Long Nightjar Poems
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It is thy wanton gestures that contrive inside long auburn
curls -
Wherefore to diminish the pleas of a warm, lustful
breeze!
For though gilded rays shall grace all thy sunlit days
Tis Moonstrucks cast beams, your mischiefs,
That did so deceive.
Happily ye wander through Midnights velvet vales...
Thus to bathe in the still of deep glades shimmering pools;
Gently smile as the White Hart confuses at the Nightjar,
Laugh joyfully as he gleefully barks within a Huntresses
muse.
Whence, entwining abouts your lithe-liken limbs,
Enchanting currents that confound upon like curvaceous
streams:-
Flawlessly proportioned, highbred, temperate form
Of palest earthborn Athenian figurine.
And ere those coy sighs should but just once countenance
Mortal compromise
Through your countless ages of fair queens and fabled kings -
Then, at some singular point in trickling sands spatial time,
If my heart beat against thine...wouldst thy charge me astride
Great Pegasusus wings?
So recline thou, betwixt sharp earth and Heavens eternal
skies,
Thoust art serenaded by forlorn winds that forsakenly
Beseech upon your divine name -
For the raging fires of burning stars were lit to blaze
In thine eyes
By thee fearful architect who moulded immortal clay
To thy perfectly sculptured frame!
It’s 5pm and sunny in Ohio, 40 degrees
and dropping,
by dusk it will be grey turning to red
then black.
Where is the oyster shell now?
The heavenly picture
of a pale spume-tickled .
An unmarried Tudor lady
applies more cosmetic beeswax
to a Monarch butterfly.
I will see the road from my front window
for another hour.
At some time I will eat a cheese sandwich,
At the same time
Consequently I darkly develop
a sunny-side up dawn
casually dressed omelet.
A Siamese cat, coats a Knight
with heraldic tar from a nightjar.
A clay Madonna carves out
epicanthic folds
from an African twilight.
I believe in chains of associations
leading to all possible outcomes.
House plants rent a niche of bedrock.
Plumes of cigar smoke flutter
in airless Mayan canyons.
Factory farmed Quetzalcoatl’s
hustle the leafy bustles of housemaids
as they feather dust aspidistras.
Mind can join together
one probability or another,
one word to another,
words that seem unrelated
yet together trigger an image
that feels newborn.
An iron skillet, crushes walnuts
on a coffin of dead elephants,
a black casket casts kitchen shadows.
Here’s the thing, this power
that may seem like a weakness,
actually
is the way the multi-universe works.
Camels swim an underground sea,
sand dunes wave over a once boozy tavern.
Humpback whales
recite the scriptures
of aesthetic scarab beetles.
The laws of poetically possible realities
operate for you when you follow
your imaginative mind-stream,
all these co-dependent transitional factors
want to link hands.
A speckled moonlight
chases a hen
around a weather vane
while a barnyard tornado
whisks a can of English beer.
Congratulations, you are now a creator,
demonstrating clearly
that you are a child of God.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
The vixen is teaching her cubs to dance,
The dance of the fox trot.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Mid-March marks the wild animal masquerade
As the crimson embers of dusk fade,
The worm moon is rising.
Stars swoon to the moonlit tunes
Of the song thrush and warbler,
More subtle and melancholic
Than the chorus of dawn;
The jazz of the chiffchaff
And nightjar acoustics.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow.
The glade is spotlit,
Luminous, sublime and silvered.
Humble earthworms deep in the ground
Awoken and beckoned to the spring sound,
To the rise and fall of the dance.
The cubs’ eyes alight with secrets,
The vixen wears her finest gown
Silken, and lustrous,
Her dog fox cloaked in shadows.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Last summer's velveteen foxgloves
Silence the rhythm of her paws,
Beautiful but deadly.
He brushed in tails is a smooth elegance
Of sleek copper shimmer.
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
Slow, slow, quick, quick,
They gather as a promenade of hunters.
Let the carnival begin!
In the dark of night the whippoorwill cries
As it flitters beneath the night’s blue sky
Master of camouflage. Heard, seldom seen
Is searching for woodland insects to glean
Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will! The nightjar trills
As it glowers and swoops down for the kill
Insects traversing the forest take heed
For the mottled bird has tremendous speed
It nests on the ground, it perches in trees
It’s gray-brown plumage the color of leaves
Up at dawn, at dusk, and on moonlit nights
Brindled bird rests with the coming of light
Tiny bird with a magnanimous shrill
Whip-poor-will! Whip-poor-will! The nightjar trills
I Am Not Chuck-Will’s-Widow
Part I: Bullies, Lodging and Treats
Whip-Poor-Will at twilight —
Tremendous skyline.
My wings ~ vainglorious, like a teen girl’s locks.
Nightjar
Goateater
Bugeater
Bully-based bias, cryptically colored
along branches and leaves.
And don’t step on me, but do hover
near my nest
if you’re a tasty treat, not a pest.
Part II: HAUNTED
away she flew, wild-eyed, pale,
see-through; buried under my wings.
the mourners nearly stepped on her;
litterfall and cladodes -
fear and delight at my whip-poor-will dirge.
7/23/2020
I am a Bird - Personification Poetry Contest
Sponsor is Tania Kitchin
A gentle knight chirped and roaming the way of desert at night.
His dancy browny hair, blue eyes made romantic guy and couraged.
He lured by lovely song beyond a hill.
Eagerly, he rushed his horse and fell swooned.
He lightly opened his eyes but did not movable, groaning pains.
His wounds tide with herb and bluey fungus.
A spinster, an oldman lived in this hut sitting anxious looking.
The nature of love girl sing a praying song under a coniferous.
He falls asleep and his wounds healing miracle by love.
He said many gratitude thanks and parting smiles.
The spinster missed her heart and possess a minute death.
She weaving her heart gifted garland to him with splendid love-smells.
The nightjar song impressed his love seek, find to fail.
The red war period started, as his melancholy love.
He stabed not but earning many love wounds.
His inner voice of love but fluttering dove!
He became love-sicker and also think about the bewitching voice.
Again he searched, his red wounds badly hurt.
His instinct wishes that met her love-face lastly.
He brings only thorny's love-blood at shadow night.
Dews fluttering with his worthy red-blood gently to the heaven.
He is rescued by the same spinster his heart-venus.
She takes a letter and his pleasant love-subject written with golden tunes.
Her tears of love tinkling on, the love-wounds bleeding with joyous!
She feeds him on the love's last breath of lyric but sad love-melody chill.
The worthy fairest carved immortalized their love-chapter.
If you smelled the monumental garland it described the unbelievable love-tale.
The love-origin pastoral surrounded with red grasses one touch it
amazingly love-sicker!
'Tis nineseventeenPM!
On the balcony, in a rocking chair
In full twilight surrender
Savoring this wonderous time capsule
This moment of captivating tranquility
So soothing I wish It would freeze in time
Sweet nineseventeenPM!
Not quite my bedtime
But I know Morpheus will soon come calling
The wind out here whispering inconceivable secrets
To trees darker than the night sky
Crickets are chirping beneath the moon
Magical nineseventeenPM!
I wish for many more moments like this
Moths are darting about the lightbulb above me
Oh, what a night! I wish Asteria would appear before me
And strum her lyre under this twinkling
Canopy of innumerous twilight stars
So long, nineseventeenPM!
The nightjar that sings for me has flown away
I feel the arms of Morpheus enfolding me now
I don't want to fight my sleepy eyes
I intend to revisit you again at nineseventeenPM tomorrow
Glory the sky with even more stars!
Submitted for...
BRIAN'S SELECT B, Any Form, Any Theme Poetry Contest (Winner: 1st Place)
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Date: 06/11/2020
nineseventeenPM Poetry Contest/Winner(6th Place)
Sponsored by: John Lawless
Date written and posted: 06/24/2018
In the dappled hour between day and twilight,
surged the call of a Nightjar in flight,
a Whippoorwill sang at will,
echoing his trill.
I kept so
still,
and although
quivering with chill,
waited for a female shrill
to answer him while I hid from sight
in the dappled hour between day and twilight
Andaree - 11 Line Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Joseph May
Posted on July 13th, 2020
Checked on sites:
rhymezone and howmanysyllable
*My apologies to those who viewed and left comments before this poem mysteriously disappeared.
As dusk hours darken the skies ever later
Crepuscular creatures return
Strisores awaken the heathland
As the heat of the day still rises from the earth.
Quietness blankets the world in black
So silent I hear only noise
Yet over the volume of nothingness
The nightjars are back with their voice.
The trilling incessant and echoing through
The forest, rebounds from the trees
Bringing the woodlands alive at night
As the sound travels far on the breeze.
Pausing only to breathe and break their song.
As I hold my breath to silence my body
Closing my eyes to strain and not to miss
A single note in their evening aria.
As I retire to my chamber
Window open to allow warm breeze
Finally as sleep creeps into my mind
The nightjars commence their diminuendo
The noise of the night retreats
Inky blackness taking over the sky
Dreams float through the dark
Accompanied by the memories of the day.