Long Migrations Poems
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The ravens come
in a flock of dark winged hums,
rushing spatter of clustered migrations done
hanging on the weather fluctuations spun/
Black and bold ebony swarthy struts
large bodies birded scruffs,
scavengers of leftover seeds, treats and nuts
bantering loud and indiscreet sound cuts.
Field strewn emerging caws
hover in the trees with pointed claws
resounding distant screeching over all
yielding to the darkness as it falls.
Poe heard their resonating scratch
upon the ear's distinctive latch
and in his horror wrote the poem to match
life's breath and heartbeat snatched.
Whispering a silence longed for
he marked and recorded every score
for you and me the reader's very core
he quoth the ravens never more.
Rock salted fields hard-by thwacking sea's
shorelines of wave-shaved boulders
a fluidity that mimics an oceans alien speech.
The fractured artifacts of tribal migrations
roll in the surf as grains of an ancient sand,
there are hints and a sense of raw faiths,
of the obscure paint of submerged visages,
facets only visible
through the eroded lens of a former doom.
On these shifting margins,
insipient nations as naked as any roaming wind
declined amidst their own young bones,
laying down to wither away in exhausted camps.
Rinsed by a ceaseless ebb and flow,
the stonewashed threads of the bygone
suggest landscaped formations
of humanity.
We have seen the rise and fall of the scattered,
their cultures a supposition of burnt offerings,
yet we should also
confess to a towering significance:
one that we estranged settlers
will eventually leave as a jigsaw of watermarks,
or as further innocent signs
of our own barbaric existence.
The calls of the flocks to this years migration
a roving community of birds in each nation
rising and diving above mists in the rocks
the drawing together for birthing new flocks
The coo of the crane in a wetland bog
the bob of its head when its nabbed a frog
opened winged geese in passages soar
north back to south or a western shore
Above our earth the traversing vast miles
into the snowfall or cliffside defiles
a race upon water to lure this years mate
or share in the catch a dance woven like date
Such grace of movement their wings on the breeze
like rhythms beating to ascend above trees
how can one capture such beauty so grand
of a creatures decent upon sky upon land
Motion so elegant their journey's in sky
mankinds observations our own desire to fly
the form of their pinions upon outstreched wings
to follow freedom this kind of life dreams
Lowlands or Highlands the wild fowl domains
in deserts or plateaus aviary terrains
on pole ice or islands you'll find their rests
every year you'll find them their community nests
COPYRIGHT © 2012 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Beside the great titan that shadows the grass,
Where coastal cliffs shatter and tectonic faults pass,
The field-logs record a spectacular sight:
The Pterostrix cryptica rising in synchronized flight.
A feathered reptilian, slender and sleek,
With a needle-thin crown and a glittering beak,
It populates rocks where the ocean spray chides,
And sails on the thermals of gravity tides.
Its anatomy breaks from the terrestrial mold,
With a skeletal framework of carbon and gold,
Designed to withstand the fierce atmospheric strain
When midnight storms batter the Vaelorian plain.
Yet its greatest marvel is not how it flies,
But the canvas of scales that it wears to the skies.
Each dorsal plate acts as a crystalline prism,
A living display of deep biolyscism,
That shifts in its hue with a fluid design
To match the twin guardians' heavenly line.
When the primary moon casts its crimson jade glow,
The flock turns to scarlet over fields down below,
And when the small sapphire twin claims the high peak,
Blue rings of cool lightning flash bright from each beak.
By mirroring moonlight and celestial rays,
They vanish from sight in a shimmering haze,
A cloaking technique that their ecology made
To drift like pale ghosts through valley and glade.
The purpose they serve in this delicate sphere
Is a long-range migratory weather-frontier.
With sensor-scale clusters along their long spine,
They track barometric and thermal design,
Detecting the shifts where the storm-fronts convene
Long before clouds disrupt the gold sheen.
By sweeping in flocks through the coastal-rock air,
They guide the migrations of herds gathered there,
A shimmering beacon of crimson and blue
That maps out safe paths for the wild avenues.
They are the sky-guardians, graceful and bright,
Weaving the threads of Vaeloria's night.
The snow covering the ground
Out my window
Goes on like torn-out pages
From my empty journal
Striped with a shadow from an old Red Maple
A bookmark
To the Monarch’s migration
From the mountains of Mexico
To here
Where we wait the four generations
It takes
For the butterflies’
Arrival
To drink from a cup of Michigan milkweed
Pedaling their wings
On the lakes of our wind
Weighting the Earth just enough
To keep the orbit in its gentle place
Rippling around the violet sun
And from these passing quiet gestures
My book of pages stirs and flutters
I look up
Find a prayer of words to move forward.
We Look For Holy Moments,
And In Looking, Overlook
Moments Blessed And
Filled With Things
From Mountains We Once Shook.
Small Events Unfolding,
Each One Smaller, Briefer Still.
As Cavernous Creases
We Call Brains,
Migrations Fill.
Spark-lit Seconds
Speak For Us
While Destiny Darkens Past.
Pointing And Branched
With Lightning Flare
To Futures Guided, Where
We May Draw Away
Or Follow Our Natural Inclination
Through Your Waveless Spray.
Shotgunning Every Now
Somehow;
To Cast
Bigger Pictures,
Brighter Futures,
Holy Moments Blended,
Bending To Form
Crooked Sutures.
Aye,
Care Not Weary One
Traveler And Father To All.
Mind’s Eye Behemoth,
Where In Grains
As In Pearls
Do You Lie;
Barbaric And Windswept,
Dressed
In White Collared Time,
Grafted And Stylized;
With
Only Your
Teacups Remaining.
Your Grin, No Repast,
Discomforts All.
Bears The Stain,
Of The Holy Moments Gain.
Slanted Slivers
Of Hanging Pictures,
A Youth With Glasses Scanning
Hills Of Gifted Summer’s Passion,
Pages Each In Need Of Fanning.
Now,
With Hallowed And Bellowed Tear,
You Will Steer
Amongst Those Mighty
Many Memories
Of Futures Past.
This You Give Us,
Single Sight.
The Now Of Every Thought To Last:
A Day That Ends In Night
Seems like the global grid
Isn't that much ecological
Sustainability program
May not be explicitly logical
Trading of goods and the weapon
Economies systems the war
The influenced and the influencers
Effectiveness minimum bore
Smart cities that aren't so much smart
Devaluation of art
Activities list
Geopolitics
New models and new paradigms
Traffic of transport
The rhymes
Programs naive of the new architecture
Reactions, emotional
Form and the texture
Dramatical conflicts
Focus on humans
Leaders religeous
Image doom summus
Maps and the streets
Are the vessels
Infrastructures
Memories, doctrines
The political fractures
No one defines
Main the thinking of yours
But when they define
They are apt for remorse
No processing
Root wrong
Of the the origin
Fraud, obfuscation, saints and the forgery
Clock in the boxes
To measure photons
Scaling inadequacy
Tank is pion
Budgets of riccies
Positioning in time
Demands of the psyches
Virtual dime
Privacy lost
Paths ideal, naive
Opions, beliefs
Isn't real
No peace
Migrations, the trends
Isolated the fashion
Fruit isn't apple
Fruit now is passion
New phases of programs
Right to define
Whatever the limit
Of brain yours is fine
Computed solutions
That nothing do solve
But sure, neuromorphic
To what will you morph
Conductors, the contacts
The extrapolations
Reality virtual
There is no negations
The pressure of activism
Pressure of programs
There is no authority
Valuable morons
Compliance base standards
Front end of display
Life is the game
And you life this do play
What if you really
Don't qualify
For neither athlete
Nor the influencer
Sci-Fi
The simulations
And simulators
Role attributions
And interceptions
The image of Army
The system describes
Multidomain is
Domain many bias
Arms and the Joints
Commands and the combat
You reckon this Army
Is some kinda robot?
Where's Judgement
That will prevail
Over the institutes
Out on a bail
Libya, the endless tragedy
A shower, first thing at daybreak, washing away the night's excesses stalking the bleak corridors of the nether world and the dead bodies refused by the sea
are demanding a proper burial, like the man who built
the dams that bring sweet water to the coast.
How many died 10000 or more, no one cares like when NATO bombed Libya, deaths were not reported.
When the tragedy hammered the once proud state into
a breakable portion,, the migrations to Europe became
an unstoppable flood of lost humanity seeking shelter.
As this tragedy unfolds, oil pumped up from the ground
that is the only thing that matters
Many would question the errant journeys,
Without direction or focus in their claim.
Yet some explorations might similarly be described,
Though varied sponsors and fortunes are to blame.
Unsettling as the drifting often seems, there's a
Cause to reflect upon the migrations impact.
Where idle gossip looks to nomadic shadows,
Even when rooted in fiction, not fact.
While roaming open roads or back alleys,
Seeking resources that few others would find.
They could often see value in what's discarded,
Quick to re-purpose and give thanks to the blind.
It does appear that there's greater sensitivity,
Towards those without a home, and possibly lost.
As those roving aren't simply itinerant vagrants,
They were neighbors and friends . . .
That couldn't pay the final costs.
People thought we island hopped by random drift,
when our picnic canoes blew away.
"Where are your charts and instruments" they asked?
"Those feeble canoes could never make the journey"
"You only go there 'cause you lost your way"
"You silly driftwood dreamers"
Little did they know we navigate by memory,
with the way to go, and how to get there
whispered between old and new ears, orally.
They say we are fair-weather sailors,
afraid of clouds and rain.
They say we only venture out in season, fair and friendly.
Little did they know in daylight,
we get direction from watching and pin-pointing
where the sun rises and sets on the horizon.
At night we know which star to watch
and align with the mast of double canoe
to hold our course.
We switch stars as they rise and set, in season.
They say we sail just for the fun of it,
for the sheer joy of riding the waves and currents,
sailing with the winds
free as a bird, going wherever they take us.
Little do they know we read
the winds and waves to find our way
on epic planned journeys by canoe.
Wave patterns change when an island is nearby.
We know the swirl of currents,
We read the trade winds like sign-posts.
We know the birds know where they roost.
We follow them home.
We know birds are master navigators on
their migrations, we follow them.
Sadly, these oral skills and
land-finding traditions
are now being lost forever.
Dispelled as oral traditions quelled, forgotten, pass away.
We the navigators have lost our way.
What people said about our ignorance of navigation
and silly random drift for landfinding is now too true,
Repêchage, Touché'.