a
pastime, a hobby.
Hope being a wonderful thing.