weird bird sound
variation of a squawk whistle
it is camouflaged
no idea if this creature is from here or another planet
a gray moth lands on my pathetic-looking dog bed
she puts her wings together
I hit my hands together hard
trying to kill a mosquito
I miss
two bees hover
I hope they are honeybees
they are tiny so I am optimistic
they are not; they are bumbles
someone’s lawnmower is humming
Not the farmer next door
His is louder
the bumbles are walking across my porch
this seems odd
they are usually flying
who who who who
an owl?
not quite a hoot
whatever it is, it sooths me
nothing as wonderful as a morning on my porch
with a cup of coffee and a puppy
sponsor : Constance La France
29.9.25
Placed : 3rd Standard Contest
_____________________
“Love is the Supreme Artist Unseen” Poet
with a silent kiss does sperm enter egg
butterfly fondle pollen in morning dew
starling swallow caterpillar askew
with silent kiss does sunbeam caress window sill
spoon dips shallot soup with gentle will
waves ripple shelly shoreline in thrill ~
with a silent kiss does newborn lick nipple
cloud embraces cloud, fluff huffed ripple
bud petal unfurls to air in dare
wrinkled stranded beggar’s knobby hand
smooch offered seeded loaf, prime brand
hands warm curl steering wheel, feel genteel
anchor lands on jewelled ocean floor
with silent kiss does sewing needle pierce
linen white, knife smear butter delight
dolphin fin rouse whale tail, ship returns lipping
the silent kiss but Love in polar need
destined to meet in embosom’s clasp
receiver with giver unmasked grasp
~~~~~
In the sweet spring air,
We love a long walk.
I fancy he listens
As I blabber and talk.
I playfully sigh
Once we come in the door —
Someone’s muddy paws
Have painted the floor.
In the hot summer air,
We drive to the beach.
He pulls off my flip flop,
And runs out of reach.
As dusk settles in,
He nips at a firefly;
While never successful,
He loves to just try.
In the brisk fall air,
I need time to breathe,
But he begs, “one more time,
Throw my ball to retrieve!”
When I bring out the pumpkin,
He wants his fair share.
I say, “down boy, down!”
But he acts unaware.
In the cold winter air,
Snow lands on his face . . .
Just a second of calm —
Then a squirrel to go chase!
Only back inside does he now shake off,
Melting snow and frost cascading.
I groan but deep down I know:
What makes his personality his own
Are his quirks and irks,
Misdeeds and misleads,
Imperfection but true affection,
That I would, of course, never consider trading.
From her delicate wings a fine powder exudes and lands on the ground
by the light of the blue harvest moon a touch of Pixie Dust, in nimble magic !
Harmonious weaving, intangible strands of music coming from the sphere
sweet and beautiful arias, melodious twittering from a fairy wing's enfold
Wings not made of nylon, cellophane nor iridescent tulle but made of silk
like spider's webs tough and resilient from the Master Spinners pedipalps
Appendage wings made from embryonic liquid from ejected Neutron Stars
like butterflies they flit and fly through air currents, landing on little twigs;
Fairy dust of old as ancient as the parallels from this world to the next
dare say I, ... if ever you have been subjected to their fairy dust appeal
then flying limbs you shall receive and like it or not you will fly away
inside a land of pure magic where every thought is like a sweet reveal
From her delicate hand a sweep of the wand resting easy on your shoulder,
one single dose is feathered on you and suddenly, you are able to hold her !
I want to be heard.
Like a bike dinging.
Whirling by, has a path.
Enjoying the busy howls.
I want to be heard.
Like a harmonica.
Making unique sounds.
Breathing hard and music is made.
I want to be heard.
Like a helicopter.
Which eats the sky with its blades.
And lands on a landing pad every time.
I want to be heard.
Like a bison.
Like a campfire.
Like vanilla extract.
Opening my backpack.
Heaving this bag on the counter.
There are no tools or clothes.
Just deflating sounds.
I want to be heard.
Even if it’s just the sound of deflating.
I squeak from exhaustion,
scrub vomit from the school floors,
absorb the weight of every spilled secret
behind washroom doors.
I smell of bleach and failure.
polish mirrors for reflection and selfie.
I perform invisible magic tricks -
No one sees the man who walks in me.
I endure the mockery of polished sneakers.
A rare "thank you' keeps me walking.
The mop lands on me so often
like a bored companion teasing.
I resist collapse, with tape and hope.
Hold a wish like a pebble in my heel.
I seal the day behind the mighty bars
into a night that forgets how to heal.
fly lands on my face
once is not enough twice now
annoys me greatly
she swiftly flies off
landing on the tv set
where is my swatter
perfect autumn day
a romantic proposal
raven lands on knee
the groom is startled
the crow is victorious
ruining the mood
There I am, sitting upright on this forsaken bed.
The moon has just come into view, and something bright yet
out of reach is what I see, and right away I make a wish.
A wish to be sent back to a time that has been rejected.
To open my eyes and find myself at furthest corners of the countryside.
A place where only the subtle breeze of the wind can be heard,
and as a consequence, silence has gained a voice.
The sound of leaves rustling hit my ears, as I am lying upon a bed
of flowers in the meadows, watching the sunrise
in the early morning.
When the sun sets, I gaze at a butterfly as it lands on my finger
and I close my eyes to hear the birds chirping.
However, my wish finally ends and I hear laughter across the hallway,
only to see a hearty meal waiting for me, with people I can call home.
Though the place may not be the one that was desired,
the company was the one that was wholeheartedly acquired.
Howdy friend, I'm new in town.
I think I'll jot a few things down,
which, I hope, might take a frown
and turn it upside down.
OK, now let's play a game,
to see how much we are the same.
These are things that make me smile:
a new bride walks down the aisle
the radio plays my favorite song
a child has a place to belong
fish in a clear mountain stream
being part of a team
I'm weird, I like insects and bugs
but I also like kisses and hugs
a funny, animated cartoon
a cute face on a red balloon
a caring nod, a holding hand
the twanging of a rubber band
a sunny day on the beach
biting a juicy, dripping peach
riding the crest of a wave
climbing into a secret cave
I like to scratch my dog's fur
and the voice of Karen Carpenter
In the morning it is fun
to see a flower meet the sun
a kid on a hot day with a hose
a fly when it lands on his nose
I like to watch a top when it spins
and when the underdog wins
the smell of fresh baked bread
a good story to read in bed
to see the shining happy glow
of a child's face in a talent show
I like munching raisin scones
and wild animals that no one owns
please note, I am also smitten
by a week-old big eared kitten
There are many things I would rather do
Trixie, my muse is tapping me like a tattoo artist’s needle
She is annoyingly insistent, brazen and persistent
I decide to ignore her; I have other hobbies
The poem she wants to write floats in the air of my art studio
I throw fluorescent orange paint onto a canvas and ignore her
She sends a wasp that lands on the paint
This is maddening
another line of her poem shouts in my ear
I cannot fight Trixie any longer
I put down my brush and pick up a pen
Fireflies at night.
Are busy.
They light up with attitude.
And land on my shoulder unexpectedly.
In the summer.
Cars going by sound crisp as they sweep through town.
My head is unmuffled.
And my hands are free of those gloves.
Winter hassles.
Like clearing the driveway.
My voice is raspy from the cold air and sicknesses.
Winter boots would get muddy over and over.
In the summer.
Fireflies light up to make us feel excited.
As one lands on my glass of iced tea.
Reminding me to fill the glass again.
I know that this lake will freeze again.
And soon, we’ll forget about the flowers.
Nothing exists in the winter.
Except hot tea and hot coffee.
One of the last fireflies of the season.
He dropped by and told me that it was almost September.
Then, he flew so high up, I lost sight of him.
One of summer’s last magic tricks.
The lake froze.
My hands almost did, but I got mittens on in time.
I have blankets and coats in my car.
My car starts up harshly and loudly in the winter.
Fireflies at night.
Every summer.
They say things and dazzle us.
And they will next year too.
plink, plink, water in the sink
sinks slowly into budding suds
torturing the pans and fork tines
who want cascade - show on the road
plink, plop, hands over ears, now stop
but slowly the spatter of drops
like the slow go of a rain storm
keep habitating, repeating
their ear-splitting, liver-bellied
bullying of the spoons and cups
the apron-covered giant turned
off the faucet, threw in the rag,
then the sponge, ew…her hands with gloves
now each piece, that is us, is scrubbed
and ah, true running water-rush
each of us towel dried, put ‘way
from nightmarish brutality
we rest…we rest..until lipstick
lands on the side of grinds in cup
and pan slams onto surface heat
in other words, we get beaten
then comes water in sink, awaken
the bully who sleeps eight hours
look forward to vacation, hers!
He zings through tall grasses and lands on my knee
I try my best to pull this sticky legged insect off me
He chortles and chuckles and pings off in the wind.
This hopper of grasses surely has annoyed and sinned.
Another one of these pests zings onto my shirt.
Giving me the willies, I scream at my cousin Bert
Get the lightening bug jar, let’s catch this foul creature
This grasshopper gives me a wink; he’s the double feature
Why are they so sticky? They are as tricky as glue.
And why, Bert, do these creepers never land on old you?
I guess I’m not as sweet, he says, with a wide smile.
Another one lands on me, says “Hi! Just call me Lyle!”
from the edge of the creative cosmos
her star lands on her lap with billion candles
their tantalizing twinkle ripple
in the rhythmic rapture of the dance of angels
in sync with the symphony of her heart
she protects from the worldly winds
the shining stellar sequins
elegantly embellishing the ethereal robe
called the motherly love she wears
in place of the feathered wings of angels
in the emotive detachment encapsulated
within the cauldron of isolated melody
self-doubting symphony gets dismantled
in the discord waves of her shifting identity
strained senses perceive the split scenario of life
as sentiments turn into convoluted feelings
sculpted silently by the divided soul
conversion creates the deluding entity
an alien in its own renovated realm
completing the illusive paradigm of duality
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