glistening colors
lovely blues and azure greens
peahen is jealous
Here comes the uppity bejeweled crow
Carrying her loud beak just so and so
She is wearing a cape as white as snow
Her beady eyes turn on me; they have a glow
Flashing gemstone rings are on her feathers today
She preens and twists, weirdly turning away
Around her neck there is a diamond choker
I heard she won this playing cardinal poker
winter afternoon...
ebony crow perches, preens,
like it owns the place,
pecking into a bread crust...
unregal lord of its realm
What if man’s made to run a race with deer,
Or with Chita a sprint he were to face,
That, man’s no match appears mighty clear,
Beasts would beat with half of their highest pace.
Take any seal, a whale, or a dolphin,
And let an Olympic swimmer compete,
E’en one with gold medal can’t hope to win,
What ants can lift, none ever can defeat,
A tiny frog can beat them in long jump,
And ducks can dive deeper for longer time,
Even insects boast of an ace of trump,
And yet, man preens up with a plume so prime.
The best of beasts whilst least bother to boast,
Men wish, they all raise him a rightful toast.
____________________________________
Sonnet |20.08.2024| men, games, fantasy
Poet’s note: Suppose an Olympic is held between human and animal world, say an Animalympic. In most events animal world would beat humans hollow. Man may be at the crest in evolution insofar as intelligence is concerned. One doubts if he has wisdom enough to best use his abilities.
Life, And Trekking Across Wild Wilderness
As epic pain ebbs then subsides
Nature's steals the mountainous scene
With beauty's encompassing slides
Home, farm life, peacock yardbird preens.
Robert J. Lindley, Goethe-Stanza
7-27-2023
Note: Goethe Stanza- New poetry form, that I recently discovered.
Robin Redbreast
Spring is here, and the robins appear
With morning and evening song in the air.
A robin redbreast perched in a tree
Sings a song for his lady bird-to-be,
Undeterred, as he awaits her answer,
Crescendoing to drown out the others.
His heart afire, his senses alert,
He preens his feathers between the chirps
And breathes deep as his chest puffs out;
Then, music vocals produced by the syrinx
Flow out from his bill, calling to his sweetheart
In refrains to arouse her curiosity.
And if successful, she’ll fly in his direction
To check out his worthiness and description.
Hummingbirds gather, sipping nectar,
wings buzzing as they rapidly flutter.
Fun, feisty and fearless visitors,
treasured enchanting moments.
A bright ruby throated male,
perched waiting for his mate.
Sweet chirping as he preens,
vibrant emerald feathers glow.
Pale green, shimmery feathers appear,
sipping nectar, her wings start to flutter.
Now chasing, a playful courtship show,
like bright gems dancing in midair.
Dancing, zipping, soon soaring,
in a flash, landing in a tree.
Sweet chirping sounds emit,
so wonderfully whimsical!
Contest: Marathon Mile 12 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Because you have known,
like you look at my agony growing in it.
While she looks, at the spark she has caused
in the eye of it.
As I moan because of what she does and still
goes on I am fully spent.
And hearing
the wind moan through the trees she as well.
Bushes camouflage the disturbance of the leaves
and still the robin sings too and you do not have to imitate them.
The make up each eye with her almond milk that I drink running down to the sea.
And full of youth, she preens her green lips glossed, assured.
And as for that which with my domestically,
I Agonized over what will forever not be.
While hearing the song that she sings.
Oh, yes. A man of means.
Harsh, cold creature
Punctured smile
Selfish demon
Dark fills his genes
Oh, yes. A man of means.
Tongue like an asp
Punctured words
Words like a bee
Meaning that stings
Oh, yes. A man of means.
Hands like a hawk
Punctured grasp
Grasp of a kite
Contented, preens
Oh, yes. A man of means.
Sharp as a shark
Punctured veins
Veins running red
The worst of fiends.
Oh, yes. A man of means.
Force of a mamba
Punctured gasp
Gasping for air
Man of no miens.
The Season of Grieving Color
David J Walker
The day dawns in golden streams
Of pinks and grays
And the frays of things
In moist and curious blues
What color of the pallor
Could be piled upon
the pallet to bring
In the days news
Seasons are soon changing
Rearranging the specter
Of views we’ve become
Used to
There is little heat in yellows & greens
Scenes of desires in
Cool violet fires
That preens in convex mirrors
Purple ice —
Flames of yellow sunshine freezing.
Bittersweet,
From golden scepter’d throne,
Red and orange leaping.
Purple ice —
Snake eyes rolling, impassioned fire.
King’s knife twists
In the ominous woods —
Autumnal bed of d’sire.
Purple ice —
Eruption of molten lava.
Melting
Of immortality,
Poppy-rusting of leaves.
Purple ice —
Once, look’d at emerald
Eyes. Twice.
Never again. Jealous
Queen preens against oak cold.
8/10/2021
The storm blasted its way across near horizon
Like a fleeting loss of Mother Nature’s temper--
Seething anger, blowing, and drumming ahead
Shouting to the trees “Get out of my way!” and
Sending loose flotsam before it to blow about
With no regard for torn shingles or fresh, clean
Clothes pinned to that long thin line stretched
Between two crosses of piping standing rigid.
The storm strode across the flowering meadow
Like the entrepreneur who owns everything and
Preens disarmingly confident in his arrogance--
Leaving broken stems of royal purple in its wake
Applauding its success while breaking their backs
With flashes of flexing strobes and sudden gusts.
THIRD PLACE WINNER
August 1, 2021
entered "Imagism" poetry contest
sponsored by Emile Pinet
Old gorgeous Jake is completely in love
Hours he stares and hears a turtledove.
One weekend he never leaves her alone.
He stays in there with a well-used comb.
He goes nowhere, eats nothing at all.
He stretches and preens and stands so tall!
His parents are tearful and truly fear
He’ll never fall out of love with his mirror.
The trees are in their best attire
A panoply of reds, yellows and greens
The boughs are wearing leaves of fire
That with strokes thus prunes and preens
The zephyr that moves like a ballerina
The wind desperate for attention
Cries and howls and shakes the trees
The leaves first resist in contention
Only to succumb to a breeze
And make a colorful arena
The carpet of leaves augustly unrolled
Beckons and becharms with awesome glow
The trodden leaves rustle in the cold
Then of a sudden does the wind blow
And plays the nature’s ocarina
So many jewel colors swell and bold
Certainly sweep you off your feet
The trees invested in reddish gold
The soul imbued with a golden beat
Autumn is the seasons’ czarina
Mistletoe in July? What do you mean?
Are you a nocturnal Christmas tree queen?
A daily optimist in red and green?
Bringing me this idea in a Santa stein.
July magic preens betwixt and between.
We have our own traditions duly seen.
Stay for the fireworks, they are rather keen.
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