An amazing perching songbird,
the males are bright, lively and striking to see,
a splash of color in Canada's winter snow.
Can survive in the coldest of temperatures somehow,
to sing beautiful whistling songs
repeated over and over from a bare tree top.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
in the frosted morning light, she reigns,
a splash of crimson 'midst the snowy grains,’
gone in a fleeting glance, the world's beauty contained.
spotted brown boobies
in the Caribbean salt -
flying fish are caught
Dreaming of pink flamingos, their beauty,
their bite…dreaming of flamboyant flamingos,
so close to shore; I’m in the ebb and flow.
Where has my protector gone as I regard
the flock; awash with blue sea foam.
Dreaming of their carrot necks; nibbling
the serenity of their stretch; dare I touch
the earth or sky, the sandy beach, question why.
Where has my protector gone as my eyes stray;
why am I pulled by the surf; do I dare mingle?
A sudden shock of night in the brightness of bed.
a solitary digit in the bird’s beak. confident that
my husband will save the day, but it’s not day.
The pressure put upon; I can still feel the squeeze
as I awake in the third strange room of the week.
My protector lies near me, oblivious of my plight.
Birds fly as one thought
in magic they swoop and soar
sensing their sunset
The ancient path
Comes into being
Awareness of one's being
The older days
Comes into a past
Recollection of memories
The fruitfulness of a soul,
Flexibility of a mind
Leads to discoveries
The upliftment of the sea floor
Productivity of a seed
Modifies the tradition
The memorandum of a culture
A mystery of a future,
The ancient ways
Comes into resources
Fluctuation of ideas
The oldest man
Comes into a present moment
The seasons of a soul.
He lays motionless
Amid the browning leaves
his tiger striped coat
More than a disguise
The bird feeder
Drew the combatants
A swaying dance floor
Scattering its bounty
He would wait
Stragglers would come
Eagerly anticipating
A last call
He would provide it
Five Flashes of Crimson
In Agricola, where the late sun lies,
And October's gold is fading from the skies,
A fence post holds a simple, wooden line,
And hosts a sight both crimson and divine.
Not one, not two, but five bright feathered vests,
Have paused their chatter and settled on the crests.
The Northern Cardinals, with coats of fire,
Are drawn by hunger to a sweet desire.
They dip and peck at berries dark and round,
A quiet feasting, without any sound.
The male's sharp scarlet, a defiant gleam,
The female's blush, like an ember in a dream.
They come in kinship, a brief, familiar flock,
To gather fuel before the sudden clock
Of dusk arrives and chills the Mississippi air,
A vivid portrait, painted right there.
A messenger of hope, that flash of red,
A loving soul, the stories have been said.
But in that moment, nothing quite so grand,
Just five bright lives, eating from the land.
Who ate the last dodo bird
thinking it would do just fine
for family Thanksgiving dinner?
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
The crying seagulls spoon midair —
Their December tongues slow to moor;
On wings in sky like some white's tear.
The crying seagulls spoon midair —
Within their chase, coming to spare
A dirge for ice's front on shore —
The crying seagulls spoon midair,
Their December tongues slow to moor.
hawk
soars
above
kite
ttes agi
hou. nst
sill. blue
no
strings
attached
from the mountain top
eagle eye view of the lake
heron pushes off
O that god would change me to a sea-bird,
soaring in the sunset,
joyously and free,
leaving all my sorrow
for my own tomorrow,
far beyond this lying world’s illusion.
I would fly away to that bright garden
past the ocean’s ending,
where eternity
nourishes the flowers
through their perfect hours
never touched by human life’s confusion.
To fly away, away, away, away, away on wings of wishing,
where the golden apples swell in ripeness,
and the fertile meadows
bloom abundantly,
bringing forth earth’s treasures
for the deathless pleasures
granted to the gods in calm profusion.
-- translated from the Greek
Vaults of wealth, goodwill
Grabbed fistful, spill o'er like sand.
No one's worried still.
Sweeter are found fruits in hand,
And sour, higher up to fend.
Mocks a mocking bird:
Not grapes, sour seem ways to mend,
Change ere sour turns curd.
_______________________
Tanka (Senryu) | 08.11.2025 | bird, change, fruits, goodwill, wealth
Note: Wealth and goodwill when invested and nurtured would yield well. But man’s first instinct is to grab like a miser. For, grapes are sour if too high to fetch. A mockingbird mocks in this Tanka.
orange breast and tail
the cute blue-fronted redstart
so beautiful bird.
Specific Types of Bird Poems
Definition | What is Bird in Poetry?