Long Heron Poems
Long Heron Poems. Below are the most popular long Heron by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Heron poems by poem length and keyword.
The birds understand us, it’s true,
They understand us better than men,
Observe the grey heron when it is afraid,
listen to the Robin
Who asks to play with you,
Go for the lint
She doesn’t want any wrong notes,
The birds understand us,
The thief has always known you,
She knows how far to go,
They understand us better than our ministers,
Better than the gendarmes to guard you,
They understand us better than the bakers
too busy making croissants in the morning,
The birds understand us,
listen to the duck, who chooses beautiful oranges,
listen to the Blackbird,
who whistles when you are depressed,
When you think of Martine or Marie Noëlle,
listen to these dear birds,
They interfere with what you think,
They are wary of alley cats, domestic cats
They are suspicious of everything, of the time that passes slowly,
They guess your dreams, your fantasies,
They have nothing to lose by watching you,
Let them speak to you of God, of Bonaparte,
The idea of lying never crosses their mind,
They understand you better than psychiatrists,
They know what you think,
let them, they have a thousand things to say
Let them sing the coming of spring.
NB When I go for a walk a little before dawn, the singing of birds is like a medicine, it gets rid of the physical and moral heaviness, due to sleep.
I write upon mountains from whence I view the sea
soothed by the rhythmic motion of the tide
my muse goes into overdrive
Soon my pretty notebook
is bursting with simple scribbles and rambling lines
as I watch a heron stalking its prey
I’ve a picnic to eat as I go on my way
and I’ll sketch vivid purple columbines,
then re read the scrawled notes I took
in my notebook archive
Initial thoughts are edited and modified
guess I’m striving for perfection you see
Nature’s beauty inspires me to pen poetry
and I love strolling in the countryside
I'll watch kingfishers as they dive
into a babbling brook,
cool water glistening as the golden sun shines;
outdoors in the fresh air I long to stay
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NO FLEXIN/ Word and Art/Tony Adamo
Iconic slick rhymes/
trumpet beats sampled/
Latin soul grooves on Bronx Street/
No flexin’, just real 90's rap/
Hip hop flows into jazz spoken word soul/
jazz whispers into Afrobeats ear/
a political word from Angela Davis and the Revolution speaks to Gil Scott Heron/
Nu jazz beats as congas play/
Bronx streets come alive with stickballs flying high/
Gil Scott’s voice/
singing for change that will never come/
a ghetto child,
runnin' wild/
hydrants spray/
cooling off the summer's day/
DJ BEND IN doin' his thing as the table spins/
John Lee's Hooker's blues N hip hop/
Hip hop and blues/ yeah that's right/
Thoughts flow free like a humming bee's sound/
Hip hop rap's musical notes make/
The Milky Way a sound system for the universe/
underground hoops play for money and dope/
Miles does do bop on his trumpet/
tasty like a Mars candy bar/
do-wop, boom bap/
what a solid remix, man!
I'm diggin' on your track/
So, relax and kickback/
This is what It means to be free/
Be it a tiny butterfly flutters near wild flowers
Or big fat flying foxes hanging off the lofty trees
Be it a family of bulbuls relishing showers
Or a mischievous monkey devours fruits, smiling with glee
Be it a single purple heron awaiting the dawn
Or the nonchalant coots floating in the tranquil pool
Be it a herd of deer inhabits the engrossing lawn
Or the picturesque peahens thrash out to frame novel rules
Migrant birds' air trails while enduring perilous journey
Gymnastics of endemic egrets in the evening sky
Wonderful wild flowers glisten amidst the shrubs ferny
And the serene water birds in lake, the feast for the eyes
Intermingled with animals out there in forest wild
Every little birds and mammals make our earth revive
Mar -03-2022
HOME CALLING
I rose from the soil and water of Barak valley
and like a white bellied heron , reached the sky
above the bamboo brakes and the blue hills
to live in an alien land for trivial needs.
But like an ancient father, the meandering Barak
beckoned me, called me to its banks.
I had blindfolded myself ;
I had lost the vision of my land !
I was deaf to the whistling air of Bhuban hill.
How many years have gone by under the neon light ?
I am not quite sure.
My identity has been left to urban dust.
Now that I am growing old, I hear the beckoning
I can see the blue hills, fluttering bamboo leaves
and the full moon cast over the flowing Barak.
I can see the Sonbil , the wood- duck, the kopou phool.
I want to sit by the banks and may ride a boat
across Barak.
If I sleep for ever in the valley, I don't mind.
After all I will merge back into the soil of Barak.
©pkdas 31/03/2017
Barak is a meandering river in Assam, India.
Sonbil is the largest oxbow inland lake
Kopou is the state flower.
A Top A Highland Hill
A top a windswept highland hill above Locheil land
Clansmen gathered roun and shook the princes haun
They raised the standard high cheered till they were hoarse
Followed the flying heron across the highland gorse.
A,wa tae London toon wi hopes held dear in heart
O pitting Cherlie oan a throne whaur he richtly belonged
Dreams o highland jacobites tae rule oor blessed laun
An nation free aw europes stifling haun.
As so aften happens dreams die oan a wrang move
And at Derby juist nor o London toon
It wiz decided that we would go forrat nae mair
So wi turned an heided hame wi hairts ower sair.
Goerdie boy sent his airmie chasin us
A the wey back to scotias verdant green
Up an doon , doon an up aw ower the place
Till at Drummossie moor we met them face to face.
Oor clans were weary and tired oot
But charged intae them none the less
Their guns ripped through oor ranks ripping us to shreds
We scattered , whit was left, to oor wee bit hill an glen
Cumberland , the butcher boy chased us yince again
Tae oor ancestral hames reducing them to ash
Murdered those who fought and lost and innocents alike
Even the auld yins infirm an ill still biding in their beds.
The craws they feasted well oan highland blood an guts
Plaids an kilts an a, were hidden in the straw
Oor prince he hid awa n,er tae return tae us
But were er we be wi toast him wi oor cups.
Andrew P McIntyre November 2011.
At my desk
I pause to the minute at 11:30 am
August 22nd
30 years later
To remember who we were
When we wedded
Back then
Bought what we could afford
But with a colorful splash of class
Maybe
Borrowed only what was enough
A morning ceremony
The seamless lucky sky
River picked at by a Blue Heron
Rose garden of dynamite
Fuse of bees
All free
Flower dresses
A gathering of 50
Sitting on rows of folding white chairs
Snapping at our guest’s with their angelic jaws
I left my groomsmen at the alter
To replace my bride’s no-show dad
Retrieved her for myself
She shook like a salt shaker with a smile
Walking down the aisle
Sprinkling our life for extra taste
My stoned middle aged good hearted cousin
An alleged photographer
Loved the grand attention he got
Barking orders
At the quick ceremony afterglow
That served as the “party”
The Minister we’d only met once before
Said with a gin and tonic in hand
“Got four more to go today.”
Grin
I thank him for that prophecy
We created four beautiful children
And I can see so clearly to this very day
His words and beaming buzzing face
More than any drippy saying or advice
He or we could have ever made up
And forgotten
30 years later.
Hear the tale of the green fields where I roam,
Leisure World, the place that I call home.
If you take strolls (a healthy habit),
at dawn or dusk, you'll see a rabbit.
(If you were faster, you could grab it)
You'll see four-legged, curly-haired cuties
who lead their pets while they do their duties,
and grey-brown squirrels on their haunches
meticulously chewing their lunches.
If your garden was ruined by a snail,
I ask, are you reading my mail?
See the colorful apples of my eyes -
hummingbirds and monarch butterflies.
But what I'd like to see most (pardon my sharin'),
is a coyote or a great white heron.
Some day, someone will change all this.
The yard, no longer mine,
having neither the work nor the fruits of my labor,
will go unappreciated and require change.
The pond, once filling mewith joy and quiet peace and solitude
will become undesirable.
The fruit trees, the garden no longer holding or displaying beauty,
will be distatseful, old and withered before its time.
Some day, someone
will erase my memory, once held dear
and emotionally held here.
Perhaps, that is a good thing
for nothing and no one can last forever,
and all things pass into an action of change.
One day it will be forgotten that I was even here.
These songbirds, nesting and retrieving their homes
for the next batch of fledglings will be gone as well.
left to spread their song in someone elses's garden.
The fish will become sustenance for the heron
and the pond life will die away.
The garden, untended will no longer bloom
to be replaced by weeds or simply grass.
My once filled, contemplative mornings
will forget my work and sweat.
The house,the land, the landscape
will fall to a whim for change.
Some one else, a new owner or renter,
will seek a different layout and design of less work
and all my wonder will disappear.
Someday, someone else
will see a new picture different from my own.
The litany of flowers and each of their names
will fade away like their blossoms and be ground down
by lawnmowers and weedwackers.
There is no permanence to life in this world,
only in the next.
So now, for and in this moment, this particular point in time,
this now that envelopes and embraces me
and gives life to the wonders and pleasures of my yard,
thank you God.
Two young lovers discern from up afar
a night heron in its graceful lithe flight
searching safe haven as storm hide its star
danger threatening it from its dire plight.
An owl's screech piercing the veiled evenfall.
Lightning flashes generate fear, hope lost
in their cold arms near a gnarled oak they stall,
trembling and afraid of the falling frost.
Far off they hear the whinnying of mares,
The bellow of bulls but the rain falls hard,
relieved they could not hold back their hot tears
they see light shining within a backyard.
A farmer helps them with hot food-laden.
Like the heron, find their cosy haven.