A man once was a lover
Of the noisy Spur-winged Plover
But when walking his dog
Hid under a log
As its swooping made him take cover.
Beside the beaten track
The woodpecker went tapping on,
To the bird that's like a piece of wood.
The soldier bird got very cross -- it wasn't her;
The spurwing plover had to stab with a spur:
The jackass laughed,
I take to stripping bark.
Then all the birds for miles around came in to lend a hand;
They perched upon a broken limb as thick as they could stand,
And just as old man eaglehawk prepared to have his say
A portion of the broken limb got up and flew away.
The boobook owl -- he squats himself along a broken limb,
And pokes his beak up like a stick;
Can you tell which is boobook owl and which is broken bough.
his nest a bunch of sticks across a fork;
A cuckoo wouldn't use his nest, but what's the odds to him --
A bird that tries to imitate a piece of leaning limb!"
(Blackout of Camouflage by Andrew Barton Paterson)
The crocodile smile is such a pretty sight
as the Egyptian Plover keeps his teeth
pearly white and shiny bright
"Open wide," are words heard from the bird
his dental hygienist who picks and pecks
then eats the meaty spicks and specks
and as the crocodile sheds old choppers
(no tears)
so the avian's not unemployed or at a loss
the croc constantly grows new gnashers
for his new-found feathered friend to floss
Brackish lichen forms a raft upon the pond,
a low haze floats like a moored airship.
Small frogs chirrup sotto-voce
as if they were
dreaming sparrows.
Water birds dabble in their sleep.
Soon the sun
will dash across a drop of dew
bursting dams of light.
A fisherman in his truck
drinks his coffee,
rubs his eyes and smacks his lips.
He grabs rod and tackle,
hopes fat fish are lazily
rising.
Feathers shake off waterlogged shadows,
wings slap the groggy face of the pond,
ripples splash up
to rinse the air.
Coots and Plover call
until the water
awakes.
A distraught driver drove to Dover
Running roughshod in his Rover,
Crushing cultivated clover,
Mangling marigolds, moreover,
Pancaking progeny of plover.
Liquor-laden lies to lover;
Outcome: outed, ousted, over.
Wildlife 31
An terribly nosey young plover,
Thought of things that he'd like to discover,
So he sat on the shore,
'Til his butt was quite sore,
Then decided "I don't 'fink I'll bovver!'
Sprinting stick legs carry my midday mission
Stiff breeze whips sand, removes thin prints
Bringing crammed crab, grabbed in precision
Urgent payps brief cease brings peace distinct
Assembled nest, scattered pebbles and shells
Ginger plumage scurrier is ever alert mother
Concaves place, away from encroaching swells
Secure dunes' hush is sanctity discovered
In salt hazed mauve dusk, we pace wary guard
Time arrived for tawny fluff puffs to be shown
Harsh beach to danger prone, threat imparted
Leaving nest safety is necessary, wider zones
Buffeted by their new found brilliance, babies float
Skimmed surface of sand, brisk, excited, whisked
Proud Daddy plover observes with deserved gloat
Dedicated duty rewards during moments like this
Written: 25th July 2020
Contest: Bird Personification
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
Elephantine
Slow motion measures
out of time
in pace
Great go-between
grows notions
in lines
and space
Eglantine
embows fragrant pleasure
springtime's
embrace
Mezzanine
bon mot for half measure
lying low
in place
Intervene
plover distraction
displeasure
paradigm
about face
Serene
glow sensate pleasure
time felt
with grace
Written 16 May 2020
posted 19 July 2020
''Eglantine'' - a wild rose.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle
Keywords/Tags: Christian, Christians, Christianity, Hymn, Hymns, Praise, Worship, Faith, Belief, Believer, Believers, God, Jesus Christ, Maker, Creator, Almighty, Summer, Trees, Autumn, Fall, Leaves, Skeptic, Atheist, Agnostic, Nonbeliever, Heretic, Death, Grave, Grief, Despair
Piping Plovers run
receding surf yields food
ballet on wet sand
Bookstore, Musty Galore
Allen's Old Gold Discover,
SecondStory Pages of Glory,
Kelmscott Shelves Soar & Hover,
1st Editions Scarce Recovery,
Fore Edge Paintings Lover,
However It's Cheapo Papery,
Provides a Comfy Nest Plover,
Finding Fresh Author Flesh Scary!
Going Broke Buying A Great Cover,
I'm Not Waiting 'til Old & Hairy,
Grazing Tomes is Similar to Clover,
Diet As Extant Goodreads is Nary!
He sits alone, still and wondering
as the cascading wind cleanses his soul.
His mind it does pause, as he looks out yonder,
and muses about life's role.
Unsure I am of how he sees the world,
alone in this tranquil space,
a mosaic of colour,
among the foliage of flowering lace.
Life enters his zone, on a wing of grace,
as he considers each name in the debate,
The Robin, the Wren, the Plover, the Lark,
his mind does elevate.
The soothing, the serene, the space opposing the park
adds a view an emerald blanket, as he stares out through the dark.
piping plover
brazenly strutting their stuff
along closed beaches
John G. Lawless
©8/13/2018
(In the Middle Ages, tombs and monuments
often bore carvings of skulls or decaying corpses.
The idea was to remind the onlooker that he, too,
was marked for death. These figures were known
as "memento mori".)
Approach me, stranger. Nothing in my story
should startle you. Your flesh has always known it.
I just remind you. I'm Memento Mori.
Yes, this is what awaits you. Don't disown it.
You came in laughing, vital, carefree, easy,
but now your peace is ruined. Go, bemoan it,
and when your Pinot Grigio, risi e bisi
no longer please your palate, and your lover,
so far from comforting you, makes you queasy,
think hard. There's more to life than quail and plover.
Many things may never happen. This one must.
There's less to life than hope, as you'll discover.
For what you are now, that's what I once was. See?
See what I am? It's what you're going to be.
The atmosphere rings with the bell like calls
of the plover flock, long before they are spotted.
The flight herringbones a grey fedora sky.
Markings of white and coal black weave,
wing-stitched, a blanket maker’s dream.
Sigh makers they close on the beach
at high tide, the horizon shivers the
sand blanches. These ravishing scavengers
light on the tattered edge of wet to dry,
dawdling with the dead.
Plovers are diminutive scroungers, one-legged
dancers, hopping to the pull of tide, dining on
crab-eggs in black-tie and feathered tails, their
gray skull caps lined with a black brow.
Sparrow-small birds dress to the nines.
A feast for the birds, fall crisps, crab moltings,
go on for endless miles. September is beginning
and soon winged ones will fly to sunny shores.
The cold Atlantic will moan for the loss of music,
the unstitched sky will part. The avian choir is off
to the mud flats of Carolina.
First Published Eunoia Review January 2015
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