Plovers Poems

Seashore

Sly low tide sneaks up to smooch the smooth shore
that holds old footsteps left behind us
and lends itself to sand castles
standing guard until high tide
plovers dart on fleet feet
across sodden sands
spindle-legged girls
hunt conch shells —
starfish 
found!
Blue
waters 
glistening
aqua appeal —
white horse sea-magic 
spindrift manes rise from crests 
awakened from lowest ebb 
high tide arrives on thunder hooves 
body-surf Neptune’s steeds to the shore —
my wet hair dries to sun-bleached beachy waves…

Their Last Moment Of Glory

This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.

The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.

Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.

I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.

Their Last Moment Of Glory

This uncompromising Sunday
has agreed to let us enjoy
what is left of a boring day
as we ardently seek the brief presence
of a radiant sunset resembling red clay,
attesting the inevitable evidence.

The purple lilacs and pink tulips gently sway,
nobody listens to the crickets' soothing sounds;
early at sunrise they were inundated by big waves
and torrents of unmerciful rain pelting on the bay.

Every Bayberry and Crape Myrtle shrub has fragrant flowers,
they attract Sandpipers, Snowy Plovers and Monarch Butterflies;
they all feast on them, then they take off with incredible swiftness:
while the tranquil and brilliant sea resounds with various shrills.

I spot from far the noisy seagulls landing on the Church's steeple,
scattering the Gray Catbirds huddled on long cable wires that were
listening to the choir of faithful marching out with glowing smiles,
cherishing their last moment of glory under brilliant September's skies.

Quahog Legacy Unveiled

Written: June 29, 2023
______________________________________________________________
Cockle, two hooves clung over a hundred brothers.
You discovered unmatched comfort such as no other.
An awl compiled your flight of stairs to a dynasty.
A lasting legacy of resilience and strength to foresee.

A hundred tides, over a thousand plovers of sunshine
You've witnessed a time journey and a legacy divine.
In the castanet you erected, you're overweight.
Memories are archived on a home limestone site.

Without us, you'd be as peaceful as dawn.
But we found your deeds, a ruby to fawn.
Witnessing your consciousness is a sight so rare.
As eyes leave your cheek, a glimmer, an affair

Saturn flashbulb lobes are viewed using a lens.
Stunning and appealing, transcendent loveliness
The snow breaks apart in a universe-wide ballet.
The rings are on exhibit; they are a marvelous display.

A motionless, tilted cap, a mark of your grace.
To learn how to leave things alone, embrace
Ocean Treasures A story underwater unfolds.
A quahog species, so ancient and bold.

Whispers of the Shore

Written: June 24, 2023
______________________________________________________________

Soft waves embrace the clean seashore.
Caressing the sands we once walked before.
Leaving footprints imprinted on the land,
A memory crafted by nature's loving hand

The shore, a canvas of dreams,
Where sand castles stand tall, it seems
Guarding our secrets, our laughter, our joy
Until the waves of high tide destroy

Plovers dart on fleet feet,
Spread out on the damp sand, the fleet 
With grace and precision, they dance and play.
Adding life to the shore's enchanting display

Pebbly and pure, the sand beneath our toes
Soft, wet, and cool—a sensation that flows.
Beige and tan, a palette of hues,
The shore's gentle whispers—a symphony to amuse

Whispers of the shore, echoing in the breeze,
The love and memories that forever seize
The tender tides, akin to kisses on the land,
Caressing the shore with a gentle hand

The smooth shore holds our footsteps dear.
A testament to the moments we held near.
Sandcastles stand guard, proud and strong.
As the tides rise and sing their song.

At the Pond

I fritter my time away as I sat on a bench.
In front of me was a large pond with an alcove
Where three upside dolphins spout water
To keep the pond full of green filtered liquid.

The water trickle reminds me of the sound of silence.
But silence all around there was none; for hear
Red Bunting, plovers and others fly here and there.
Whilst in the shallow part of the pond, ducks waddle along.

Fascinated I admire the lotus plants in the water
As yellow and red flowers adorn the flat green leaves.
Food is abundant since flies, dragonflies and insects
Provide the animal kingdom with plenty to eat.

It was a warm evening and soon all went to rest
I soon felt drowsy as the trickle of water was so melodious.
But light sleep was not for me it seems as if a shadow fell on me.
I woke as her lips brushed softly on my own.  I was full of glee.

A Walk In the Woods

The mist hangs low. No panic though,
no cause for distress, just mustard - and cress
adorns the forest floor, no roar, just the soaring 
of woodcock, no shock of the dead, just the red
of poppies on man made redoubts, moss covered,
with Plovers eggs,undiscovered, in its secret places.
No traces here of the primal fear of a generation lost,
oh, what a cost that I may bask in the afterglow
of a warming sun whilst row on row
of bluebells chime and rhyme with nature,
now restored to dappled light in forest deep
and birdsong comforts those who sleep.

Plover Dance

Piping Plovers run
receding surf yields food
ballet on wet sand

I Am Not As Innocent As the Small Bird Who Sits On Her Nest On the Ground

Next to where I work where they make electric cars
Where they used to make gasoline powered cars and trucks
near where groves and groves of orchards once grew
The small birds now nestle their young like penguins
in the Antarctic on the ground just because they are more afraid
of the polluted air than of the natural wildness that
once was.
Or maybe it was I who never took notice of their plight.
The Shore birds such as plovers, terns, avocets and sandpipers
of which I never took any time to notice much.
How I consider it so strange to just notice them now.
Almost like a Michener novel.
Blue blue like a Wallace Stegner novel, an angle of repose
some angle of least resistance that occurs when you
are trying to relive the guilt behind all the engineering
terms that built this one and holier than god
parade that built itself up to carry all of life
And the moon and the stars above.
And all with beautiful magnificent writing.
For some reason.

Peace!

Beachwalking

I walk barefoot on the beach
Where the water greets the land.
Waves with their wet fingers reach,
Then retreat from where I stand.
White foam fizzles on the sand.

I pick up some rocks and shells,
Watch the shorebirds dive and fly
As the ocean ebbs and swells,
Plovers skitter, seagulls cry,
Soundless pelicans glide by.

8/3/2017

Cairns Edge

The beach gathers its dead. Thousands of horseshoe crabs
come home on the full moon’s tide. Their courting dances, 
scrawled with claw and carapace in the wet sand, leave
with the ghost hands of nursing Autumn wave.

Their nests of jewel-colored eggs, covered and soothed
seasoned in salt sea, gestate beneath a slurry of debris.
Right side up each skin colored husk with its barbed tail
rocks in the bubbling broth of Cape Cod’s bay.

Belly up, they appear as an open invitation to the plovers
who flock overhead and arrow down en masse to dine.
Piping plovers, masked in black, hopscotch through the
detritus, connoisseurs of this turquois egg-like caviar.

Among the life and death of sea we walk, barefoot, and 
cautious wary of the scramble, the jutting barbs, the bits
of un-soothed glass, the desecrated cairn which barricades
the dying life from the living sea.  


Published First in Sounding Review 2015

Death Tolls

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

Seven Birds In Spring

Seven Birds in Spring


Sparrow in late snow
Gathers straw to make her nest
Afraid to be last.

A dash of swallow
Almost faster than the songs
Of Spring returning.

Baby birds chirping
The nest full with mother’s warmth
Life renewed- the same.

Swallows hit the pond
A quick drink or bugs to eat
Do I need to know

Plovers in the sand
Four tiny chicks in the waves
Almost gone from Earth

Fifty calls at least
A mockingbird on a pole
Why so many songs

Every Spring the hawk
Finds the robin’s hidden nest
As I sit and watch.

Early Morning In Walvis Bay

Hand in hand with the breaking pink light of dawn, 
A light east breeze dances on tiptoes upon the water’s surface. 
I stand on the wooden deck, looking out onto the quiet bay,
Scattered boats gently sway in their moorings.

Making me feel like I am flying amongst them - a bird on a wing,
Flocks of terns swoop and rise in graceful circles close beside me.
Dexterously stepping over the green covered rocks on the shore, three white egrets are here too;
They keenly pick out their breakfast in the lapping tide.

With a swoop and fall, a cormorant dives deftly into the water and disappears,
Moments later the bird emerges several metres away as if out of nowhere. 
In a display of alternating flashes of grey and brilliant white, 
Plovers so small and so swift turn and glide in controlled unison.

I glance northwards towards a distant gentle hum,
There great ships are silhouetted in the waking harbour.
I stand and breathe in true appreciation;
Oh, the magnificent beauty of this new day.

Green Mountain

Oh majestic peaks,

standing so tall,

the points never meager,

uplifting like the beautiful dowager.

~*~

The greenery covers,

like a flock of plovers,

and a blanket of fibrous wicker,

near the rocky slopes that flicker.

~*~

The sunlight is poking through,

and a wall of clouds of suspended dew,

a stand of conifers abridged,

growing across the green mountain ridge.

~*~

Oh Green Mountain, so rich in seeds and nuts,

like the early bakers torte,

your cool mountain streams,

cleanse thy body and make me gleam.

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