Long Avian Poems
Long Avian Poems. Below are the most popular long Avian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Avian poems by poem length and keyword.
When nightfall dips in palest of gold
I feel a sense of indignity,
As owl's melody loses its eloquence
Through the absence of a safe abode;
Where quietude calls for avian coos
The kind which never seeks to intrude…
And its orbed eyes larger than neons, freeze
In need of natue's hued, aerial parade---
Startled, bird's forest trail is washed out
By mourning dew of poison
Denying the barren woods of nourishment
while allowing thieves to skin owl feathers,
mangled talons like so, wasted ---
Wise keeper of secrets, hushing the noise.
Life marvels at your nocturnal guardianship
yet, this world shares not your moonlit toots
lithography of hills no longer owns
your delicate interludes of silence...
Man ravages bird navel, flesh , and plumes
For trading quests, for self- interest ---
Can this earthly slaughter cease
sucking nectar soil of birds dry?
Somehow, I still hail the dwindling number
of hooting owls
Which believes that the next generations
will wander on an environ,
Soaring their wings... joyously free at last.
Birds are in conflict with man's technology
It's an epic collision for ornithology
To these noble creatures we owe an apology
We hear bird language, we hear their song
Marveling at the music, we mimic along
Birds on earth are four hundred billion strong
A Bluejay's body smashed into asphalt
Pigeons begging on streets, humbling assault
Starlings trapped in stadiums await release
Jet engines regularly suck in our Geese
Falcons make nests up on skyscrapers
Atop utility poles Ospreys become nest makers
A Goldfinch quite naturally flies
Crashes my window and sadly dies
Shotgun pellets fly wildly at Quail
Our bond with nature could likely fail
For sixty million years birds show integrity
Now we witness avian declining prosperity
Humans need to think and do what's right
Find the balance so birds stay in flight
AI is groupthink, it’s hewed to pre-existing work,
which it aggregates into something bland and flat.
If you don’t want your work scraped and copied by AI, try
writing off-balance ideas that aren’t for everyone and have faith
that AI will never be able to actually rival human creativity.
Deny AI the echo chamber of predictable content on which it feeds.
I polish my pieces to a pointless sheen, which gives
them an algorithmically indecipherable quality.
When it comes my to poetry, I have to admit,
I’m working through mediocrity—hoping that it’s just a phase.
If failure is essential for growth
I’m going to be a giant
But after all, someone has to define the baseline.
You’re welcome.
Ok, Let’s wax poetic..
There are thousands of stars
in that black outer-place
where gravitas holds them
firmly in place.
I fret not about avian abductions,
or unidentified flying soccers,
still, I’ve a waxed on them
in multiverse
.
.
Songs for this:
I Like You (A Happier Song) [feat. Doja Cat] by Post Malone
Late Night Talking by Harry Styles
Heaven is not the word to awaken,
with lemon balm sprig bristle in each lung,
a staunch loam-ridden citrus bouquet,
in an urban copse of dulcet twittering tone,
avian wrens in sweet floral flute glaze,
whose madrigal a charmed chestnut chime,
vast tree canopy quiver note suspense,
clam shell ear tilt of mine to absorb,
scattered mint fragrant leaf strewn carpet,
pale grey glisten brittle branch snap I twig,
rain soak mud clump squelch quaint echo,
still morning usher draped in lambent haze,
teaser trickle stream tucked away a prickle,
deep purple rose bush as dawn shelter,
grass blade tuft flicker on rimmed bypath,
breathless so I am amidst lavish terrain,
spellbound, captivated, eye transfixed,
by clement backcloth to a city in slumber,
indigo blue signpost embossed bold cue,
for empyrean trope as shrewd street élan,
mural chalk mark swirl from deft artist,
gourmet menu flair neath parasol,
overwhelmed, stunned, air passage empty,
yet my first blush stroll sun vital tonic
In pristine jade topography
terrain rolls up and down...
panorama of silent cadence,
on its entrenched cradle
shaped for a serene lake…
sublimely supine,
sapphire crystal face looks up
toward the cerulean sky…
silky span vast.
The gliding southern zephyr
whispers enticing melody
to the dancing ripples…
intensely passionate,
sliding on slithering shadows of trees
lining the contours of lapping shore…
alluringly reclined.
The wavering lotus leaves float
on rhythm of pulsating fervor,
the full bloom scarlet flush
makes collage of fiery tapestry
with feathers of flaming flamingos,
their ballerina legs wading
emerald waters in avian grace,
their supple napes swiveling
in arty show of aquatic ballet.
In hypnotic gleam of the setting sun
I watch the lacustrine opera…
silently enthralled.
April 5, 2019
As Autumn exhibits seasonal changes that abound
Undeniable is the glorious beauty that can be found
Tree foliage is a burnished canopy, gilded by the sun
Upon the land, there is harvesting work to be done
Mother Nature ripens fields, crops of yellow maize
North winds begin to blow, and shortened are days
Autumn paints with colors of rust, crimson and gold
Lovely are hills of maple and birch, visions to behold
Vagabond avian fly south, in need of warmer weather
I am in awe of their formation as they flock together
September stirs my soul with picturesque perfection
Inspiring me for the next month with rapt reflection
October, harbinger of Halloween ghosts and treats
Nights for dancing beneath the stars on city streets
Splendid vistas of Fall are culpable for my heart beats
September 27, 2021
Autumn Acrostic Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Caren Krutsinger
Q: What is avian forensics?
A: Ornithology pathology.
Q: What's the name of Adam Levine's band when they appear in concert?
A: Maroon Five Live.
Q: What is a submarine that only goes forward?
A: An irreversible submersible.
Q: What was a really fanatical peasant in ancient Greece?
A: A zealot helot.
Q: What kind of small pet dog gets carried around in a designer handbag?
A: A Gucci poochie.
Q: What would you call a consumer review of one of Benjamin Franklin's inventions?
A: A colonial testimonial.
Q: What's another name for a woman's "muffin tops"?
A: A girdle hurdle.
Q: If characters are an author's progeny, what does that make "Dorian Gray"?
A: A Wilde child.
Q: What rules of conduct were Senators in ancient Rome supposed to follow?
A: Forum decorum.
Form:
The calling gull leaves her nest
her wild magic cleaves the nimbus.
An avian aerialist suspended aloft
she sails on tapered feathers of cirrus silk,
ruffled sea breeze ironed ‘neath her lustrous wings.
A wind witch, she defies and defines the w-i-n-d…
a weaver of worlds, knotting strings of stories as one wampum belt
in union with the sea’s connection to land and air.
She steals the sough from the surf and the sigh from my sinew;
my guide to a mindful haven. This nurture-maven
glides among bouquets of pink-peony-cumulus.
She; my blue-sky-muse in celebration!
She; my compass rose, mediates my meditation.
I unfurl fresh wings, a night-to-day tern, and claim my turn with the wind
no longer a granite stone asleep on sand. I soar
from the glacial-age strand and lift through fog.. brief my tryst
with mist. Eyes blessed by the crest of a humpback’s breach.
I distill myself, my will; a droplet, tear, a sphere free of guise.
An ascendant of moon-magnet tides yet a descendant
from stratus to stratum, I settle upon the cliffs along the coast
in union with my soul’s connection to body and breath.
In the cup of my hands I hold the sun and drink its yolk,
white-cap breakers below chant a soluble sonnet.
From my inner dark, a flint-spark flares as I find what I lost.
My heart, a wild cranberry, reborn from the womb of dawn.
I inhale the moment. Red clay cliffs, lifeblood, fire-skies merge.
Windswept pitch pines croon as I grow roots for my tabernacle,
cosmic beams stream through stained-glass-eyes.
The calling gull rests. A distant, silent witness to my quest.
My pulse a psalm as I emerge; a cathedral lit by sunrise.
You see them everywhere,
sometimes countless in number,
winged, walking or wading,
running the gauntlet of waves,
filling the air.
Birds populate the planet,
make their home in trees,
buildings, on grassy paddocks,
icy continents and clinging
to the craggy heights of cliffs.
So many. But where do they go
to die. We see only a few
as roadkill or the odd one
decomposing under a bush.
Where are the others?. Surely
death should be more visible
in their ranks, parklands dotted
with those that have fallen dead
from the sky or a branch. More
washed up on a beach.
You would think their remains
would be everywhere
in plain sight. But no.
It's as if the dead slip through
a portal and into the unseen,
leaving no trace. Or maybe
the earth simply claims
and disposes of them
in haste out of respect.
Or do they find somewhere
inaccessible, hidden from view,
a place to pass away
and leave the human mind
to wonder why
the bodies of the avian dead
seem to number so few.
I sip compliance from a cardboard cup. Tight fine steel lines, hoist five lifelike life sized paper mache white swans. The birds seem to wing from sunlit atrium up and over an oak railing to the mezzanine. Dazzling beneath skylights, they depict ascent, flap, glide, brake and then descent towards wrought iron tables. They mimic our trek from mall entry up the escalator to feast at the food court. I sit alone at the railing, gliding swan overhead, and pretend to eye my phone. Today I secretly study humans. Food court stuffed with youthful staff, bargain hunters, transit transfers, mobility scooters, mothers, babies, bags, phones, the braggadocio of men meeting, gaunt faces of the needy. Bodies milling, streaming, yearning. The bubbling cocktail of pop rock, chit chat galore, languages, slanguages, giggles, and that one guy yelling. The carnal essence of commercial cookery. Unspoken competition for tables, at times nearly a blood sport. Each of us tiptoeing through our daily hopscotch. Only children wonder at the swans. Do mall swans search for lost wetlands, or do they strain to join us? Mythology has it that swans shift between human and avian form. The enchantment of Tchaikovsky’s swan, princess by night pirouettes into swan by day. In the wild, sudden bright white, raucous landing, huge bold birds calling, splashing power and grace. I wish we each burst into swan. But flight feathers do not anchor to my bones, nor contour feathers pierce my skin. I vow to visit the wild ones, and leave.
published in "Unbroken" 2025