The male Hine’s Emerald patrols his cattail fen
low through sedge and seepage
his compound eyes pluck gnats from the air
two yellow bars flash along his thorax
hindwings catch the morning
Chimanimani Mountain mist beads over quartz
the female Rock Threadtail
six black feet braced on the edge
her wing tilted toward the sun
eyes—black
He misses the gnat
darts, veers, halts midair, pivots
his ommatidia fixed on her raised wing
smitten, his heading shifts
the female Rock Threadtail rests above her stream
=======
Melancholy is a dreary morning;
hidden within our souls
like mist spread over the marsh—
upon the stagnant waters
and the treetops
that refuse to drown.
When love is too loud, and lurid,
it languishes in lewd, lusty lakes.
When love is silent, and steadfast,
it sings sweetly with soft waves on sea shores.
When love is motionless and mute,
it meanders to black mold and makes miserable, monotonous marshes.
So let me
love thee silently, softly,
with actions,
with adjectives and valiant verbs.
Saying I love you with
kind kisses,
empathetic embraces,
tender touches,
longing looks,
weary work, and
tedious tasks.
An underwater silence full of
graceful gestures and
mysterious moves…
…letting love lead, and last a lifetime.
let’s toast some ghosts, the witch said to me.
Her hair was as red as the devil’s sea.
I had no words, but wondered what she meant.
when I saw it, I was lost in wonderment.
You are really toasting ghosts! I exclaimed.
I told you she said to me, her hair inflamed.
The ghosts were booing, hissing, and stuff.
She said “they blubber, but I can huff.”
I was amazed at her ability to do what she did.
Out in the open, showing everyone. What a kid!
Do you eat them too? I asked, kind of intrigued.
I am not a cannibal! She told me. Not a bad seed.
Why do you toast them? I asked her, wanting to know.
They love it, she told me. It helps them so….
They cannot boo as hard when they are pristine.
I do it to be helpful; it is not a bit mean.
A dusty quiver lay on my back
Its arrows clean and sharp
I wade with purpose through itchy reeds
My boots dragging in the muck
I hear you before I see you
Your laugh collapsing the virgin marsh between us
A fistful of whites and yellows
My dear whites and yellows
Ready, steady
It’s no use!
For if I lose an arrow
My quiver will lighten
And my shoulders will slouch
My parents moved recently–
a nice place, marsh view,
plenty of trees and walking trails
a nice big kitchen for Scottish breakfasts.
Their deck upstairs looks out
on the marsh water shining in the sun.
The aquatic landscape broken only
by the stilted legs of hungry herons.
The floorboards no longer creak
beneath my ocher footsteps
and I feel like a visitor here–tourist
Then I wonder, how much of myself
was left in those creaking planks?
How much of my life is threaded
in their wooden veins?
Perhaps this new deck doesn’t creak
only because I’ve shed the weight
of my childhood, the cloak
of memory–disrobed and I am refreshed
like new bamboo shoots in spring.
Marsh rabbit
Jumping through the swamp
Eating swamp grass and
other plant life
Brown is their fur
so they can blend in
With their surroundings
A good hiding technique
Photogenic rabbits
They stop moving
just to blend in to
the landscape but
people still get their photo
Baby marsh rabbits are
the cutest things
So little you almost
miss seeing them
On the way to the beach
I look into the sand dunes
and other plant life
waiting to catch a glimpse
of a marsh rabbit jumping
around or eating on the
side of the road
They are the cutest rabbit
I just love them
Here, the infant Day
In a misty hush
Lies, as swaddled.
Moses, among the reeds!
And the Nile's weeds.
No wind dares blow up.
Stirs, lapwing, leaf.
As duck, paddled.
Daughter of Eygpt's throne
Come claim your own!
Sluggish swamp water seeps through cypress knee
Looking for the reclusive crocodiles now infesting,
Our air boat skims along the edge of Okeefenochee
Where we spy a prehistoric-like alligator ingesting
What appears to be an unwary otter or fox squirrel
Our guide points out a log laden with sunning turtles
With the reptiles in the swamp, we have no quarrel,
As accelerating our speed, the air boat soon hurtles
Until we reach a fairly secluded lush-covered glade
Hoping to see a cottonmouth searching for prey,
After considerable time in the sun, loving the shade
Unfortunately, for the snake the wrong time of day.
Our lunch is ham sandwiches and a frosty cold beer
As our guide points out a meadow-like field ahead,
Where we’ll likely see a smaller herd of mule deer
And, there the ravishing crocodiles waiting to be fed.
Written June 22, 2022
whooping crane still waits
patiently amongst the marsh
knowing what shows up
Cricket in the 70s was great
When the future was up to a World Series fate
And Rod Marsh was one of Kerry Packer’s men
To get better paid was their demand
When the Chappells, Doug Walters, Lenny Pascoe and friends
Returned to cricket properly with fulfilled demands
We saw Thommo and Lillee bowling down
With Rod Marsh crouching where the cherry was bound
In the record books there are 343 dismissals
Athletic catches to the bowlers missiles
The greatest number were catches made
With the crowd roaring and farewells to batsmen were bade
The record books show bowled Lillee caught Marsh
As the usual dismissal in an attack quite harsh
But now he is one for the ages in our memories grand
Forever in his baggy green with a beer in hand.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Pussy Willows
Among the wild cattails marsh,
Wetlands mire and morass harsh,
Pussy Willow buds appear
In warm grey fur chase off winter’s jeers.
Close to streams they sink deep roots
Laps up milk of streamlet’s fruits
Vernal purr of perfection
Sacred siren of Resurrection.
2-8-22
Contest: A Poem Crafted In the Various Lind30 by Robert Lindley
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
Syllable count 7779. According to Robert Lindley poem can be rhymed or unrhymed.
When the sky is piercing blue
and the ocean's the same color too
When the humidity's gone from the air
and the temperature's not 'way up there'
When sun's rays are welcome, not harsh
and all's well in meadow and marsh
When there are apples on the tree to munch
and the forest is cool to the touch
It's then that Mother Nature brings light rain
So when it stops, it can be perfect again
I love to meander in a forest green
to discover nature and things growing wild
I love ferns all filigree and silent ponds
and moss hanging from trees
the hush of a marsh and birds and songs that exist there
in the deep shadows and the mellow tranquil hues
I love to linger and just listen
to the voices of the forest talking to me
one day a gang of blue butterflies came fluttering
to where I lay contemplating life
they swirled and floated and came to me to look
I put out my hand and one perfect butterfly
hovered then sat upon my hand
I did not want to breathe for I knew this was special
it was only a moment but touched me deeply
and I will never forget the magic
of blue butterflies in a marsh mellow
________________________
July 8, 2020
Poetry/Free Verse/Marsh Butterflies
Copyright Protected, ID 20-1266-974-03
All Rights Reserved, 2020, Constance La France
Written for the contest, butter flies and marshes mellow
sponsor, Kai Michael Neumann
Ninth Place
Sweet and sensual
coconut melts along the top
staggered familiar sizes and shapes
droolings on the tongue, ambrosia
running through the fields like fidgety children
restless and free on tenterhooks
flitting like butterflies on the hunt
flower nectar candied on the bloom
drawn into the dream
of marshmallowed confectionaries
sweet sugared goodies
nectar for the gods
and simple butterflies.
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