Best Swallows Poems
The daffodils are dying now,
soft yellow silks wear hues of brown;
in weariness they rest their brow,
against the breeze, in jaded gown.
‘neath cotton clouds and powder blue
the daffodils are dying now;
as fleeting as the morning dew,
their beauty sways by shade of bough,
with trumpets dipped in muted vow
to yield their last remaining glow.
The daffodils are dying now
as blossom reigns o’er winter snow.
And at the final curtain fall,
no encore, just a graceful bow,
as first arriving swallows call
“The daffodils are dying now”
Flying Swallows
With breeze at dawn twinkling sunshine.
Drunken Swallows, flying in wine.
Who else is here? Drunk in his madness!
Destination is near; journey of sadness.
My wings are aging, painful, and tired.
I know for a fact I will get fired.
I’m not afraid of what will happen.
Sunset or sunrise, which is in heaven?
We become part of infinite wisdom.
It doesn’t matter; the ultimate kingdom.
Everything circles; a circle is hollow.
If you are flying, fly with a Swallow!
Haloo 1/4/2011
the swallows soaring
close under dark storm nimbus
while others cower
9 December 2019
Where are all our most beautiful swallows?
powder blue skies seem so empty so bare
why does this make my heart feel so hollow?
icons of summer, why do I despair?
longing for a glimpse of this great blue bird
splendour at sight of their aerobatics
gracefully gliding too and fro quite blurred
natural art of pure aeronautics
gazing into glorious blue yonder
doubting myself if it’s spring or summer
please beautiful bird be my responder
your presence will make me much less glummer
like a mirage dozens come into view
now summer is here our swallows are too.
Moisture coated chair and table
Silvery fog everywhere
Birds sing happily 'pon wet limbs
A few fly in thick air
The Swallows are back flying high
Hunting bugs over fields
Their sonar a guide where sight fails
Bouncing off bugs their peal
My thoughts like a three ring circus
Bouncing around in my head
Foggy confusion dominant
Time on the porch clear dread
My free time soon to diminish
Noise, bedlam will increase
Lord, help we take it with patience
Let my spirit love release
For every good thing there is a bad thing to counter act the joy....
Swallows and Martins,
Passerine birds so graceful;
Aerial by wing.
swallows'
cobalt blue glistens
as they dart catching insects
at dawn against foggy creek rise
freedom to be alive
That one lost their tongue
somewhere along the way
long ago, the sound,
doesn’t come out the same
anymore, so they roll it up
like a carpet containing
a nakedly dead body
of blunt words
like unplucked violins
untuned to how it all
really works
begging to be heard,
and the flowery prose,
purple and bruised
like over-ripe fruit
teeth rottingly sugary sweet,
is now seen
day-in-and-night-out,
struggling with ease
way too much
like madness overgrown,
the dense overgrowth
of language unspoke
hides glittering gems
blushing shamefully
more exquisite than
the now daily averies
all penned in babel
that flow in glass jarring
anticipated patterns
of suffocating
paisley prose,
the simple beauty
in the plainly spoke,
never again
to be seen nor heard,
the mercurial metaphors
birdfeed scattered
to the begging migrations
of petulant bluebirds
naughty nightingales
honey trapping
wet-beaked hummingbirds
all beating hearts
with their wild wind flapping,
tossing sticks and stones
to those tongue thirsty
kiss lapping, lap dancing
love parched, gargling
swallows
Candide Diderot. ‘24
Held inside, my third eye flies through the bars
of this cage. On wing am I, mated I fly,
my spirit undaunted by this earthly stage.
Hollow bones and hallowed heart in play,
I find repast within the air though bars
contain this sage. With tearful eyes, I fly.
With brazen line, I seek to find a stage,
to portray the core of me, swallows play.
A soul who seeks cannot be stayed by bars.
Great Spirit gifts each man a way to fly,
a bridge between his eyes onto the stage
the road open, to the place where Gods play.
Mother, mother dear, I can't live this way.
I drown in dreams and drink, I cannot stay.
After:Swallows by Benjamin Chee Chee 1974
*Sestina Sonnet
First published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art - November 2015
There are many birds that gather
in my yard throughout the year,
however there is one that I favor.
You'll not find her at the feeder
like the others on the dole.
I think her mama taught her
the value of self-sufficiency.
She and her faithful hubby
(Oh how that guy is trained)
have come back to their love nest
on my front porch, knowing they
are welcome.
She taught him how to fix it up
and he worked hard at the job
so it looks like new.
Anything at all she wanted,
he was more than willing to tackle.
Their nest abuts the ceiling, so
I bump my head before I can see
if the shells have broken and the little
ones have put in an appearance.
Once here, their mouths will open
and will never close again
until they are as big as their parents.
Its gnats and gnats and more gnats
that keep their parents slaving.
She tells him they have mouths to feed,
and there is not time for stopping.
While he is gathering their food,
she is shoveling it into their wide open beaks
and then passes him when he returns.
The feeding job is his to continue.
Mama is now on the hunt. They are both
proud of their well fed offspring.
She grabs all of the mosquitos that
her little beak can hold and now
her faithful mate is going out for more.
You will not find better parents,
human or other wise,
than these precious little swallows.
You would think they would be happy
when their youngsters leave their nest,
but they turn around and start another family.
Any villainous mosquito,won't have a chance
to do me harm,with these vigilantes on the job.
I will miss them when they leave this fall
but they will be back again in March or April
of the coming spring.
I imagined myself
One of the swallows
On the telephone pole wire
We will fly high
In the summer sky
And rest on the breeze
To my swallow friend
The same wind
Will take care of you and I
We will build our nest in the trees
Even as a bird
I will carry my heart on my sleeve
But the world
Couldn’t wash it away
Not a care in the world
Just when my next meal is going to be
Will it be a little high?
Or a little low
Who knows…
haikia
~~~~~~~~
another night
torrential rain fills my butt
summer drought respite
-
a blackbird bathing
another overcast day
like Trump dense widespread
-
midges mosquitoes
larvae live food for the carp
land fauna struggles
-
dogwood tree in bloom
not gone unnoticed plus bees
late summer berries
-
no butterflies
two days since then only one
summertime failures
-
most life can adapt
overtime wet nights remiss
wet dry balance gone
-
a happy note
a blackbird sings joyful dusk
still no swallows
Spring tramples the detachment of cold
it heals a winter's damaged heart
Buds peddle new beauty as trees poke
roots from defrosted ground
Barn swallows swoop in the cool air
of sparse meadows
To rest, to breed in man made roofs
A barn's hideaway nooks, soothing
like a Sinatra tune
Birds of blue plummage
tail feather streamers, deeply forked
under breasts of white streaks
like jet smoke flashes
Witt, witt sounds, cheerful chirps
that fill dark rafters
that spice a world pushing itself to spring
Hot specks of flutter
Unmuted yearning
Chirps, feather light, a bounce of canoodling
Bits of song that come and go
like lovers kissing in the hay below
Poem composed: February 21, 2021
swallows' offspring
leave their nest soaring . . .
sky is a playground
Agonize me, harass me
Burn me, scorn me-
Impale my heart with your cruel venom.
Your scourge- my patron-
I shall frolic and revel in it's hatred
If this be but the one,
-the only way-
to posses you
Left with no choice
-for I'll not lose you-
I embrace you completely
In all your raging fury.
A. Green