Long Whippoorwills Poems
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A scarlet sun singes the edge of Earth,
receding rays giving shadows their girth.
And a darkness descends over the ground,
swallowing any lingering light found.
Twilight summons shifting shadows to creep
through the undergrowth, where whippoorwills sleep.
And Dusk lashes them tightly together,
loosely leashed to an ebony tether.
Liquid shadows appear to ebb and flow
as Day shuts down and time begins to slow.
And night skies welcome the twinkling stars back;
glittering against a backdrop of black.
Silhouettes silently merge with the Night,
awaiting Dawn and the first rays of light.
And as Luna rises, shadows disperse,
exposing new horizons to traverse.
Someday I'd like to wander free
like butterfly, like bumblebee,
perhaps to plant a willow tree
beside the silent solemn sea,
before these things exist no more,
from mountain top to shifting shore,
when, soon, bald eagles cease to soar
and build their aeries nevermore,
and fish forsake polluted streams
(where sulfur swims and typhoid teems
since no one really cares it seems)
to die inside our toxic dreams
while ice caps melt and winter steams,
and all the air surrounding reeks
as children choke, for no one speaks
of fracking wells or oily leaks
(Big Brother's silenced all critiques!),
and rancid rains acidify
so woods no longer multiply
(for God so wills, we can't deny,
which is, of course, our alibi).
And as the deepest ocean fills
with plastic bags, and garbage spills
upon the plains, across the hills
and turns to poison dust that kills
wild dingo dogs and daffodils
which sink in swamps’ forsaken swills,
the mocking bird makes light and trills
(midst waning wails of whippoorwills)
"Behold the surreal scene that chills
and greet the dread that death distills!
You've had your day with all the frills
that brought the flood and final ills
that can't be cured with bitter pills
nor yet undone with further thrills
of profit gained that grinds and fills
dead desert sands with dollar bills."
EPILOGUE
Though swaddled still in infancy,
we feel we’ve reached our primacy
(aloof, though preaching piously,
disdaining deeds of decency)
and have no need of augury.
But in the pit of prophecy
the crucial questions seem to be:
“Is doom Earth’s fate, our destiny
to twist in tides of agony
destroying nature’s progeny
with no return a certainty
assured by death’s finality?”
and
”Should we plant a willow tree
to someday weep for you and me?”
Back in those early precocious days
I walked gingerly in the woods
Down in the south where I found out
Life’s beautiful, bad and good.
Out in the cypress and sycamores
Treading in the tall tall grass
Where wild deer ran in those lovely lands
And I grew up too fast.
Whippoorwills sang in the summer
Around dusk when the sun fell down
And when the fireflies flew it was then I knew
God was hanging around.
Waiting on me in the sky and trees
And the snakes and the weeds and the worms;
In the Spanish moss and the way the wind tossed
The wild flowers and Maindenhair ferns.
On occasion I’d find Him sleeping
In the acorn of the great oak trees;
And under some rocks where I once thought
He was looking right back at me.
Long ago in another land
I walked gingerly in the woods
Down in the south where I found out
Life’s beautiful, bad and good.
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!
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...
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!
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.
Growing up in Podunk Missouri,
meant that we had the freedom to roam.
Up and down rivers and wooded hills,
those places that we called home.
Picked berries, peaches, plums, and cherries,
and at least the ones that didn’t fill our bellies.
Mom would turn them into some mighty fine,
pies, cookies, canned juices and jellies.
Morel mushrooms in the frying pan,
could find them after a soft spring rain.
Serve with fried Catfish rolled in cornmeal,
and tomatoes, ‘taters, and onions.
Rabbits, squirrels, raccoons, and possums,
our blue tick was ready and able.
With the help of a marksman’s keen eyes,
it was easy to fill the supper table.
We built hideouts from leaves, weeds, and twigs,
out beneath a weeping willow’s green.
We laid with our backs against soft grass ,
wishing on each falling star we’d seen.
The screeches and hoots of a night owl,
watching us capture fireflies in jars.
The call of goatsuckers and whippoorwills,
filled our summer nights beneath the stars.
Wildflowers covered all the ditches,
that ran down our dusty gravel road.
Wood-post fences cradled new-born calves,
or protected crops that had just been sowed.
Some nights we ate around a campfire,
had no white tablecloth with frilly lace.
Beggar’s lice clinging tight to our jeans,
and red mosquito whelps on our face.
Soles of shoeless feet tough as leathe,r
as up and down those hills we would climb.
Moving deeper into life’s adventure,
we tried to outrun the passing time.
Those joyous years there in the woodlands,
before the future took us away.
Left me with many fond memories,
of that happy childhood yesterday.
Cherry paddle you carved a few years ago.
Short portages in with good trail, except for
One boggy bit to breed mosquitoes.
Mosquito repellent for said boggy bit.
No motorboats after first portage.
Fair wind and clear sky, except for
One bad day to make the trip real.
One big fish that got away for next year.
Enough fish caught for one supper and one breakfast.
Wild blueberries for pancakes and bannock.
Whippoorwills calling in the evening, followed by.
Wolves howling and Barred Owl calling at night.
One clear night to marvel at stars overhead.
One night with Northern Lights flickering.
One misty morning with loons crying.
A wee dram of Scotch to appreciate the above.
Sufficient bladder capacity to avoid 1:00 a.m. pee.
One new gadget – this year a solar lantern.
Tent and air mattress that don`t leak.
Rain gear that doesn`t leak.
A long portage on return loop, just because.
Years of memories, just because.
7/28/2019
Writing Challenge 3, July 2019 - List
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.