Long Whippoorwills Poems
Long Whippoorwills Poems. Below are the most popular long Whippoorwills by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Whippoorwills poems by poem length and keyword.
Baby birds cheeping in treetops high, mellow yellow,
Whippoorwills' song when even is nigh, red sunset glow,
Raucous crows in the hot noon sun, deep orange gold,
Humming bees in blazing wildflowers, dark green wold!
Seagulls' elegant glide over pounding surf, royal blue,
Crickets calling through a summer night, a black revue,
Loons hooting across transparent lake, twilight purple,
And cardinal chirps lonely songs, in pink crape myrtle!
Parrots squawk away the sunny hours, of forests green,
Nightingales sing forever and a day, white moonbeams,
Humming bird emblazons the peony bush, pretty pink,
Goldfinch trills on desert bush, as orange sun slinks!
Beneath a lovers’ moon, Summer breezes in.
In still-cool primrose evenings lingering from spring,
she whispers in my ear.
I hear. . .
honey bees near lilacs, whippoorwills in leafy trees,
and somewhere. . .
A hoot owl in the night.
Beneath a beaming sun, Summer carries on
inhaling and exhaling sultry days.
On languid afternoons beyond a yellow flowered meadow,
she finds me as I wade into a stream.
Warmly, she breathes upon my cheek.
I feel. . .
the squish of mud beneath my toes,
cool water all around me,
and tiny tadpoles flitting round my knees.
Beneath an autumn moon, Summer slips away
sigh. . .ing into
still-hot waning days.
I smell her fragrance in the blooms of asters that I pluck;
I see her in a golden-glitter dusk and
I hear her in the cries
of wild geese across the sky
calling out to me her last goodbye.
An accident of history,
a coincidence,
I wonder,
EurAsia's Nightingale
sings toward newborn dawns of life
hope
faith,
while New Western Hemisphere's Eastern Whippoorwill
sends a darker through SouthWestern chill
warning of dualdark's bodily demise.
These two,
Nightingales with transatlantic Whippoorwills
continue singing through our outdoor dreams
of nights
FullMoon Nightingales of EurAsian love
and NewMoon Whippoorwills
warning of impending loss,
climates of emerging,
co-gravitating pathology,
descent
waving toward Nightingale repressions,
reweaving nocturnal memories
of happyYang Opportunity within sadYin PromisedThreat.
An accident of history,
a coincidence,
this confusion of colonialism's economic hubris
with anthro-elitism's Whippoorwills
warning shared political LoseLose demise.
Nightingales heard LeftBrain dominant
echoing NewMoon Whippoorwills sung RightBrain
sacred
ecological
matriarchal concave womb,
nurturing dualdark mythic warnings
flying through troubling climatic dreams,
like distant rolling thunder
coming toward a capitol investment
near Earth's groundnest,
GoodNews Nightingales
with BadFeeling Climates
revolving bright and dualdark
GrandMother Moon
sung in Whippoorwills.
When dusk sets in
And darkness takes hold;
When night winds howl
And it starts to get cold,
That's when the crows fly by.
When the moon creeps up,
And casts ominous shades
Of silver-struck shadows
Over deep forest glades,
Under darkness, the crows fly by.
The bell tolls midnight
And time stands still;
You hear scarcely a sound
But for Whippoorwills,
That's when the crows fly by.
Through swathes of mist
A graveyard lies;
Grim and forboding,
Under pitch-black skies,
That's where the crows fly by.
Footsteps ahead,
You quickly hide
Behind a grave,
Safe out of sight.
Quietly, the crows fly by.
A mysterious man
-Who's dressed like a tramp-
Shuffles right by
With a shovel and lamp,
Overhead, the crows fly by.
You watch in horror
As he stops by a grave;
He sets down his lamp
And starts digging away.
Watching, the crows fly by
After awhile he stops,
And shambles off;
It takes a few minutes
To collect your thoughts,
Cawing, the crows fly by.
Curiosity gets the better,
And the coast looks clear;
You sneak to the grave
And in you peer,
Circling, the crows fly by.
An empty hole
Is all you see;
You wonder what
The purpose could be,
Meanwhile, the crows fly by.
Looking up,
You gasp in shock-
Your name on a tombstone,
Outlined in chalk,
Around you, the crows fly by.
Paralyzed with terror,
In both body and mind;
Too late you hear
The footsteps behind,
Noisily, the crows fly by.
A push, and you fall,
Deep down below;
Stunned, bewildered,
And with no place to go.
Above, the crows fly by.
Dirt starts flying
And your vision fades,
As you are buried alive
In your very own grave.
But still, the crows fly by.
In the darkness of the night,
with the beautiful stars above.
There's a lonesome Whippoorwill.
Calling out for his Dear love.
Crooning songs he sadly sings.
Wishing she comes back to him.
Memories of her by his side.
Pained his heart way deep inside.
Each night he wonders why?
She doesn't answer or replies!
Minutes turned into hours,
there's no response!
"Oh please Dear Love answer
me, just once!"
"Oh, where my Darling are you
tonight? I've been searching for
you day and night!"
His little heart can't take much
more! It is she who he adores.
Evenings drag on as he still
waits. Time will tell his coming
fate.
He called out one last time.
His last thoughts were of her,
on his mind.
While he looked for her. He did
not know. His precious love,
another Whippoorwill stole. His
precious love, another Whippoorwill
stole.
Sadly on that tragic day, from a
broken heart he passed away..
From a broken heart he passed
away.
There's a little nest that is tucked
away. Where his heartache ended,
and now he lays.
Later on his love returned. Saw
him laying still, and began to mourn!
Her cries were heard throughout
the night and in her grieving heart
he now resides.
Each day and night she sang to him,
and hoped to God, He was listening.
In the darkness of the night, she
breathed out one last sigh, and
forever closed her eyes.
She found herself on Angels wings,
and heard calls for her, singing.
She quickly flew to him in Love, to
start their new beginning.
If you listen closely and the night is still.
Up in the Heavens you can still hear,
the loving calls, of two Whippoorwills.
Maria Williams and Husband Ron
will put these Lyrics to a Music
Video. I will ask her to Post it on
Maria's Poetry Soup site where
all her videos are. She is and Ron
the one's who turn Lyrics into
Magical musical amazing
creations. You can see her new
video on her Site or on YouTubes
Poetic Rythms. Her latest Video
Serenity, From Fall to Freedom,
is an exceptional video I think
you would all enjoy. I want to
thank all my lovely friends
that commented, you are all
Special and you make this world
a better place. God bless you all...
Mornings are made for paper and pens
In the hands of a would-be scribe,
At each day’s awakening between sun and shade
And silence is coming alive.
From out of the dark, the touch of a spark
Of light on the distant shore,
This time of day has always been made
For would-be scribes for sure.
When the mourning doves and whippoorwills
Begin their ritual songs of life
Of cooing, wooing and renewing
Everything in sound or sight.
And the would-be scribe tries not to hide
His or her thoughts too deep,
But let them all rise like dew in the sky
And eagles to snowy mountain peaks.
Let the words come forth
Like cool water from a riverbed,
Bringing thoughtfulness, kindness and ponderings
Wherever hearts and minds are led.
Let no one cease this ancient peace
Of writing in early hours,
The writer’s way of flying away
Turning tragedy and tears into wildflowers.
Let their words be heard and hearts be stirred
In the twilight of the day,
Excelsior to the would-be scribes
And all they have to say.
© Terrell Martin, 01/25/2025
"Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June." Al Bernstein
June’s moon illumines with gold light in a sapphire sky.
It’s as clear to me as a cloudless night summertime is nigh.
Though still-cool primrose evenings linger on from spring,
I listen for the sounds that warmer nights will bring:
crickets’ chirruping, whippoorwills in leafy trees. Sing,
oh lovely robin. Mockingbird, let me hear your charming croon.
Common loon, may I slumber to your haunting tune?
Sultry days mid-summer will be coaxing me to go
on long mid-afternoon walks to a yellow-flowered meadow.
Maybe I’ll go wading in cool water of a stream,
then lie beneath a willow and drift into a dream.
Fleeting is the sunny season; like my dreams, it too will end.
Then I will be writing of the beauty fall shall send.
A memory of yellow blooms lives in the heart;
A smile.
Creamy gold dawn hails a propitious start;
Dreamt awhile.
Late last night, the soon ember of today;
Stars twinkled.
Now sublime Mother Nature in exotic array;
And brooks tinkle.
All nature is guided by divine wisdom unseen,
Which is why the lorikeet's home is ever green,
And the moon at primetime evokes such thrills,
And the evening shadows bring whippoorwills!
God sagely keeps track of every human desire,
And keeps the bluejay in the woodland choir,
And makes cobalt skies glow, and warm winds blow,
And pink daisies to emblazon the entire meadow.
It's small wonder nature's so gay under the sun,
And crickets chirp their joy when day is done!
In The Air Tonight
Lovers looking longing
with loves light in their eyes.
Stars all glimmer softly
lighting up the skies.
Whippoorwills all whistle
here comes the morning dew.
Watching from the treetops
as lovers dreams come true.
Happy hearts are holding
onto lovers hands so tight.
The reason for the season?
Loves in the air tonight!
Flowers dancing in the wind
leaves in trees all shake.
Everything is well aware
somewhere there's love to make.
Cuddle bugs all cuddle
more now than before.
The oceans sending kisses
to rocks along the shore.
Bumble bees are buzzing
butterflies take flight.
The reason for the season?
Love's in the air tonight!
Crickets rubbing legs together
wolves howling at the moon.
Buffalo are roaming free
the sun will come up soon.
There's laughter in the distance
there's music playing low.
Love is all around you
no matter where you go.
Babies sleeping soundly
the moon is shining bright
The reason for the season?
Love is in the air tonight!
Edwin C Hofert
Our riverbank launch at dawn
where dense forest chills the breeze,
where cottonwood leaves flutter like wings,
and weeping willow penumbras tease.
Glistening, rippling turquoise water churns.
Crystal swirling pools symphonic and aglow,
elliptic aluminum crafts coast over craggy stones,
riverbed scattered rocks gleam clearly below.
Current River splits between sandbar silt.
Our paddles sink through rivulet tug.
Meandering, twisting, converging again,
water sculpting limestone, granite, or sludge.
We drift into shallow magic ponds of quiet.
The sweet fragrant water lilies subsume us.
Along the bank, turtles cling to driftwood.
The rowing in this reverie is not arduous.
Another sunlit pool, a home for trout,
their waving shapes dart under shimmering stream.
Pausing our paddles, we heed distant water rush,
how ready are we for river rapid extremes?
Our canoes enter fast-breaking flows.
Frantic, we navigate dead trees and rocks.
The roller coaster of white waves propels
past vague landscapes and distant crow squawks.
One canoe capsized where river sharply bends.
Lifejackets on, other canoeists to the rescue,
all the cooler food, a gift to the river.
Sleeping bags turned sponges; no one argued.
The canoe water finally emptied; we resume.
Each winding channel, a chapter in our allegory,
musky, muddy scents and echoed whippoorwills entrancing.
The bold beam of afternoon dims into dusk’s glory.
We camp on a sandbar under night bouquets of stars,
our trip has just begun: our quest must take us far.
Accepted for Publication, 11/2023: PoetrySoup Anthology Vol. III
Reflections on the Important Things