Long Grebes Poems
Long Grebes Poems. Below are the most popular long Grebes by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Grebes poems by poem length and keyword.
Autumn again enters stage right and makes her colorful debut.
Lacy leaves brighten the days with gold and vermilion hue.
Summer leaves that once graced stately maple and aspen trees,
Are now swept along in eddies by the gentle autumn breeze!
Subtle breezes ripple the waters upon which sprightly grebes cavort.
Migrating geese stop for a visit at my pond finding a welcome port.
Squirrels scurry about with much ado collecting their winter fare;
Their bushy tails waving delicately with each gusty breath of air!
A scent so pleasant carried by a wafting zephyr placidly weaves,
About the neighborhood with the aroma of burning leaves.
Children scatter leaves Dad has raked into an inviting pile.
He cares not, recalling childhood autumn days with a knowing smile!
The sun begins to make a shorter arc each passing autumn day,
Sinking behind the mountains with a spectacular sunset display.
A magnificent harvest moon, that eternal ruler of the night,
Provides mellow ambience as it traverses its nocturnal flight!
A cooler breeze now begins to kiss my summer-tanned cheeks.
This morning I saw a dusting of snow on yonder mountain peaks.
The seasons hasten on, another glorious autumn is passing by.
Gentle autumn breezes bow out as winter gales and snow begin to fly!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
With clouds dispersing above Loch Ba,
to where would we go? And just how far?
We followed the track for more than two hours
listening to birds enjoying the flowers:
meadow pippit, willow warbler
curlew, lapwing and skylarks,
bog asphodel and milkwort,
ragged robin and lousewort,
plenty of pignut and wild thyme.
The remembrance has more value
than contriving a rhyme!
Around us the trees alder and oak
contorted old rowan and birch
all covered in lichen and mosses.
After lunch we returned along the shore
with grebes, geese a raptor and so much more.
Isle of Mull, 14th June 2024
We met at the beach again this morning.
You asked me to come early, before work. "
Oh, I don't mind that," I answered.
Though I did wonder why the time changed.
For five years now,
it has always been around midnight.
We both loved the way that
the moon made the water
look like satin.
Everytime we meet,
we see the grebes dancing on the water.
"They are lovers," you explained.
"They will only dance for each other. Loyal."
I smiled. Silently,
I hung on to your every word.
For I was certain that you knew
what you were saying.
"I've been hearing things about you," You said.
"Disturbing whispers of weariness.
I'm sure that can't be right."
I hung my head,
hoping that
you didn't see my tears.
"I wonder...how come they don't sink?"
I murmured.
You turned your attention back to the grebes.
"They don't know that they're walking on water.
They are far too busy with the task at hand,"
You answered.
I defyingly stared straight ahead
because I felt your disappointment in me.
There was an uncomfortable quiet
as I awaited my scolding.
"The birds are still dancing,"
you broke the silence."
"I just can't imagine what keeps them out on the water for so long," I responded,
relieved that you changed the subject.
You stood up.
Never looking again towards me,
you smiled, almost gasping, and said,
"They will not tire.
They are busy with the task at hand. Perhaps,
once they've completed it, they will realize that
only Jesus walks on water."
With that, you stepped out
and joined them in dance.
Worshipping in Nature's Sanctuary
by L. Milton Hankins
Johnny-Jump-Ups nestle into the forest floor mosses,
Along with dainty Jack-in-the-Pulpits hiding beneath
The larger fronds of swampy ferns soaking up moisture
From the dew-laden flowering branches of laurel
Where I find myself dreaming in the verdant woodland,
Edging the meadow beyond the cluttered beaver stand.
A canopy of vine-entangled branches, a vault-like nave,
Provides a sanctuary of sacred candles dimmed for mass
A pew-less haven for wounded souls, and tiny chipmunks,
Who scurry to find isolated spots for quiet meditation
While grebes and gallinules make up the choir ensemble;
A purple swamphen takes up the guttural baritone line.
The late morning is mine, sitting along the narrow trail
In a cross-legged yoga pose with arms across my knees,
Soaking up the faint sweet smells of sassafras and pine
And slipping into what I sometimes call my “blue funk”
Where nothing on earth matters outside this quiet shelter,
Dozing softly, I dream of a utopian sweet, elusive peace.
Submitted to the In Honor Of Milt - An Un-Contest Poetry Contest
sponsored by Andrea Dietrich
Of the many poems composed by Milt, this one remains one of my favorites. Milt was a spiritual man, and this side of him often came out in his poems. Here he impresses upon the reader the haven of peace that nature can provide, in this case likened to a church sanctuary. He carefully weaves the imagery of one into the other with his word choices: nave, sanctuary, sacred candles, pew-less haven, meditation, and the choir references. His influence upon my writing is to seek images and metaphors from nature to help describe spiritual concepts in language that is readily accessible. I am grateful for Milt's life, poetry, and encouragement, and he will long be remembered.
It is a singular place
a high plains lake of isolation
where erratic waves
slap the shoreline
in haunting echoes
that blow away with the wind.
It is a place of the “nearly dead”
of caution and decay
yellowish foam forms at its edges
creating abstract designs
that disappear in the sand.
I can hear liquid songs
flowing forth from rippling currents
mesmerizing, hypnotizing
moving in the shimmering sunlight.
Tufa towers stand stoic
rising randomly above the water
like obscure, calcified aliens
in a scene that is as mysterious
as the majesty of its Maker.
High winds are howling
when suddenly I need
a respite, a reprieve
for this place suits the vultures
eared grebes call it their home
as sun sets over the horizon
I know it is time to go.
Such is Mono Lake
a mystical, other worldly place
where silent stars shine bright
on a black, moonless night
over the baneful, barren lake below.
Fog over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
colds ears muffled by the dank air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary.
The ocean is close
you can feel the tidal pull of it
the immensity of it,
even through the thick haze
it seems to tug at my small boat.
I hear now, the distant screaking
of coastal gulls.
Trawling fingers in the dark water
mellifluent coils pluck and pull.
Later, sitting in the cabin
I wonder why I did not push
further out from the estuary
advancing towards
the deep sound of the breakers.
I yawn, sup some hot tea from a mug,
smile,
comfortable,
that's the reason -
way too comfortable.
Fog slow-dances over the inlet
until water and air waltz together.
Too early to tell
if any birds are awake
besides, my ears are muffled in the wet air.
Grebes and Coots colonize this tributary,
gulls just visit.
I could row out to the ocean from here,
but the thick haze would eat my soul
and I would be caught between two worlds.
Leaning over the gunnels
a Sea Bass curiously nuzzles
my trawling fingers.
The languid coils of water,
the fish and this blanket of mist
are all that matter now;
later when I sit by the cabin porch
maybe I’ll wonder why
I didn’t head out to the coastal waves
at least as far as any swimmer might go,
but I know the answer:
keeping this ageing body safe,
that’s all that matters now.