Of parrots and parakeets, no one knows
now numbering in the thousands
no longer Mexico's bucolic birds
new urbanized citizens migrated
to the suburbs.
If you travel to Los Angeles and county
where hobo avians flock to Pepperdine
hoping to matriculate to paradise..
Pasadenans know the raucous calls from palms
festooned in bright feathers and pheromones.
Should you wish to elicit a response
from a Red-crowned Amazon..
just ask any witch cat which hungers
with an acute accessory olfactory
rife in feline grin and purpose
eye'n the skies cheerfully.
And somewhere Marianne Faithfull warbles
'this little bird who lives on the wind,
this little bird that somebody sends.'
they're listening too, with a coo and squawk
o'er the skies of Silverlake
and Eagle Rock.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This Little Bird sung by Marianne Faithfull - Lyrics by J.D. Loudermilk 1965
The human species is quite resilient,
having been around for centuries;
our souls, living and learning through
trial and error; it’s the way we grow.
Mistakes, failure are our teachers,
gleaning from them we matriculate
and like the phoenix rising from the ashes,
we become wiser, evolving to new heights.
Never fear the failures for they are
lifetime guides for our souls; we are
spiritual phoenixes.
3-24-2021
Phoenix Rising Poetry Contest
Unseeking Seeker
What goes around; comes around;
to slap us silly or bless us.
Karma’s wheel spins, eternally.
Life’s spiral winds, as the spring of a clock;
growing tighter, with each turn.
We snap like a dry twig or reverse;
releasing life’s tension, to live our bliss.
It’s the bliss that draws our blessings;
We bless and are blessed.
A life of passion works miracles.
It’s the soul springs purpose to live and love,
passionately that, keeps our mortal clock, ticking.
With each tick, the book of life,
gets a pass or fail grade.
Karma grades us, severely;
a soul cannot matriculate without
the passing of karma's test;
but, karma is also a forgiving teacher;
each chance is earned with careful attention and respect.
We give and receive; we take and we lose;
do harm and death is eternal;
each time the spring is wound;
we gain another chance.
How will our next tick fare?
A well made main spring ticks along smoothly.
Passionate lives never need to clock watch;
the good is within them.
Luke warm air sends calls
Sun retreats giving less heat
Fat squirrels take heed
Trees respond with golden leaves
Birds matriculate with calls
As the moon brings the tides that,
massage Earth’s grainy skin;
so does the past bring memories to,
massage the human soul.
Like the sea baths,
the past collects new memories; cleansing them;
this washing dries with, the breath of change.
Riding change with great eagerness and
anticipation of every new adventure;
we come to know ourselves;
our place here and purpose.
Our souls will matriculate or stagnate.
The University of Life has,
no books or grades;
its’ lessons are learned by experience.
Stay alert, honest and compassionate and pass;
fail and you’ll have to do it all over again.
What will you do?
Oh, duchess when you ascend your neck
To scrutinize the skyline
Were you aware that you could discover?
The very marvel that for years you so yearned?
Oh, duchess did you think it feasible
That you could matriculate the novelty ‘tis amour
Did you?
Open your eyes alluring one
Shan’t be a reason to averse your devoirs
though you must dismember all that bleeds
Terrorists know how to matriculate into normal life,
adapating to their surroundings like clever spies,
winning peoples' confidences as they go about their days,
all the while studying their movements and ways,
waiting for the right time to attack or give reason for alarm,
taking their victims off guard,
creating unrest and uncalm,
They are hard to deciper or spot,
because they can warp into any
form or image, having no misgivings
of what they are doing is wrong,
They proceed with their misadventures,
stalworth and strong,
deriving pleasure in every sick, sadistic,
inhuman act,
Once they start, they have the inablity to stop,
Terrorists are of a different mindset,
unable to be decoded or talked down,
Their sense of creating terror is profound
and can only be halted by an act of God,
or an army designed by King Sherrod.