Hawkish Poems

Hawk Ascending

This day-shine has a wine glass for every atom.
A great pond of light floods a crystalline skyscape.

Here in a wind-turned clarity
glints of a lantern-etched lucidity
take substance and form.

Clearly, only elemental spirits
could have conjured such, with their innate power
to engrave the invisible.

Looking back, I see, stamped into feature,
a flight, a bolt of breathing, hawkish tinder.

Over my shoulder, swift unfurled talons
seem to seize the bare and leaping air,

only then, do I spy a prey
wriggling into one last appearance
as wings arrow upwards.

Hope

Halcyon of hiraeth,
Helm harvesting green-gold 
Haven above hawkish
Harlequin harbinger, 
Heart of seven sisters, 
Heliophilic hail
Healing halo, love-hued.

Osprey

In a turning acre
the high dark silhouette
of a river-hawk.

Wings sharply-etched,
now it dips, and light reveals
each fine feather
as a clear signature.

I looked and saw
the carving flame of its life
branded, and stamped indelible.
A bolt of breath, a hawkish tinder
clearly reflected on the mirror-mere.

And if
the life of this world
is born of fire,
then this morning
as I looked over my shoulder,
I spied the swift innominate
unfurl its talons
to seize
a wriggling, silver
moment.

She Can Dish It Out But

You have a weird head she said. What is wrong with it?
I don’t know I admitted. No one told me this ever before I met you.
She smirked. Her blue eyes were glowing; I thought she was being funny.
Surely they mentioned your nose though, she said. It’s so hawkish.
Actually, no one had. She is new today though. I figure she is being friendly.
So I go along with it. “Sure, my mom calls me beaky,” I say.
Her eyes have stopped smiling. She turns serious.
“What about those spots on your face? How did that happen?”
“You mean my freckles?” 
She nods.
“They are from my grandma,” I tell her. We both have spots. I love that.”
She keeps the banter up. Others at the lunch table are staring.
I can tell my best friend is dying to say something.
She bursts out with this “Why are you such an ignorant fat cow?”
The new girl runs off bawling.
Why did you do that? I ask her.
Her face is all red. 
She cannot answer.

What Can We Do

A feathered clutch once bewailed –
What can a sparrow do
in a sky full of raptors?
The red-necked puckers’ won’t arrive
until blood smells like copper pennies.

She was only one winter old,
cried a fuss-bucket booby.
Begone crone.
 croaked a plumed strutter.
A fish needs a fish for its supper,
little girls should not roam
far from their nests.

One bold worm spoke forth
before the lollers and gawkers.
She ate only half of me
before the hawkish lout knocked her out.
Now I must bury us both.
Fellow travelers, both the peckish and the pecked,
we all belong to this green turning morgue.
All must ride the sky-wagons
where last breaths are turned to rainclouds.

What can we do?
Sobbed a brimful of hatchlings.
O what can we do?
Boohoo, boohoo, boohoo.

Hawk

A great pond of light
this day.
A wine glass for every atom.
Then in a turning draft,
lantern-etched and lucid,
a clear signature,
a thing only flame and water
could make with their power to
engrave light.

I looked back and saw
stamped into feature, a flight,
a bolt of breath, a hawkish tinder.
This morning, over my shoulder,
swift unfurled talons
seized the bare and leaping air.

After Easter

Hawkish angels with golden bows
chase away shawnee and wolves.
A sinewy faith built the rough and ready.
We were pleased to claim this land
for Jesus.

Despite the tornadoes,
we continued to raise
Midwest cities
from a leather flogged bible.
We were conceived in closets
where ancestral bones watched.
Buried in leased plots;
stones marked our lack of,
or notable faith in affluence.

Just past Easter, cracks appeared
in a pink painted sky.
An ethereal plaster crumbled.
angelic limbs hung,
caught in a cracked tableau.
Plastic arrows littered marbled floors.
A mall dream, but the dream had legs
unseen, they kept running
on the spot.

Log cabins transported themselves
to Theme Parks.
The Tuesday after Easter
hope clogged casinos,
took root.
God began to fill
storage units
with all His kids 
persnickety dreams.

To Little Birds and Tweeting An Ode

Hail, little birdie perched on tree!
What hast thou now to say to me?
“A little bird has told me so,”
As many say. This well we know.
How joyfully I hear thee tweet!
Not every tweet I know is sweet.
Though tyrants sneer and gluttons burp,
How glad am I to hear thee chirp.
It’s always big birds get their way,
Owls and eagles, night and day.
In arid wastes do vultures lower,
While hawkish eyes green pastures scour,
But birds there are that stand for love,
Most notably the turtledove.
No leafy twig a raven bore
When Noah’s eyes beheld no shore.
Spurn little birds? Why be so narrow
When there is One Who marks the sparrow?

True Cowboy

Tan leather boots with fancy stitching
Butterscotch vest with pencilled fringe
Polished black Stetson size eight and three quarters
Faded denim shirt with copper snaps
Silver oversized belt buckle that shouts rodeo
Deep gravelly voice with cigar precision
A pronounced limp unnoticed for years
Shoulder soreness no longer felt
Calloused hands scruffy with purpose
Symmetrical Unadorned hatband 
Chiseled well mapped chin
Blue eyes faded by hundreds of suns
Hawkish nose with brownish patch
Saturday night cowboys stare in awe
Trying so hard to look the part
He wears with ease, unaware
He is being studied, real cowboy
Doing his own stuff, no agenda
Unconsciously perfect
In his maleness

Song of Dawn

SONG OF DAWN


Ears pierce with SONG of DAWN!
intoxication of impending day,
echoing of succinct birdsong.
What is spoken of in morning,
bathes the mind, in serenity.

Hawkish wings took flight,
during the spurious night.
What seems like quicksand
or a cauldron of molasses -
like disappearing ink, VANISHES.

Slowly, like a curtain rising, for
a spectacular play, dandelion
seeds take to air, the skies BLOOM.
A sunflower surrounded by blue
grass, as my eyes behold the heavens.

Some scars remain but seem
to belong to a distant planet -
especially before a phone rings,
before a voice breaks up the silence.
I relish the sip of a simple cup of PEACE!

Kim Rodrigues © 2017

Morning After

Race over now:
Blue makes way then,
Red gains somehow,
New mandate hence.


The vote is in:
Flair in odd choice,
A new glyph seen,
Triumph of mad poise.


Wary world sees:
Markets on edge,
Stakes falling free,
On dangling ledge.


Sense the divide:
Mind-boggling stars,
Watch scary slide,
Tattoo strokes far.


Cheer takes a trip:
So far away,
Reason fails grip,
Dead logic slays.


Pieces of eight:
Parrots old fear,
Dread in gold plaids,
This much paid clear.


The people's choice:
Loud murmurs steal,
Stance in grave voice,
Art of the deal.


Awe strides with shock:
Tinge of regret,
Hurl lock and stock,
Pluck tit-for-tat.


Alarm bells ring:
Dance of new trance,
Karma can swing,
Glimpse hawkish prance.




Leon Enriquez
09 November 2016
Singapore

Aha Haiku 7

Bamboo leaves
Speak to the wind;
Ancient murmurs

~~~~~~~~~


New day hurls fast
Hymn of birdsong;
Sunburst glare

~~~~~~~~~


Birthday moods
Moments parade;
Hawkish sights

~~~~~~~~~


Curious tourist
Digital memories;
Another picture

~~~~~~~~~


Silent sentinel
Watches over me;
Guardian angel

~~~~~~~~~


New air-con poise
Cool ambience streams;
Outside heart wave

~~~~~~~~~


Evening dark
Hungry baby birds;
Chattering instincts

~~~~~~~~~


Here by this beach
One solitary figure;
Early excursion

~~~~~~~~~


Shoreline at dawn
Sun beams dancing;
Bird wing moments

~~~~~~~~~


Transit trains
Crowded station;
Rush hour devotion

~~~~~~~~~


News flash
Another plane crash;
Aviation tragedy

~~~~~~~~~


Bay window view
Two black birds;
Morning choral

~~~~~~~~~


Haiku soliloquy
Speak to the dawn;
Dazzling skyline

~~~~~~~~~


Joy comes again
Melancholy lapses;
Mindful moments

~~~~~~~~~


Crowded spaces
So many faces;
Loneliness presides

~~~~~~~~~




Leon Enriquez
24 May 2016
Singapore

Ganymede

A somber dome protected fondly from the heights
Of solitude by hawkish eyes was found at length
By Jupiter in his relentless storm of lights. 
In there lay, hidden from all view, a youth whose strength
And beauty could ensorcel any heart and spark long fights
    Among all those who’d lay their eyes
    Upon a gem which all restraint defies. 

The master of the heavens, in a show of skill,
Engulfed the tower in a ceaseless rain of gold
To kidnap fair-eyed Ganymede and then, at will, 
To bring this shepherd to Olympus, in a bold
Attempt his fondest wishes to fulfill. 
    And thus, borne high on eagle’s wings, 
    A lad outdid the fame of kings. 

Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com

Thy Kingdom Come

THY KINGDOM COME

Partridge ey'd widow wailed
'Give me your life'
Pawn broker, hawkish, grunted
'Take the money and vanish'
Howling of contentious hyena
'Stop shadow games, get lost'
'A handicam', tweetering daughter
Son sneaking at late hours
Fumigating inside shut doors
Fatigue from farthest room,
Wrinkles and heaviness.

Cherished love perished
Dexterous rope dancer
Sober attire in bean monde
Fiascoes in War and Love
Cortege on street
Dalliant moon shower, coquettish

Is this Thy Promised Land !!

Dig nails deep
Uproot conch inside ribs
Life sap dripping.
This is my blood and flesh
Thou shall have it.

Dispassionate soul hung at eyrie
Rest in pieces,pounded
And Thy Kingdom Come !!!

A Hawkish Silhouette

perched in the meadow roots like talons                                                                             limbs poised in a upward arch                                                                                                         moonlit tree sits and waits

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