Long Bird of prey Poems
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Yesterday as the sun was rising on our walk…what should catch our eye….but one humongous…elongated white feather…stretching across the sky.
Our weatherman is quick to inform us…that it’s a cirrus cloud and in it we will find…crystals of ice which means…a cold front will not be far behind.
But when I see a feather in the sky…so tremendous…so long…so white…my mind thinks back to my childhood…and 1001 Arabian Nights.
A Middle Eastern myth?…you might be asking yourselves…Why…
because in this myth the Roc was a huge white bird of prey that prowled across the sky.
Who was large enough to pickup an elephant…from whose arrival even the sun would hide…who, if myths are to be believed, once took Sinbad, the sailor, for a ride.
Meteorologists today will no doubt find my thoughts revolting…but when I see a large feather in the sky…I like to think the Roc is molting.
Besides in a world where we come face to face with harsh realities time and time again…it’s fun to fantasize…to stir our imaginations a little every now and then.
Which is why when I see a feather stretched across the sky…I allow my imagination and reality play….is it the molted feather from one enormous bird…or is there a cold front on the way….
Before you scoff at my ambiguity…as most people and certainly all weathermen do…
let us take a minute and thoughtfully think this through…
A cold front on its way…
or the largest bird one could conceive…
knowing I live in Florida…
which myth should I believe?
Three Birds on the Ticket? Ok, I'll Pick It.
In 1776, a decision was made as to which bird would be the symbol of America's beginning. If the choice had been mine, this would have been the result...
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
First there is a TURKEY, entered as a bird of choice,
but thinking of the ludicrous sound of his gobbles,
I could not choose this one because of its silly voice.
The head of this fowl should be on a toy that bobbles.
I must agree that the EAGLE is quite an elegant creature.
This hunter's fierce eyes make him appear quite ferocious,
But because of his baldness and other distinctive features,
a bird of prey for a national bird is nothing short of atrocious.
I've decided that my vote goes to a bird known for peace.
Noah hopefully sent one out from the Ark, a white DOVE.
A symbol of hope that all warring should desist and cease.
Shouldn't a national bird also be a symbol of peace and love?
A dove should never be considered as weak.
Do not under estimate the bird or his worth.
It's a sign of strength to be humble and meek.
God said, "The meek shall inherit the Earth."
1776: The Eagle, the Dove, or the Turkey contest
A dark bird of prey flew up the heights
Hovering below clouds of the nights.
The villagers spotted it from far,
They had no defence, prayed to the star.
Twinkled it wondered the best defence,
It looked up in search for providence.
The large dark eagle-like felt hunger.
Should it choose the large or the younger?
Asterope chosen by the star,
Bright, lithe, and charming could travel far.
Spying the beast, it flew on its beak.
Staring in its eyes, the beast felt weak.
The beast fell down on the mountain side.
The strong nymph guided her till it died.
The natives lauded Asterope.
They changed the town's name, a perfect swap.
3 November 2021
Rhyming Me A Poem 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Picture 1
9 syllables per line
16 lines
nocturnal bird of prey
with silent flight
softly feathered wings
like warm brown cinnamon
or often soft hued greys
long and rounded at the edges
a hooked bill
and tufted ears
talons sharp for hunting
with a voice mournful
a tremulous wail
sometimes a loud
piercing screech
sometimes a high pitched trill
lives in the forest
near a stream
perfect eyesight
he hovers above his prey
then strikes
the kill is quick
and he flies silently into
the dark forest
the screech- owls
are creatures of the night
with beautiful round golden-orange eyes
always watching . . .
in the dark of night
____________________
June 18, 2022
Poetry/Free Verse/screech-owl
Copyright Protected, ID 06-1466-443-18
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Submitted to the Standard contest, Creatures of the Night
sponsor, Julia Ward, Judged 06/19/2022
Second Place
I’m a falcon seamlessly driven
I can flex and torque
My tapered wings flap like a hawk
Flight feathers long and slender like a ballerina
I’m vicious like bird of prey hunting with eyes
But I’m not like others in my tribe
I would rather burn my feathers like a fireball in the sun
Or sail through the blue unknown
But never kill another anyone like my merlin friends
I want to break away like tenacious winds
Fastest as it can be
My faith flutters my winglets strong
May I be outcast or deprived
But let my spirits soar high
Let me reach the heaven of prayers
My partial me reprimands I will
Down below my falcon lineage will see me through
Later as a fossil in time
But right now I just want to fly like ashes in the golden yellow sky.
Swaying to the motion of the train
I look around
Jostled by the crowd I move aside when nudged
Smile when someone takes a seat
Studying my hands
Nothing has changed
Still five fingers on each hand
Looking down I see my shoes
Nothing remarkable or unremarkable
Just a pair of plain shoes.
Hearing conversations
I turn to listen
The first conversation doesn’t interest me
On my other side is a middle aged couple
Holding hands
Choosing to eavesdrop
I lean forward
Perched like an ancient bird of prey
With an incredible need
To hear what they are saying
So much so
That I forget the swaying of the train
The pushing, nudging and shoving
The heavy breathing on my neck
The sounds and smells
Of a living and moving
Steel monster.
To prepare for the rain
Is important to every man;
Able to meet his needs,
Doing everything he can.
Look at the ants,
Storing up food in summer;
Not to be caught off guard,
Nor hungry during winter.
But more than ensuring
A life in contentment;
One should prepare for
The day of judgment.
Everything on earth
Shall be burned by rains of fire;
Even the arch of the sky
Shall be destroyed by God's ire.
Collect the bread of truth,
Deposit the Almighty's word;
Reserve food for the soul,
In one fold you'll be able to hoard.
Plan to be ready,
Now that the end is nearer;
It is of utmost value
To heed God's messenger.
A message of caution
From the bird of prey;
Hence, the famous phrase:
Setting aside for a rainy day.
In cloud kissed realm of lofty peaks
Lies the clear blue waters of a pristine lake
On which the wind meanders and gently speaks
To a rising mist as dawn awakes
The sounds of nature calms the soul
Leading to a blissful peace
Songs to heaven its beauty does extol
Unveiling melodies which never cease
A bird of prey soars in the sky
As colorful fish dart to and fro
He has a treetop view from on high
Riding the thermals wherever they go
A woodpecker knocks on the door of a tree
As I submerge in this lake of bliss
A bluebird replies with a song of glee
And as I surface, the sky I kiss!
---
5/11/17
Now comes the wind,
stealth like creeper whispering
venting in the shadowy image of the trees.
A calm soft breeze easing in at first,
a sojourner on the bland gray skies,
dim lit end of winter's call, marching winds.
Rising high up in the atmosphere
dropping down as if a bird of prey
eyeing some tantalizing delights.
Breathless mistral bora chilling the air
swooping in unsuspected xlook
tantalizing the coastal seas to rise;
Breathe, taking in a sirocco
as it slips and slides north and east
riding zephyr upon the ocean currents.
To land across the distant horizon
snaking, weaving, twisting along the foamy waves
to touch the earth, twirl it up, down prairie mountain forests.
Now comes the wind
unseen figure spread wide and thin
catabatic current fleetings, scouring the earth.
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.