Few years ago, I drifted on a wetland
swiveling through the pewter
of evening as contours of statelv herons
unfolded...velvety the feathers white,
and ablaze by clear Asian ripples of before.
Yet, from a visit today, my eyes
follow them along weeds...
their poses now limp from a gray night
through rows of frail blooms, fumbling
along a marsh looking old;
their feet throttling in slow sink of motion
against those once radiant plumes:
In quiet reflection, I imagine
these birds' pliqht amidst
nature's environ , steeped in frail
passages of late life stages unattended:
How I weep for these herons' destination
beyond soiled grasses
as I wrap my fingers in prayer,
relishing this instance where
I gaze at an avian delight,
slowly yet wondrously aging through my eyes.
i was a frog who wanted to be king
until i realized i couldn't even sing
a songbird shrilled
"you're only a croaker out of tune"
still i stood on my stump with a tortured smile
croaking my heart out all the while
i dreamed of being a stand-up crooner
a swamp-side sinatra maybe a little sooner
the crickets laughed
the herons one-legged stared
every fragile dream i swallowed
sat inside me
broken and unprepared
the wart-filled toad spat from his lily pad
"you’re stretching your skin boy
settle into the scum"
i carried an empty pond inside
where a thousand thorny dreams went to die
the audience left
the moon went home
a cold blue screen spit its light onto the scum
unthinking
no one returned my croak
i died a little every time i tried
my face looked back from the pond
mud-covered
wart-covered
ugly
my reflection looked away
all it could do was cry
today the water settled
the mud claimed the surface
when i looked down
there wasn’t even a frog
left to die
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
dawn cracks the lake's skin~
two herons stab silver, rise
winter still clinging
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They rise on thermals we cannot feel,
these white-winged wrappers of the air~
shuddering their thin, translucent skin
against the fist of every March wind.
No nest to claim them, no song to sing,
just the hollow rattle of their flight,
the way they cling to chain-link bones
like ghosts who forgot how to fall.
Sometimes, in the slant of dying light,
they almost fool you~
drifting lazy as herons,
dipping like terns over parking lot waves.
But watch one snag on barbed wire,
watch it thrash and twist,
and you'll know:
this is a bird that cannot die,
only tear itself smaller and smaller
until even the wind says goodbye.
The sea is still, a painted glass,
Its breath a hush upon the shore,
As golden light begins to pass
Through skies that blaze and burn no more.
The herons call in liquid cries,
Then vanish in the amber haze,
And clouds drift low like lullabies
Composed in fire for end of days.
A sailboat waits—its canvas furled—
As if it, too, would pause and dream,
While orange melts to rose, then pearl,
And stars awake in quiet gleam.
The palms lean close as if they yearn
To kiss the sun’s last glowing thread—
O heart, how often must we learn
To love the light before it’s fled?
A Pond’s Melody
dragonflies buzzing
spring peepers chirping for mates
splashing fish jumping for meals
blue herons squawking
bilious bullfrogs croaking
quacking mallards leading young
A scything rain crops the high reeds.
Never saw the storm coming,
too busy rowing my mind
through its own river.
The ducks and herons have all gone
they have not flown away,
they have closed their eyes,
and like children have become invisible.
My rowboat is taking on water,
mouth open, I think I am crying the sky.
A small rickety landing
crouches from the downpour
maybe, ten slogging minutes away.
I make the torrent torn bank,
the battered truck I arrived in
has a cold,
its engine coughs, as sodden boots
pump a blind escape route
beyond its drowning windscreen.
Written: May 03, 2025, for contest by Brian Strand
Olena Babak's artwork Spring's Easel Explodes Painting Shades
( It is more convenient to read the poem while looking at the artwork.)
*******************
the light shines in the eye of the whirlwind
whipping vanilla meringue through the clouds
swinging, the swamp lawn shoots over the shore
casting an apricot glow from the shrouds
butterscotch hues lace the periwinkle sky
peach, tangerine, and lavender stripes, too
caramel waves ripple across the lakebed
illuminating the lemon in the zircon view
In lush glades on a cypress-lined isle
pink flamingos find shelter by the trees
blue herons weave twig nests in the boughs
swaying in the warm, tropical-scented breeze
as dusk draws the brightness down to the horizon
Mother Earth downpours on the cornflowers
nourishing buttercups, milkweed, and daisies
while people describe the sprinklers as April showers
The night wind was icily cold.
No herons or olive tree warblers flew,
Only hooded black ravens,
preying on the souls of lost men.
More red-pinkish flowers
dropped from the tree,
leaving the branches bare
until in a few days
the green leaves will sprout,
and the tree will remain flowerless,
an ugly sight, shunned by all.
Suddenly the wind dropped.
He felt despair, sullen and dejected.
Soon no one heard of him anymore.
Some say he hanged himself
upon the very tree that sheds its flora,
Others believed he fell on a stump
that pierced his bowels as he lived
a recluse amongst an unknown tribe.
Others made him their hero
just for the sake of being different.
But he was seen no more.
The icy night wind blew,
the Judas tree shed its odorless flowers,
as true lovers escaped to scented bowers.
Gentle tributary
of a hill-born river
suburban lake caressed
acres of fertile land -
paddy rich, growing fields
Schools of fish raced at depths
water-birds, herons, egrets,
warblers, mynas, pipits,
swallows, shikra, barbets, owls
Bowl that held varied lives
The surrounding city
rapidly scales cloud- heights, as
skilled strategists, land grabbers,
investors, policymakers,
now take her on a ride
The silenced birds, once family
to the lively-living lake,
their provider, now watch
from a mile, her being led
like a lamb to the slaughter
chemical sewers, toxic algae
rotting froth, foam, fumes engulf
volatile, fire-prone, wasted,
water body stands scrapped
A stilled lake, beyond repair
On a vacation trip to the Susunia hills
Green paddy fields smiling outside
Trees happy in the robes of silk
Sun in the game of seek and hide
Quite a long pine standing in front
Light green looks like in your eyes
Great banyan tree from a deep bough
looking at me, in wonder-struck eyes
Before our eyes the hills slowly move out
narrating the stories of dense green curves
In the sky graze the white lambs and cows
In the branches, galore of whistling birds
Fleeting sparks, from our petals and thorns
Ephemeral light in the wings of herons
Sun gazing throughout
the sensual faint hues
dazzling off the lake
the holy spirit appears
in my midst while
giant Egrets land
on cool waters
as thousands of
white herons perch
nestled so completely
calming my gentle soul
while I rest overlooking
America
Sand dollars covers the crusted sandy shores
after the tides roll in and back the sea turtles
scurry across tiny crabs while sea urchins lie
on their backs herons scratch their long legs
sleeping wood storks perch alongside drift wood
while the pecking egrets whistle tiny hints
of sullen chatter cunning pelicans quickly dive
for their lunch while pink flamingos wildly dances
as the colorful peacocks shows off their new hats
the shelling begins with bronzed star fish nesting
upon the calm edges of tomorrow carving deep
sand dunes watching crawling sea horses gallop
while the sun peeks in around noon sun showers
sprinkles giant rain drops creating tiny hues of private
rainbows my bicycle bell chimes nearby the boat house
calling to Joe's crab shack in time for Izzy's to serve
fresh stuffed flounder to go with the blue berry scone
from Pete's Ice cream shop while craving clam chowder
I began to whisper lyrical tropical tunes with such ease
while simply embracing this sensual soft Caribbean breeze
when my river ran into your waterfall
startled egrets and alarmed herons
reached for the sky
the claws of surprised osprey let go
of wriggling fish
for a long moment
florida became a frozen lake
you could see the stunned faces
of stopped clocks
trapped beneath the ice
when we plunged
into each other unheeding
of time and place
plastic flamingos
and pink barbie dolls
flew away
in the wide open eyes
of passing snowbirds
rainbow archway dips
windswept foliage embrace~
wading white herons
12/5/2023
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.