GEESE WITH MOON ON THEIR WINGS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
gentle autumn breeze murmurs
summer’s farewell song
geese with moonlight on their wings
in flight and headstrong
across stellar sky
their honks a gentle refrain
never asking why
I left with a bag of dreams
and a heart full of hope.
The roads were wide
but none felt like home.
I spoke in borrowed voices
slept under unfamiliar skies.
Smiled through winters
that never thawed my bones.
But something kept pulling
a voice, a scent, a song.
A name I once answered to
still waiting where I belong.
Now I return, not empty
but carrying what I’ve become.
Not to start again
but to finally come home.
With smiles they waved goodbye
barefoot on the soil that raised them
carrying nothing but names
and the weight of dreams too heavy for home.
They spoke of Europe
like it was morning on the other side of night
and more prayers than food.
Is this hope?
To trade the peace of home for a foreign land?
Or is it loss
leaving love behind for a future that may not come?
This is human migration
not statistics but sons and daughters
not numbers but beating hearts
crossing borders just to feel human again.
In the summer heat of '47's cry,
A line was drawn beneath the sky.
Not ink, but blood, not words, but flame—
Two nations born, but none the same.
Fields once golden, shared with grace,
Now whispered names in a stranger’s place.
Neighbors turned to fleeing feet,
Homes abandoned, hearts incomplete.
The Ganga wept, the Indus roared,
As trains of silence onward soared.
One carried dreams, the other pain,
Each bound by history's heavy chain.
Mothers clutched their children tight,
As dusk replaced the promise of light.
The earth was split, but souls entwined,
By love, by loss, by ties maligned.
Yet even as the borders grew,
In every heart, an ember flew—
Of songs once sung in shared embrace,
Of temples, mosques, a common space.
Now time walks slow through wounds unhealed,
Through stories still too deep to yield.
But in the hush of evening's breath,
Hope blooms quietly out of death.
May memory teach what lines erase,
That peace begins with face to face.
Not walls, but bridges must we chart—
For no one owns a human heart.
Cooler breezes give us relief from the stifling heat,
A signal autumn is coming, and summer is in full retreat.
Leaves on the trees turn yellow, orange, red and brown,
As the days grow shorter, they eventually find their way to the ground.
As temperatures continue to cool, animals prepare for the cold months ahead,
Birds, reptiles, and mammals make ready for longer nights and shorter days instead.
Diminished daylight triggers an internal clock,
Signaling waterfowl to fly south, virtually non-stop.
Monarch butterflies commence migrating to their winter home,
Flying thousands of miles, their wings beating in cadence to an internal metronome.
As days pass, daylight shrinks and nighttime expands,
Driven by the earth’s voyage around the sun as we have come to understand.
As the outdoor world starts changing, all plants and animals adjust,
Preparing for the formidable winter ahead is a necessity, a must.
Plants start dropping seeds while animals gather food stores - their pre-winter haul,
It’s that time of year again, a time we call Fall.
Beloved monarch or milkweed butterfly, Your migration may mystify, Do you migrate from Australia or America?, How do you ascertained the area?, Your journey holds spiritual significance, It serves as a symbol of existence.
Complex and profound,
The many forms of migration,
Each resonates and weighs differently....
The migration before famine,
After the harvest,
They are not the same...
The migration from oppression,
And that clandestine flight,
Across guarded frontiers...
The migration of cultures,
And of traditions and tongues?
And identities unsettled so fragile...
The migration from familiarity,
After a community,
Has been dismantled...,
That poignant migration,
Your story is interwoven with mine,
In our collective diaspora...
Whatever the impetus,
Migration leaves its mark,
And the echoes of its journey,
May often reverberate,
In generations that follow...
Migration is also sometimes,
An unspoken odyssey,
That we yearn to hear.
Samantha, my cat, put on her glasses
and sat by the tv today..
Besides being cute she's very astute
at keeping winter blues at bay..
When she can't find her pen, she'll
turn on CNN and see what their
commentators say,
but it's really not her turf so other
channels she'd surf, until she saw some thing okay..
Samantha found the Migration of Birds and if a cat
could speak words, "that documentary was awesome" she'd say.
Grey clouds are hovering near.
Winter's chill will soon be here.
Avian are taking flight,
pausing to roost for the night,
but only for a brief time
then on to a warmer clime.
Flocks fly on fine feathered wing,
migrating, they trill and sing.
To return in spring to nest.
At journey's end they will rest
before baby chicks arrive,
so the species will survive.
Canadian Geese flying south
and trucks on the highway
jostle for space
in my ears.
The trucks remind me of where I am
in time and place,
while the geese remind me of a lifetime
of here and nows
present, with the wonder
of simply being.
The geese moving with the seasons,
following shifting pathways
of water and crops,
honk as they go;
“Here we are, here we go!
All together now,
here we come!”
The trucks meanwhile
just zoom past
heading, who knows where
on their own.
(9/26/22, first published in my 6th book of poems, OUT OF TIME OUT OF MIND, 2022)
Aliens have recently taken over my mind
They're a friendly lot, they are
Obsessed by the pretty women we have
And the love of our fancy cars
They say they're thinking of migrating
Warned them it's not a bed of roses
Got a bunch of yahoos running the show
Amazing the problems it poses
Many of us live in the lap of luxury
Others don't have enough to eat
Power trips are the crux of our problems
We must have servants at our feet
So the choice is yours my alien friends
Don't know what it's like back home
Might think of checking out other planets
This is not the best one known
spotted sky dotted
this cacophony of crows
a murder plotted
The child of a certain perception,
Among your kinfolks poor reception,
You just can’t endure irritation:
It could make you leave your own nation,
White men’s world declare your new station,
Face the challenge of imitation…
Then, it’s all yours: A quick migration,
Your legs not swollen for gyration;
On foot you cross waiting borders,
Dumping your unreceptive brothers!
For those with no more trusts in their world,
Now, fully sure elsewhere they’re being called.
Poor rating at home has their hearts galled;
They’re bleeding guys beasts have mauled…
Really, the future of stark dreamers,
With hopes to play to the hilt schemers,
As a first step they arrange a flight,
In their countries tired of the fight:
A will to understand a new clime,
Note their guiltless actions now a crime!
Still, migrants to keep in mind Swallow
Foreign life they can’t continue to hallow
Some might question “What sort of fellow?
For life to a foreigner “Hello!
robin zugunruhe
migratory restlessness—
singing their way north
Robin Image credit: Michael Lamarche
Graphic image by Mark Toney using Canva Pro
“Robins are feeling restless. Ornithologists call this pre-migratory restlessness, zugunruhe. This German word comes from zug (move, migration) and unruhe (anxiety, restlessness).” — Journey North (American Robin) - journeynorth.org/robin/spring2017/robin-migration022217.html
Aliens have recently taken over my mind
They're a friendly lot, they are
Obsessed by the pretty women we have
And the love of our fancy cars
They say they're thinking of migrating
Warned them it's not a bed of roses
Got a bunch of yahoos running the show
Amazing the problems it poses
Many of us live in the lap of luxury
Others don't have enough to eat
Power trips are the crux of our problems
We must have servants at our feet
So the choice is yours my alien friends
Don't know what it's like back home
Might think of checking out other planets
This is not the best one known
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