Sun-tried tulips
Dried daffodils
Cold cardinals
Skeletal swans
Pupa in pulsation
Birds in migration
Deer in separation
Winter vegetation
Each
And every such
Are tested
And tried
Towards
Resurrection
september darkness
a somber twilight evokes ~
a slumber immured
tree leaves dance and swirl
like floating gems in the sun ~
jewels of nature
swift flight of spring birds
in migration to safety~
an epoch journey
My imagination
soars on delicate wings.
I'm a kite without strings,
a bird in migration,
leader of a nation,
heir to the throne of kings.
When my adventure ends
there's no need of sorrow,
for when comes tomorrow
my mind will make amends
when life graciously lends
the visions I borrow.
On whimsy's back I'll fly
Reality... "Goodbye."
March 20, 2021
Hexsonnetta Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet
Majesty in migration and breathtaking beauty
Human butterflies! O how beautiful we are!
Do not stuff us backwards into worn cocoons
No longer worms; accept them as they are. Now.
Fluttering on foliage, milkweed, Mexican Oyamel
Fifteen thousand to each limb of rare fir trees
Conceiving mysteries of migration for their unborn
That third generation that returns to Canada – minus visas
Butterflies so delicate, so resilient, so many, so few
So threatened, so plentiful and beautiful, varied in hue
Emerging from cocoons of space and time: Volcanic Oyamel
Destined to die. Will we still travel? Mindless six-week life span
(c)Deo, 05262018
There's a stirring within the herd
They sense the rains are on their way
Lush pastures their thinking conferred
Soon masses in migration display
Such desires go so undeterred
Marching bovidae, determination
The Serengeti's their destination
Columns roam like wandering shadows
Skirted by Zebra and Grant Gazelles
Dust clouds in airborne throw
With each mile these masses swell
God's gift will soon be bestowed
Upon a clearing appears the Grumeti River
Next if we endured we'd surely shiver
Banks of steep, foaming rapids thunder
Crocodileans surface peer, awaiting
Whom goes first is sure to be plundered
Will the next escape this frenzied sating
Or dragged torn twisted, surface under
Carnivorous carnage amidst crimson flow
Still there are hoards this migration shows
.
The night whistles as it has in these hills for ages.
It whistles and echoes the endless sound
Of tree frogs and crickets in the thicket,
Of the distant police sirens' call
Intruding upon an under-aged drinking party
Far off into the magical woodlands.
The tone scatters out into the moonlit night,
Hiding behind mossy logs or large wet rocks,
Or running of into the forest until morning.
It swirls in the breeze and off between the branches
Of blossoming trees, still scarce enough
That the sound of their rattling appendages rolls on un-muffled.
It has a rhythm to it, if you think it does.
The whistle skips along the forest floor
Like the many footsteps of a deer herd in migration.
It lacks a rhythm, where ever that rhythm is not heard.
It is the song of the here and now, eternal and ageless.
It's a song that will be heard for as many generations
As this forest manages to survive,
The echoing yelp of a hundred coyotes
Howling in harmony at the silvery full moon.
When I was merely coal beneath the crust of evening,
Reflecting only twilight and bruising cerebration,
I mused a lonely paradigm, a dream of warm persuasion
For something to envelop in my lonely contemplation.
And then in random prospect the pan dipped in the current,
Trammelled something passing, nomadic in migration,
In laminates of dirt inhered the single glister,
A diamond in the dark in splendid isolation.
Then I, no longer coal, morphed and sympathetic,
Became the mirror image of beauty in creation,
Had sought and thus revealed a destiny in nature,
No longer lone and black...but vivid in salvation.
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