dawn-born bubbles rise
lifting in glass to the sky
an exultant choir—
ringing a sacred mantra
to summon the faithful throng
the soft incense clings,
invisible yet binding,
threading through the mist—
binding spirits together
all sharing a common breath
wind shakes the blossoms
perfume drifts out as a lure
for lone foragers—
coming back with a new dance
a waggle step hymn pathway
one for one and all
though small they rise together
heart tuned to one pulse—
a common proud heritage
ancient unbroken alive
when threats bang the gate
when summer's furnace bears down
wings thunder like drums—
rallying to guard the home
defending their holy ground
let us circle close
songs and breath woven in thread
of effervescence
gracious in our common cause—
fizzing in chalice of light
with her boundless reaches
she moves within the crowds
houses with no windows
contemplates the leaves
barrowing with the foragers
wisdom has gone away
fickle with the winds
have reached their destination
the torches watch their gust
You will see them
In the malls
Once proud
Vibrant
Semi-predatory
Creatures
Idling
Semi-lurking
Outside
Ladies dressing rooms
Lingering
Near
Ladies bath rooms
Scanning
Unfamiliar horizons
Seeking out their prey
Short grey haired
Quick
In a slyly agile way
Evaders
Of a known hunter
Foragers
Averting the gaze
Of those
Once proud
Vibrant
Semi-predatory
Creatures
Left holding
Their bags.
I want to taste the new ruffled orange mushrooms Lilly Watt said.
they are known as “chicken of the woods” on oak trees not dead.
shaggy ink caps were jealous, as were bioluminescent blues.
faerie mushrooms danced a jig, found in clumps of two times twos.
foragers from several places headed back outside to hunt the caps
acorn syrup is tasty also said a known forager, Chef Ultra Naps.
faeries scattered as their homes were stuffed into gunny sacks.
said one. Some of these are poison; do they have their facts?
At night you hear the falling where the air parts
to whisper its apologies.
Only after the snow has touched an eve or ledge
do you hear the settling; hollow sounds speaking
between uncountable flakes
as they collide together
creating muted earthquakes just below the stillness.
Then perhaps you may become aware
of the bushy or hairless tails of ice-scuffling foragers;
the patter of padding paws or claws.
If asked, you’d swear the sky
was crunching the surface of dark waters
but it’s just the sound of a colorless gravity walking.
When the snout of lush abundance is full and flowing,
when all prey and creature-kind spill upon the verdant swards,
then it is that I worry night and day,
for the stoat, fox and hawk are at work,
they scythe in the whelm and nimiety, they hack and harrow.
The kits and chuckling’s are many, the light too bright;
for then the foragers forgoing fright, are palpable and open.
The long-eared nibblers, hairs on scattered rodents laid bare,
they scutter, skitter and twitch much in the open
greatly prone to be pounced upon;
their paltry pelts all unhidden, and being many,
and not running, they are huddled; yet not strong.
If this slew not ease, if the grabbers not falter,
if the singled-out dither, the glut not wither,
then the green snake will climb to where nestlings hutch -
they all so easily plucked and quickly snatched.
I worry for the wee brown birds; mottled shells still unhatched.
I fear a winnowing, withal a harsh hazard of gorge and sate.
I fret for the freshly delivered, the teeming,
the newly produced, all the bounding bounty
for those too easily found and so, arrived too late.
At night you hear the falling,
but only after it has settled
on some eve or ledge;
a parlance between whisper and creak.
Beyond the deaf walls,
listening to the bushy tails of foragers,
the sibilant rustle of padding paws or claws.
Ears overhear the pitter-patter of ice crystals
talking to a windowpane.
Outside in the snow heaps,
fur-clad foragers shovel for shelter.
From swaddled hollows
whiskers sense when you turn in your bed,
a body curls ever tighter
around its incoherent flesh.
Right now – if asked,
you’d swear the sky utters
as the snowfalls,
but it’s just the sound of gravity
walking upon snowflakes,
only the tumble of silence
settling.
If I come to you in summer fields
full of fragrant bell-shaped flowers,
would you fly that I might follow
to watch you dance before your fellows
in floral-edged soliloquy.
With vibrant tempos fundamental
you turn and run and circle 'round,
find vertical inclination
to correlate the invitation
and fly the pathway now revealed -
Then come again to summer fields
full of fragrant bell-shaped flowers.
*****
Note: Honey bees are the only known bee genus that uses nest-based communication to provide nest-mates with information about the location of resources, the so-called “dance language.” Successful foragers perform waggle dances for high quality food sources and, when swarming, suitable nest-sites.
Foragers of the Prairie Forest
David J Walker
Faith that the rains will return
Like faith in the next breath breathed in
doth befall without thought of
What it is we are breathing
An atmosphere
Devoid of moisture
A forest of prairie grass
A canopy of the universe in
Hues of day and stars at night
We are living
We are breathing
We are surviving
On a diet of faith that
God hath not forgot the
Foragers of the prairie forest
"For someone's joy is often someone else's despair" by Poet X
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow;
a winter wonderland indeed for them to play -
their parents are not quite as pleased to see it though
(but memories of joy remain from yesterday).
As creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the children's pets will frolic, happy as the kids.
The foragers and playful children can be viewed
from cars that cannot move or only manage skids!
The elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes
-a slip or fall is something to be greatly feared -
will feed the garden birds and reminisce of roams
on snowy hillsides, drives and paths that they once cleared.
And homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last,
their thoughts are far from happy times when snow brought joys,
and pulling blankets up against the icy blast,
their slitted eyes view happy laughing girls and boys.
Excited children grin and cheer to see the snow,
as creatures hibernate or hungry, search for food,
the elderly afraid to leave their comfy homes,
and homeless shiver praying that the snow won't last.
written 7th December for Constance's Created Form contest
At night you hear the falling,
but only after it has settled
on some eve or edge,
then you hear the voices in the snow,
you listen to the bushy tails,
of foragers,
and the sibilant lips of the slightest breeze.
Speech pitter-patters over the windowpane.
Out on the ice,
paws grind and shovel for shelter.
There are swaddled hollows
just like yours.
There are snouts that sense
when you turn in your bed,
when you curl ever tighter
around an incoherent flesh.
Right now – if asked,
you’d swear the snowfall speaks,
but it’s just the sky creaking,
only a crushed silence tumbling
too loudly around your ears.
When the green snout is full
rabbits spill on the lawn.
I worry night and day,
because the stoats and the Red Tails
are at work
even in whelm and nimiety
they hack and harrow.
The young kits are many,
the sun too bright.
Foragers forgo fear,
are palpable and open,
not just
the long-eared nibblers,
the hairs on many scutters
are laid bare,
the sniffers thrive,
are prone to be pounced upon;
their thin pelts all unhidden,
and being many,
and not running,
they are huddled.
If this spill will not ease.
If the grabbers not falter,
the singled-out dither,
the glut not wither,
then the green snake
will climb a way
to the nestlings hutch;
all so easily found
and quickly snatched.
I worry for
the small brown birds,
their mottled shells
still unhatched.
In this gorge and sate;
I fret for all this new life
that has arrived too late.
herring gulls flocking
foraging at the beaches-
disappearing lunch
7/27/18
Contest - Son of Senryu
Sponsor - Brahn Bailey
We forage for humanity,
hidden fruits quench our thirst.
Our hunting grounds, old overgrowth forest
just off the rail-line, down the hill to the
river, was a hobo camp long ago. Broken
pottery, tin plates and old bottles half
buried, speak of life's struggle. An attempt
at a foundation, now crumbling, imagines
hope for permanence, dissolved roots taken
by time.
The search, akin to walking through remnants
of a forgotten culture, feels like trespassing.
We sit and contemplate our passage as Wild
Turkeys scavenge nearby.
Peace is our prize.
Balmy currents retire to southern shore
Frosty streams blight earthen floor
Winter's portents roundly deplore
Wistfully longing for summer's store
For gilded fields, masted trees implore
Harvest's stipend succors no more
Residual huskings now cattle's score
Ingratiating beams now seep through trap door
Bristling wind over meager fare doth soar
Barren limbs are shivered to their core
Fertile seeds, fecund spores in fallowed mounds bore
Wanton foragers denuded channels explore
Spent chaff from nature's vault to gore
Bereft herbivores waiting for spring rains to restore
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