wheep wheep
whee whee whee whee whee
crickets and birds
chirping and tweeting at nine p.m.
my front porch sounds like a bog
we are close to a marsh
mosquitoes verify this
bull frogs take up their violins
crawdads hum
big dog and I sit on the porch, listening
breathing in the Kansas night air
enjoying natural orchestra of the evening
the sky darkens
now there is silence
The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
We ponder life, each his own strife, this old cow boy and me
He clears the gate with one old cow
They amble past the here and now
And take me back to the woods by the creek
And the hedgerow post pile by the birthday tree
And the chicken coop and my first chores
The mem’ries flood
To the water tank and the crawdads there
In Holstine’s pasture, way in the back
Not far from a line of walnut trees
Black and tall against the breeze
Each straight as a sentry at his post
Who walked this land
Bow, rifle, plow in hand
It connects me to the land my feet
Negotiate in the autumn heat
I’ve drifted south, as things seem to go
Yet somehow in my soul I know
I’m tied to the land in a way not seen
By those whose mem’ries aren’t so keen
For the ground they trod when their feet were bare
But my mem’ries warm… and it takes me there
Trumpet-like lilies by the lake
preen for the flamboyant flamingo,
sifting through the murky waters,
searching for algae and shrimp
where crawdads click and clatter.
While silvery fish glide stealthily
leaving barely a ripple behind,
a chorus of frogs’ croaks
echo like the whining twang
of a plucked banjo string.
Dragonflies skim the water’s surface
as their translucent wings shimmer
like gems in the sunlight,
dart about the amaranth lilies
waltzing in the summertime breeze.
no pole is needed
just a bucket for minnows
and small crawdads too
Where do crawdads hide
buried in muddy creek banks
living the good life
I remember
running into the woods
free spirit
no worries
picking berries from the vine
eating peaches plucked from the tree
catching crawdads in the creek
taking in the smells of nature
watching life transform
in front of me
Leaving the train left us rattled
braising sounds abruptly heightened
my senses measured completely
beneath sullen moments within
quiet calmness thee essence of
Arlington cemetery the hidden forestry
catering to tiny mounds and trees
industrial findings nestled crawdads
flew out sparingly creating winged mesh
emptiness covered in insects flesh
“Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
Sheltered within my mother’s caring limbs
Through spring, summer, and autumn
I felt secure all through the changing seasons
Happy I was with my siblings
Playing, giggling, and whispering
But when I watch birds flying in the air
And the blue of the sky peeking through clouds
Instinctively I long to fly aloft
Into the enormity of a realm with no boundaries
I don’t know why I feel sometimes
Trapped in a jungle, so stuck and stranded
Pinned down in an awful fixation
Then I hunger to be a bird, spread my wings,
And ride upon the wind to join in an odyssey
Once when I announced my desire to my mother,
She said, “you are now mature enough
To free yourself from my sheltering clasp, so, I let you go”
Thus, from my caged existence, here I go
Slipping away from the cords that bind
Swaying and dancing on silvered wings
Jan.4.2023
~ Placed Second~
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Sara Kendrick
“Autumn leaves don't fall, they fly. They take their time and wander on this their only chance to soar.”
Quote By: Delia Owens, Where the Crawdads Sing
Crisp swift wind whistle clear, autumn leaves fly
Good-bye, how they are heard with a faint smile.
Fiery pinwheels spinning and scatter high,
Crisp swift wind whistle clear, autumn leaves fly.
Place for the Mockingbird's nest, for a while,
Their song so wistful they take to the sky.
Good-bye, how they are heard with a faint smile
Crisp swift wind whistle clear, autumn leaves fly.
1/4/2023
7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124). The author is "Delia Owens"
Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick
Golden rays filter through rustling red leaves
Oscillating fall colors to rhythms of evening
Amid sounds exotic as animals roam freely
Deep into wilderness, where rare birds sing,
Where trees groove merrily to musical winds,
Whirling, weaving motifs of autumnal glee;
While leisurely they stroll, exulting playfully,
Exchanging stolen looks of notions romantic,
Divulging, without words, secret love-missives
Lying dormant, yet simmering for some time,
Virgin passions strumming enamored minds
Revealing now openly, fervent beats of life.
“Oh! how I wish” she says, “to live in a cabin,
lingering timelessly, savoring realm pristine,
of blazing autumn prairies, burbling streams,
wandering to spring reveling your company;”
As moonlit vibes sparkle, love in bashful eyes,
Rejoicing first-ever kiss, blissful in paradise.
January 3, 2023
Placed 7th: Feel Free Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
“Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing.
Based on quote 7 above.
When the leaf falls from a dying tree
in the brisk autumn breeze,
It seems to sprout wings
like a fledgling that spreads its wings
and sets off from its nest to explore
the wide expanse of the free skies.
Riding a roller-coaster ride along
with the free-spirited wind,
the leaf wings its way through
the fields and the plains to find
a safe haven to ride out the winter.
~Contest: "Feel Free Poetry
~Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
(7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, Their only chance to soar.” Owens, Dalia. Where the Crawdads Sing,
Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (P. 124)
7. “Autumn leaves don’t fall; they fly. They take their time and wander on this, their only chance to soar.” Owens, Delia. Where the Crawdads Sing, Chapter 17: “Crossing the Threshold” (p. 124).
In Spring we are svelte and supple….youthful,
Summer brings our exuberant spirit to the forefront,
we dance, we waltz, we murmur our breathtaking
stories to each other!
Autumn tiptoes soon like a coy, veiled bride,
making us shiver with intriguing anticipation!
our colours turn so stunningly beautiful
we feel an ecstasy marvelling at our own lustre…
orange, scarlet, amber, tangerine!
oh my, fiery red hues envelop our sheen!
our prosaic existence fleets away,
we get intoxicated in a riot of colours!
begin to float in a sea of euphoria!
We float, we flutter.. we wander..
twirling, swirling, whirling in the air,
swooshing around the tranquil trees!
This is our only chance to soar above
our humble lives…we are not the prettiest flowers,
but we create a decoupage of kaleidoscopic
beauty, incomparable on its own!
"Feel Free" Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Sara Kendrick
Quote 7 Used
20 lines
I say, go far past where the crawdads sing,
explore and sample this beautiful ball.
It matters not the baggage you may bring.
The Earth is big, but you can begin small.
Just remember, her magic will enthrall.
With wind at your back, you are at last free!
You have set sail on life's open sea.
Keep those moments left behind to inspire.
You can become the one you hoped to be--
strong, passionate, like a gemstone with fire!
December 24, 2022
Dizain
for "Feel Free" poetry contest
by Sara Kendrick
First Place!
Just past far as you can go,
yonder, where the crawdads sing,
out beyond time’s ebb and flow,
festival is full in swing.
Bullfrog’s on the tympany,
joined by pileated drums.
Katydids join company;
bold and bright, the bayou hums.
River Daughter glides the marshes,
carried forward by the song.
Haunting, her harmonic partials
rise up high above the throng.
Time to sleep, my lovely children,
lay your heads upon my breast.
Hush, a blanket, mutes the bayou,
safe and snug in slumbered rest.
Morning breaks in warm orange glow,
yonder, where the crawdads sing.
Casting off their bedtime clothes,
festival is back in swing.
—————
for the Feel Free Poetry Contest
sponsored by Sara Kendrick
written on 12/20/22
[ Quote 6 ]
By many aliases they're known:
Crawfish, crawdads, mudbugs, yabbies.
They abound in brooks, and streams, and swamps,
As well as roadside ditches and rice paddies.
Their astacology has shown
They prey like scavengers and mobsters,
While some, more taxonomically aloof,
Try hard to pass as mountain lobsters.
Throughout the world as food they're meant,
Both from the wild and from the grocer,
But not as a substitute for meat at Lent
Because they're not considered kosher.
And so the cunning, craven crayfish,
The ones that didn't get away,
End up in boils, or bisques, or soups,
If not served up as étouffés
In swanky overpriced cafés.
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