Again the dreams, each dark cold night,
of a white horse, oh sweet delight;
he turns to me, waiting it seems,
each dark cold night, again the dreams.
The snow falls, each flake filigree,
waiting it seems, he turns to me;
a small bird sings, with sad birdcalls,
each flake filigree, the snow falls.
Oh ... be still, I ask my heartstrings,
with sad birdcalls, a small bird sings;
the night quiet, I hear his trill,
I ask my heartstrings, oh ... be still.
And we ride, his hooves a riot,
I hear his trill, the night quiet;
across a meadow, swift we glide,
his hooves a riot, and we ride.
Categories:
birdcalls, dream, fantasy,
Form: Quatrain
Confidently, the topaz dusk light fades,
into the charcoal.
and rusty graffiti on the skyline.
The blue hour brings eerie dirges,
in the form of wolf songs and
whippoorwill wing beats,
while the chokeberry sky weeps,
though the shore appears
inviting with its dulcet lilts of bubbly glee,
It ultimately returns vacuous
echoes of midnight wails
and forlorn heartbeats,
Despite this, the Moon Glade
Waves still come,
offering a space for folktales,
birdcalls, and starlit runes.
Written: May 18, 2023
Categories:
birdcalls, analogy, appreciation, sky,
Form: Free verse
Mystical labyrinth of twisting harmonic warnings
Gazing into infinity’s composing handiwork –
Moonbeams in silver sung sonatas –
Ivory hued cantatas resolved from heart pacing crescendos
Spring’s soothing birdcalls after tympanic thunder.
Measured tempos of rhythms search for their time signature
As aching melodies in moveable feasts of swans
Search for resolutions in atonal firebird tango ballads
Through classical dusty suites of western legends
Not losing pitch or tripping over downbeats.
Too many notes squeeze into four square spaces
When magic flutes songs soar over seraglio dreams
Imperial marches set imprisoned phrasing free with fanfares
And close encounters of key notes discard dissonance
Seeking rhapsody in hues of blue.
Plaintive and joyful - hopeful and merciful -
Healing rhythms inspired from the eternal melody,
A lost chord to haunt then heal the midnight heart
All arranged in one accord from the Master’s apprentices
To rest in finality of one trailing echo of waltzing river.
Categories:
birdcalls, music,
Form: Free verse
The dream begins at the old rusty gate,
it groans- moans as I push it open wide;
to reveal a house in a ruined state,
and through decaying tangled vines I glide.
The house like an elegant sinking ship,
I ignore the grand staircase and paintings;
and on gnarled invading tree roots I trip,
the faded walls covered in moss veinings.
Always my dream steps take me to the books,
the once library room with shelves falling;
old, sad, tattered- my heart on tenterhooks,
I find them all precious and enthralling.
Then- the ivy draped old rusty gate calls;
and I close it . . . to sounds of morn' birdcalls.
__________________
June 23, 2022
Poetry/Sonnet/The Rusty Old Gate
Copyright Protected, 06-1467-307-23
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Theme chosen - The Old Rusty Gate
Written for the Standard contest, One in Five
sponsor, Joseph May, Judged 07/11/2022
First Place
Submitted to the Premiere contest, 2022 Poetry Marathon, Mile 11
sponsor, Mark Toney, Judged 08/12/2022
Categories:
birdcalls, fantasy,
Form: Sonnet
Counting perching hawks
trying to watch what they watch
while a speeding car
beneath tense feet
races to overtake whatever blocks
each sideways glance.
Fifty percent of all bird songs go unrecorded.
Multiplexed avian modulations leave us
questioning our own questions.
Pylons loop their feelers,
thread fragments of electric birdcalls
into sun-slashed glass.
Eyes wide
trying to stay alert to the dangers
a highway offers as it dares all to slip
and slide
into a higher gear of insanity.
Taking in all possible flickering’s,
peripheral snap shots ticking off images
as they disappear into the gone.
Hawks don’t sing or warble,
their voice is hidden between
screeches
of triumph and fear.
Maybe there is a soft voice
for hawk chicks, and their mates
ritornelli sub-sonically cooed through
a razor tongue,
songs never heard
above the roar of our own ears.
The flashes of sound and sight
are blocked by tall trucks
the idling utterances of
stalled traffic
as we wait for the call of the wild
to filter through
a sparking matrix of thought,
but the wild does not call
it only looks at us.
Categories:
birdcalls, poetry,
Form: Free verse
In Christ Church meadow - walked I there,
on late spring day, quite clear and fair,
walking slower than most dare,
for May is under Mary's care.
Sometimes, in arrogance, I claim,
that man needs but himself - the same
thought could not be falser here
as I behold it all so clear.
Birdcalls in the aging trees,
fresh flowers for the buzzing bees,
the sway of grass in gentlest breeze,
the ducks and geese go as they please.
There Oxford's spires break the sky -
I marvel at my thoughts - for I
had once held art in sole esteem,
our minds the well and truth the stream.
So obvious that all we do,
is drawn from what we see anew -
as life begins with each soft spring,
beauteous soil for mind's flowering.
And while I sit on twisted wood,
thinking back to when I stood,
I dream of all the minds who dreamt,
fed by the brook's soft temperment,
and as I walk, I long to see
the ghosts of those who walk with me.
20 May 2019
Categories:
birdcalls, art, creation, inspiration, nature,
Form: Couplet