Best Waterfowl Poems
The river looks calm and inviting,
a natural gift of beauty.
Waterfowl inhabit to feed and nest.
A gateway shared by creatures,
dangers hidden beneath.
The river is beautifully calm and serene,
its powerful dangers are often unseen.
Currents can swirl hidden from shore,
tragically become be a drowning door.
A natural resource to respect and admire,
a gift of nature that will never expire.
Unique with brackish water properties too,
with legends of sea creatures venturing through.
a white egret soars
diving into spawning fish ~
a river regale
9/5/2020 (edited 9/6/20)
Writing Challenge - Nature, Four in One
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
Upon the lakes they do swim gliding so effortlessly
These species of graceful waterfowl the largest of anatidae family
In their beautiful pure white plumage with elegant long curved necks
Blunted beaks and big webbed feet living together by water's edge
These magnificent creatures of the waters are a sign of purity and love
Remind us of the blessings in our relationships a gift from heaven above
If all goes well in there pairing they will stay together for rest of their life’s
When they glide upon the waters of our awareness they bring us deep insight
These birds of Mother Nature they’re exquisite and unique
Bearing exotic waves of beauty to our dreams as we do sleep
They swim around in our divine mind adding colours of delight
Encouraging us to spread our wings and take our glorious flight
Courting occurs on rivers and lakes throughout the known world
Whilst they live on plant life tiny fish and scattered bread as well
You might see them duck their heads as they feed upon their foods
But you better beware of their aggression whilst they protect their broods
The elegance of these myterious birds are displayed in a ballet dancer
Dancing into our emotions with their romantic artisticpower
Transforming our souls with delightful moves bringing us into harmony
With a brilliant performance of balance, control and technical flexibility
The beautiful dying swan pours its heart out as death draws near
Greeting this with an exceptional beautiful ending balladeer
Its modulated voice singing the swan-song of death so sweet
This harmonious sound can be heard as its last creative piece
The crown retain the ownership to all unmarked mute swans
A ceremony takes place once a year and lasts for five days long
Swan upping is a tradition dated back to the twelfth century
Markers row up and down the rivers paying tribute to the Queen
In England they’re a protected species and owned by Her Majesty
The wing spans on these wonderful birds can extent to several feet
These sacred aquatic birds male and female cobs and pens
Those little cygnets and swanlings on a swan lake that never ends
© Copyright KC.Leake
8th December 2014
All Rights Reserved
Bird of Prey
On Banyon Lake, where waterfowl dwell,
The night was tranquil and held no fear.
Until came a sound ascended from Hell.
I heard a menacing cry as I drew near.
Upon the shore no wave did break.
No whispers on the wind were heard.
Nor was there a splash on the lake.
From any waterfowl or roosting bird.
The anxious cooing of mated doves
Cried out a warning on this ominous night
They heard the screech from far above,
And trilled warning of a hungry bird in flight.
A mother swan, at the edge of the lake,
gathered her chicks beneath her wings.
It was a time to stay alert and awake.
In the face of danger, no bird dared sing.
The predator hovered high in the sky.
I saw her shadow blanket the moon.
With yet another shrill, piercing cry,
I heard the faint wail of a single loon.
There was movement among the reeds.
The hunter circled in search of her prey.
Her only focus was to fulfill her need
Before dark gave way to light of day.
Talons lowered, she opened her beak.
Again she screamed from great height.
Eyes focused on the fish she did seek.
Upon her wings, reflected moonlight.
Down she plunged with swiftest speed.
With keen senses she was able to snare
The prize that would sate her needs,
And enough to feed her fledgling pair.
With a flap of wings she rose in the sky.
A fish clutched in the grip of her claws.
All the birds were safe. I let out a sigh.
Fulfilled was Mother Nature's basic law.
A stilt legged egret came out of hiding.
Swans craned their necks in a swoon.
Doves continued their calls and chiding.
A nightingale whistled a joyous tune.
On Banyon Lake, where waterfowl dwell,
All was peaceful, serene, and still.
Upon the water, silver moonbeams fell.
The bird of prey had eaten her fill.
22 June 2010
A Breakaway
For mankind has the power to think big
History puts them on the pedestal of their career
Aimless drifting until fatally engaged into a drilling rig
Raised a surface at the heart of the sea to exploit oil on its frontier
Oil wells at the deepest sea-bed formed million years ago
Also, a marine habitat that proliferates at the cold bottom
Rendezvous for waterfowl and aquatic mammals arrived apropos
To add spectacle to the blue water, as accustomed
The freshwater flowing in a cascade of sparks
The sea free access to an ocean while some in landlocked
Life on Earth comes in the seas and we proceed to embark
As ocean currents supply the heat energy round the clock
Many ritually unclean substances are passing into oceans
Adulterating the purity of water in its freshness
Oil spills from off-shore and tanker spread discoloration
Suffocating marine life and ingesting illness
Chronicling the ecological cycle literally affect the food chain
Stripping resistant to their organic structure and suffer
From the toxins of oil spill prevents water replenishment
Coating aquatic surface with stain holding tougher
A closer look at dead birds and aquatic mammals
Leaving a baleful mark on the waterways
Cleaning up the breakdown oil is costly and fatal
That I may see no more escalating sense of bad omen into the ocean’s forays
13th place winner to:
GULF OIL SPILL CONTEST
7/4/2010 Sponsored by Team PoetrySoup
WHO WERE THE PILGRIMS ?
JAMESTOWN
1607
Four hundred years ago high-born Brits sailed to America
Seeking fast fortunes, adventure and fame.
Many would never endure their first year here
Cultivating, foraging, and hunting game.
Arriving in Virginia they came ill-prepared
In search of gold and a route to the South Seas
What they found were hostile Indians,
Insects, starvation, and disease.
“Virginia is Earth’s only Paradise!”
The laureate of England would proclaim!”
However by August of 1607,
Every day there was anguish, and pain.
They ate their horses, dogs, cats and rats
One man ate his wife and hid her bones in the ground.
Despite their hardships, half managed to survive
Becoming America’s first permanent, English town .
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING
The Pilgrims held their first Thanksgiving
At Plymouth in October 1621.
The bitter winter of 1620, was over
With a loss of many father, mother, daughter or son.
Life for survivors was much better now
As a good harvest improved what was rationed
Settlers enjoyed good health and prosperity
As homes were raised from the logs they fashioned.
They walked unafraid and safely in the woods
For they had made peace with the Indians.
After the signing a long-lasting treaty
Natives and Pilgrims shared the land as friends.
Sending four men to shoot waterfowl and wild turkeys
The Pilgrims decreed a holiday of good fortune
A chief was invited who brought 90 braves
And five deer to increase the portion.
It was an open-air roast and festival
Held along the north bank of Town Brook.
Where there were games of skill, chance and dance
While everyone gorged on the feast they cooked.
From then on Thanksgiving spread through the colonies
Though each region chose its own date.
Till in 1789 President Washington proclaimed
November 26 a day to give thanks and celebrate.
The theme of Thanksgiving has always been the same.
Though its date has changed many times.
A day for giving and remembering the less fortunate
Expressing thankfulness with our prayers, hearts and minds.
It is our duty as a nation to acknowledge providence
Of Almighty God, and to obey his will.
To be grateful for his blessings, and protection
As we humbly partake in the tables we fill.
Far out to sea in the great expanse of water an island lies
Shaped like a crescent or bulls horns called the islands of the moon.
White sands blown by gentle winds and washed by azure sea
Lush forests filled with abundant shrubs and every fruiting tree.
Animals roar and squeak some crawl and slither by
The cool thermal air with everything that can fly.
The outer ridge is like a sheer cliff wall where gannets dive,
While within the crescent is calm and peace as gentle breakers roll.
Clear green water with no weed clog shelter exquisite reef
Where turtles come ashore at night to lay their precious eggs.
Sea maids stretch out on the sands and sing their wandering song
And passing whales reply with notes ponderous and long.
Butterflies in glorious colour, cloud and gather in flittery throng
While hummingbirds buzz and sup sweet nectar juice all day long.
Caterpillars smoking hooka pipes sending smoky tendrils high,
Moths both small and mighty trying to be the best in the sky.
Within the central island a lough spreads and expands,
Where waterfowl of everykind swim with nests close at hand.
There is a mountain tall that towers over them all,
Caring and protecting from stormy weather squall.
His name is not known to mortals like you and I.
His children alone know to pronounce it you would die.
The islands of the Moon lie far out in the great sea,
Tales alone are all we know as no eye has ever seen.
Sailors, pirates and all who sail the mighty seas of the world,
Under darken sky and myriad star all tell of something odd
When on a misty night as the doldrums have taken hold,
Sometimes can be heard the song of sea maids bold.
To search all the seas would take a lifetime or more,
Better to be safe asleep in hammock till ye snore.
(C) Andrew Mcintyre
I remember you kissed me inside and out
Against he confines of a foreign couch
Drag your finger along my jaw line here
I love you so much. I feel like i'm going to get sick
I look around and see through a haze of lights
The windows of your car are fogged and lusty
Your lips are so soft and sweet and harsh
Lacrosse and football that’s all you talked
I ache! I ache! Lets loose ourselves
We snuck traces of each others skin
While spinning stories about the 49’ers
A campfire around me, I smell smoke.
Baby you wont, burn, oh baby.
You worked at a prison
Dirty little waterfowl, hear that gun pop
Watch the sky turn red
Lingering in the store front openings, smiling in boots
A dimple to close to your illegal mouth
I’m so Cold, I’m so cold
Little tokens, food and gifts
Your skin, your eyes like sweat and dirt
Near you I smell blood and exhaust
I never wanted to tell you I loved you for someone else
Pitter-patter scrapping huff
Touch my lips and tell no one
Hear that pretty baby purr
My best friend liked you so it never happened
I think you had grayish hazel eyes
I thank you for punching the love of my life in the face
Goodnight beautiful, goodnight, goodnight
Watch the sky bloom and burn with lights
Acrid fuming burning smoke
In a bed, in an RV, please don’t make me go in the water
Don’t yell at me! Don’t you sit there and yell at me!
Goodnight Handsome, goodnight, goodnight
I like the way you turn red
Like a sun kissed glory, like a broken bleeding mouth candy
Keep running, keep running, tell we outrun temporary.
Lets fool around in this Christian school
Lets be honest I don’t love you
I never will
You’re a smart boy, wheat colored hair
Glide across that water, I smell smoke and I am burning
You brush my lips and ask what’s wrong.
I cry I cry
I don’t love you
Hollow, hollow empty soul
I call you crying my love eternal
The phone rings, it rings twice
You pick up and you’re all alone
“ I can’t talk because I love you.”
All alone, broken scrambled.
Call me back…
Heaven doesnt let you call collect
The grass, just about dry,
is canary, clothed in evening sun,
now sinking beyond the colorful portrait,
canvassed on nature’s abundant spread;
a brilliant form, painted by fall’s seasoned fingers.
The cool breeze funnels through valleys
carved into towering crags,
and gently commands the trees to stir,
while prompting nebulous wits to think of wintry smiles.
A lonely guinea hen begins a boisterous chatter,
moon-stricken;
a crack at preserving a cogent mind.
Water lilies, a daub of pink and white,
caressed by the sun’s slight light,
settle buoyantly amid roaming rain clouds,
but secluded from toadstools sowed in animal droppings
on the mucky banks, which hush the tributary.
Waterfowl soar across the blue in a unique motif
to slice the resisting wind, and ride the up-lift.
Young goats ramp on the giant shaft of a fallen oak tree,
and Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.
The bovine, English-bred, is a burden to his mother.
Round and apathetic; he lurches like a drunk.
His back is a toilet for egrets and sand-pipers.
He impedes the progress of the herd,
and the bellowing is far too concentrated around the stream,
where, on tranquil days, sad reflections trickle away.
If anyone should inquire why life here is such a drag
Your best reply should be:
Lulu’s cow has a calf, a male calf.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING
The Pilgrims held the first Thanksgiving
At Plymouth in October 1621.
The bitter winter of 1620, was over
With a loss of many father, mother, daughter or son.
Life for survivors was much better now
As a good harvest improved what was rationed
Settlers enjoyed good health and prosperity
As homes were raised from the logs they fashioned.
They walked unafraid and safely in the woods
For they had made peace with the Indians.
After the signing a long-lasting treaty
Natives and Pilgrims shared the land as friends.
Sending four men to shoot waterfowl and wild turkeys
The Pilgrims decreed a holiday of good fortune
A chief was invited who brought 90 braves
And five deer to increase the portion.
It was an open-air roast and festival
Held along the north bank of Town Brook.
Where there were games of skill, chance and dance
While everyone gorged on the feast they cooked.
From then on Thanksgiving spread through the colonies
Though each region chose its own date.
Till in 1789 president Washington proclaimed
November 26 a day to give thanks and celebrate.
The theme of Thanksgiving has always been the same.
Though its date has changed many times.
A day for giving and remembering the less fortunate
Expressing thankfulness with our prayers, hearts and minds.
It is our duty as a nation to acknowledge providence
Of Almighty God, and to obey his will.
To be grateful for his blessings, and protection
As we humbly partake in the tables we fill.
THANKSGIVING
It's a time of plenty and a time for prayer,
A time for families to gather and share.
It's a time to remember those pilgrims past,
A time to celebrate life, while it last.
As we bow our heads around the table,
With turkey, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie.
Before we feast we’ll thank our Lord
For the blessings of the year gone by.
Old Jack Frost is freezing on the windows,
As outside the bitter wind blows.
While inside there's a red, hot fire,
Which welcomes and warms both hearts and souls.
By Tom Zart
(Written about 2005, as a sonnet, but I cannot recall why I used 13 rather than 14 syllables per line. Maybe Petrachan? Forgive me if it fails the sonnet test.)
For My Wife and Daughters: STREAMS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
eighty percent water in me wants unity here
oscillating in bones, gurgling words in my bloodstream,
verging on vigorous waterways, my own river
converging dreams, I take our daughters to park and stream
few, if any, waterfowl and fauna peek at us now
tiny tributaries of separation bring dirt
now, even in spring, the waters are still running low
no flowers or flora frolic between sky and earth
we inhabit deltas of exuberance, then the freeze …
shallows of calm showed my girls sunfish, pebbles galore
abounding like diamonds in my land of jealousies
now, as streams in the world begin to slow, run shallow
I am one in the God of all, born of Africa
my daughters’ bloodstreams murmur songs of America
Morning’s misty mourning lays her shroud upon the lake
With imprinted recollections at the end of autumns break
Copper shades reflected though the hazy hanging veil
Foretell with pastel palette of the coming winters tale
The bracing northern wind that sweeps the cobwebs from the shore
Allows the reeds and grasses to resume their dance once more
As the ripples on the glass lake lend tranquillity respite
and stir the dormant waterfowl, raising mute swans into flight
The distant purple mountains, like sentinels hold fast
Vanguards in the distance, they withstand first winters blast
In apprehensive mode the lake, awaits the coming snow
As winters threatening message warns the vale with icy blow
The autumn leaves forsake the trees, who brace themselves for war
In naked stark defiance, standing gaunt along the shore
The busy boats that bravely bobbed in bustling summer ranks
Now cling like mussels to the shore upturned on the banks
Mysterious eerie visage of full moon comes forth
There is eerie wild sound coming from woods to the north
It will have its grip on soul of the night henceforth
And it will be sound underlying mystery thenceforth
It is the owl making ho-ho resonance as it flew above the meadow
And then disappeared in moon lighten shadow
Her eyes giving off predatory glow
They say some birds can carry soul from heavens to Earth bellow
The owl that makes that eerie sound
Suggests that her soul is unbound
And that is profound
Because things from other side of the moon by her are found
Athena is known to have an owl
Not raven duck or waterfowl
It was an owl
That not only midnight forest but spirit world would prowl
Athena and her owl were followed by a cult
What would owl bring to our world question is difficult
Maybe it is mind that needs no foundation to reach result
Not referenced by continuity only to its definition would be this result
There is something about those forward facing eyes
There is something about the silence with which owl transverses the skies
There is something about abyss like depth that in her eyes lies
When the eyes pierce through one’s very soul one knows owl is wise
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
.
Oleaginous material, produces threnody in waterfowl.
Their dirge_a lamentation reaches up to the third heaven__God.
And all the women wore antimony on their eyelids to view..
If I could wave a magic wand and make a fantasy week,
I would rent some cabins in the wilderness near a tourist town.
And fill each one with my family’s love…butterfly kissing cheeks.
With all my children and grandchildren happily gathered around.
Camp food aromas would fill fresh air, tantalizing and good.
We would joyfully sing campfire songs amid giggles and sparks.
Talk about the “growing-up” days while warmed by firewood.
Each child snuggled under someone’s arm as happy as larks.
When darkness came, the moon would shine upon a distant owl.
Whip-or-wills would sing their tune; each child’s heart would thrill.
We would say prayers as a family thanking God for waterfowl.
Together on our beautiful earth, enjoying the quiet still.
In cabins nestled under the stars, amid the black of night,
Beneath scented cedars and pines, we would dream our souls to sleep.
Anticipating sounds of dawn and beautiful mountain sights,
I would lie awake and soak it in, remembering sweetness to keep.
Awakened by the sounds of dawn and crisp mountain air,
I would take my camera for a walk, photographing with flare.
In every bit of nature, I would recognize God’s care.
Thanking Him for sharing sights of deer, antelope, and bear.
When the week was almost gone, we would take a family ride.
And go to the nearby tourist town to shop and look around.
I would buy each some western clothes, feeling good inside.
And tell them I am proud that family love flows unbound.
On that last day, while packing up, we would hear waterfalls cascade.
All together, my children would work, singing a wilderness song.
As I, watching grandchildren, would thank them for good memories made.
Then, upon returned to each his home we could carry this dream along.
© October 4, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen