Long Thrushes Poems
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"In the echo of silence, the whispers of the Divine are heard." By Rumi
I entered the winding path into the captivating vale
Surrounded by ice-capped mountains and ancient trees
Firs, larches, redwoods, spruce, and ash, all grand
I shouted in glee: “I’m here!” All around some Echo replied.
A repetitive Echo, always vibrating and mesmerising.
What a singular sound to hear nature at its best!
I lounged beneath the shade of an old maple tree,
Where the verdant vale lay sprawled in front of me.
Balmy breezes blew through dark green trees, an Echo divine.
Tiny thrushes flitted from bush to bush.
They permeated the vale with their familiar songs.
Occasionally they rested on a dense bush,
Hush! Did I hear the song again?
Choirs of echo resounded all around the lush plateau.
Down on the majestic plain, a babbling brook meandered
Towards a clump of cottages, providing water for all.
The rivulet was a sight with fronds of ferns unfolding.
How delightful to hear the water emanating such dulcet echo
As the stream zigzagged around rocks and small waterfalls.
Every echo ended in silence profound and I was in God’s peace.
A holy hymn hummed serene: echo after echo, all divine.
Placed 1
In the crispy aromatic air of auburn autumn,
with the fluttering wings spanning the sky,
flies low in my meadow the little cheery Robin,
the charming migratory songbird I like.
The chirping bird of bright flushing daylight,
tweeters the hued tune of the spectral sunburst,
keeps the exuberance of avian delight
vibrating within the scarlet silken breast.
When all the thrushes are silent,
flying on the sparkling track of the first sunrays,
it sings the melody of the blossoming dawn,
and on the wings of wind the song reaches me.
As the storm clouds gather in the slate horizon,
the petite Robin chants on the swinging tree,
flutters feathery wings in the shadow of the cloud,
longing to get drenched in the colors of rainbow.
The crimson painted bird perched on the bough
of the banyan tree outside my window,
sings the sunrise song that drifts in the dawn air,
ushering in a delightful new day for me.
Visions, above fluffy white clouds,
I would have as a bird,
And spy upon the fairy crowds
That frolic among stately pines.
Eat milk, cheese and honey,
Fly round elves and the Queen that shines.
On to the beach littered with tents
Oh if I were a bird,
Follow games and summer events.
Love children playing in the cove,
Bring on spades and red pails
Build fine sand castles in a grove.
Back to the hills to croon again.
Oh if I were a bird,
I'll join my friends sing on the plain.
A choir of melodious song.
A lyric of grosbeak,
Thrushes, robins, we'll sing for long.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
18 October 2020~
Writing Challenge - Tercets - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Placed 2nd tier
As the spring zephyr smoothly sails,
with the wings spread wide skyward
flies low in grace the little nightingale,
the migrant charming songbird.
The lively bird of the bright daylight,
tweeters with morning sunburst zest,
keeps the rhythm of avian delight
within the fold of silvery satin breast.
When all the thrushes are silent,
it sings to chaperone the first sunray,
tracing the trail of the dawn’s advent,
while in the wind the tune drifts away.
Little nightingale on the glistened tree,
in the voice of pristine nature it sings,
flies on the ripples of its own melody,
as the nascent sun shines on its wings.
The silky bird on a bough perched high
outside my window as night melts away,
sings the dawn’s glory floating softly by,
ushering in for me a jubilant new day.
May 20, 2021
Title chosen : A Nightingale Sings Of Dawn's Glory
Contest : This Or That Vol 3
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
Heart filled with happiness, eyes much merry; cheeks color strawberry,
just running through fields of ripe huckleberry,
keeping away from the buzzing, restless bees...
going to a from their sweet hives hanging from massive apple trees.
More than childhood memories, such are these...
a reflection of youth that removes them from nostalgia; husky peasants
shaking off the husks from the golden corn;
a tasty, hot corn meal for those winter's dinners drooling on my tongue.
And approaching a torrent, I threw pebbles found on its almost barren banks
back into the spattering water that I drank sporadically until I was full,
to indulge in its freshness...squashing tiny daisies
that seemed too afraid to squabble with a giant and fight for their survival.
The southern landscape with its mild climate, was rich and fragrant,
inviting hands to pluck the delicious, tempting fruits
off their branches, scattering the thrushes engaged in musical tones;
and I tongue-tied hurried along cogitating an instant.
Would it be too childish to ask for a come-back,
to relive the cheerfulness of the oldest days, ceased by time and age;
to observe a reflection of youth take shape...
and embed, in a secret, a conversation regardless of present knowledge?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
NB Thanks for your prayers. My eye operation was successful. I still need four weeks for the total result.
The rowan trees grew haphazardly.
Down the North side, where snow
And rain affected them least.
Sturdy and strong, they allow the winds.
To filter amongst the green leaves,
Creating a soft hum amongst the mountains.
Listen, it echoes your name throughout the trees,
Sweet Crystal, my lovely beloved Crystal.
Large flocks of fieldfares, thrushes, and blackbirds
Visit or migrate to rowan trees, eating the berries around.
Among the crevices of mountains, streams run down.
A rhythm humming an echoing romantic song.
My heart pounds with electric love as I feel.
Your soft face cuddles against my shaven face.
Yet twilight is nigh, and so we departed down.
The rough paths and return lovingly home.
Oh, Crystal, my Crystal, I love you so.
The verdant leaves
of the cherry trees
rustle as a wagon
loaded with corn
rides deeper into the wide ruts
of a rustic road,
hungry ruminants wallow
by a limpid lake;
cheerful kids wave
and wagtails warble
at my unexpected arrival...
suddenly my Dalmatian barks.
O jovial Autumn
incite my surprise,
and renew my decadent mood!
The grapevines rest
while giving off their fragrance,
and this weary steed
must rest in tranquility
to continue this journey...
before he pants-up grief;
and for mine and his sake,
let him get some sleep!
A sanguine sky
promises the loveliest sunset
ever seen by me
in this rustic Vermont landscape;
thrushes sing with me
to embellish my harmony,
not minding the crickets that
conspire in the hickories,
or the fluttering hawks
that return to their nests..
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Before the looms of humankind were strung,
July had learnt the tincturing of light:
She steeped the dawn where amber thrushes sung,
Then wrung the west with mulberry at night;
The heavens, twisted in her verdant hand,
Unfurled like banners no two winds had planned.
She coaxed the rain to bruise the lilies blue,
Persuaded clover into greener vows,
And bade the scarlet poppy wander through
The sober linen of the meadow's brows;
Even the brook came home with colours caught
From secret blossoms no eye ever sought.
The butterflies wore garments yet still warm
From Nature's silent vat of bloom and breeze;
Each dragonfly rehearsed a brighter form,
As though the sunlight flowered into bees;
No hue was idle: every shade had grown
By patient covenants the roots had known.
Children, laughing, knotted cotton white
With fingers stained by happiness alone,
Believing they invented such delight—
While July smiled, content to leave unknown
That every spiral blooming on their sleeves
Had first been practised by the summer leaves.
Then evening loosed one final length of sky,
Still damp with saffron, indigo and flame;
The stars emerged where deeper pigments lie,
Each one remembering its forgotten name;
And I perceived all colour, wild and free,
Was Heaven's oldest form of memory.
Two wood pigeons on the hedge
Two thrushes fly low
Over the uncut lawn
Unfamiliar voices behind the door
Then the door opens
Two men carry out packed cardboard boxes
In a few minutes the loading is finished
A man's voice speaks on the phone from the garden
I turn away, looking towards the road
A car door slams behind me
I close my eyes, while the car hisses by
What a relief: they finally drove away.
I lean against the fence
The birds singing in the neighbouring garden
I suddenly breakdown:
Goodbye, goodbye...
I'm afraid to say more
Though no one is listening
The house is empty
Who’d have thought it would become
The past archive, so soon?
One last look at the garden?
I don't believe they cared.
They've got plenty of pictures
With her blooming garden, so that'll do.
They don’t know
I have her comments on every photo
A gallery of roses, cacti, pansies, petunias
Her olive tree, and blue hyacinths
She said they were blooming already
On the 5th of March, one day before our time stopped
And another time entered
I don’t have to count it, do I
We don’t live there.
In the resplendent dawn of one seraphic spring
I saw a delicately weaved bird’s nest nestled
on the baroque bough of the magnolia tree
that was in full bloom in the backyard lawn.
Since then I saw every morning a cheery Robin
fly low in zest through the crispy fragrant air
with the wings spread to span the cerulean sky,
and descend to its nest as my songbird.
The bird of bright daylight flew with sunburst zest,
kept the secrets of avian delight in scarlet breast.
When thrushes were silent it sang to the first sunray,
the winds carried away the lyric of the dawn.
Little Robin swung on tree boughs in the surge of squall,
fluttered with rhythmic melody when rainbow appeared.
I heard the bird perched high outside my window
sing for me the sunrise song of the new day.
The charming bird dancing on the bowed branches
gave me enchanting company in the lonesome hours,
singing delightful songs that sailed in the gloomy air,
suffused my time with the ether of sensuous joy.
As I enjoyed the friendly closeness of the chirping robin
my pet cat sat by my side at the edge of the portico.
Perhaps with a built-up feeling of envy she watched me
engrossed with the little bird, unmindful of her presence.
One sunny morning I placed some corn on the porch,
found the bird fly in, hopped around to eat the grains.
My cat appeared from nowhere, pounced like lightning,
caught the robin in her sharp claws and ran away.
Sitting now by the window I miss my robin on the tree,
but in my ear still resonates the twitter of the bruised bird.