Many thoughts are circulating through my mind
as I'm having fun with gardening games on my piece of land
In a couple of my poems, a couple of my words have been dotted out. Can I use inuendo?
Is it possible for this new poem, could I be partially banned ?
I have no desire to upset established decorum
When I post this latest poem on the Poetry Soup forum
Several of my poems relate to Australian native birds
coincidentally in this poem the bird rhymes with my old nickname DAG
We're often wet as a , or roosting on a rock
I'm referring to a bird I love it's called a shag
For Many years unable to identify
this haunting whoo whoo sound
Could it be an insect or a bird up in the trees
An amphibian by the creek perhaps ?
or something, else not identified, rising from the ground
The hoot was mostly early morning but sometimes through the night
unable to get vision of this creature
perhaps through camouflage it kept itself from sight
The mystery, finally it was solved
in the middle of the day
When the haunting hoot erupted,
not too far away
In desperation as a result of an attack by a marauding crow
the sound was emanating from a desperate immature creature
A frog? no not really but part of the name,
of a bird, that's how it does feature
In appearance it much resembles some owls
Its called a Tawny "FROGmouth"
a name with several vowels
A few metres from our house there are up to four
perched upon the same branch roosting
and sleeping through the day
They are nocturnal feeders, intermittently the branch is vacant
as they opt to stay away
The Upside Down Tree—its Roots in Sky—
Its Branches clutch the Clay—
It drinks from Light instead of Earth,
And blooms the backward Way—
Its Leaves are Thoughts—unfastened—free—
That fall—yet never land—
They rise—like Prayer misunderstood—
By Gravity there Held—
The Trunk is Time—reversed in Grain—
Each Ring a future Past—
Where What we were has not occurred,
And What will be—has passed—
The Birds that nest—are Doubts and Faiths—
They sing in Counterpart—
One chirps of Loss—the other Hope—
Both roosting in the Heart—
No Axe may fell this curious Wood—
No Storm may make it yield—
For Truth—when planted in the Air—
Refuses to be killed—
So stand beneath its falling Roots—
And learn what few have known—
That Heaven grows the way it must—
When Earth is overgrown —
“Now overlap the sundials
with your shadows”
- Rainer Maria Rilke
Morning
There are no answers.
The river is too busy reflecting
trees on the far bank and healing
its mirror after being gashed
by a passing boat.
The whole morning with its clear,
crisp air and sunlit space is simply
getting on with what it has to do -
letting the day's story unfold
in time.
And so it is with me,
unfolding into my own space,
trying to heal the things
that do not reflect
what is truly real.
Evening
Like a gnomon on a sundial,
the Newport power station's
tall chimney casts its long shadow
across the river. It seems
to herald a sense of hurry
as evening approaches.
Soon, starlings will begin to loudly
bustle for roosting positions
in the nearby plane trees
and fruit bats will take flight
lifting a dark ominous cloud
into the night sky before
splintering into countless wings.
They are like messengers
from another world.
But who will hear them?
I walk home, my thoughts
seeking shelter in the familiar,
deep in my own denial
Majestic and alone,
Roosting in night's darkness.
I deeply probe illusion
With hearing and eyesight,
Guided by wisdom, and
Sound judgment, seek truth in life.
9/23/2025
Junco in winter
flies on grass tip, rides on field
to pick fallen seeds,
prefers in taking shelter
roosting on conifer tree.
"birds care not for whom they sing"--
Silent One
A bluejay comes ...roosting on the hilltop
Its melody lilts for a bounty's heap
And sprawl of September morn reels, nonstop
While daylight bursts from an autumnal leap--
A season brimming , winds fragrant and deep
That I'm thrilled by birdsong, notes upon mist
How this warbler coos...dare I not resist?
Around the curve, jay quickly darts away
Telling me it sings not for me, but all
An avian's choice-- to stay on or stray:
That birds leave, return when time to enthrall
Is gone , done...my own joy ending
time's call.
Then lo! More bluejays flutter near our gate
A gala of choirs starts... tunes, I await!
Like an avian roosting when his cawing has spilled,
I mourn in grief as this shadowed night grows cold
Crushed and grieving from promises unfulfilled
Sorrow burgeons my heart, in bitterness enfold
like unspun wool on a distaff or a poem not quilled
I am overwhelmed with fear; somberly weeping
beneath my rowan tree. In dour thoughts, I dwell
Wisps of silver moonlight cross the sky, sweeping,
signaling hope in darkness, as if it were a death knell
In my den, I feel protected; sanctuary of safe-keeping
My troubled eyes are in search of benevolence anew
For faith and courage instead of such dismal dread
How I long to take flight, trading grey skies for blue
to locate a paradise where happiness can be spread
sharing a drink of wassail; fruited ale of sweet brew
I shall swiftly soar among shining stars at great height
Fluttering my wings on journeyed path of poetic volition
Never again to be lost and alone on any mawkish night
No shadows holding me in their melancholy perdition
for I've learned how to ignite flames of lambent light
With the incoming sounds of spring, a resurrection of life,
the chilliness flees. Quote _ by Poet
Ready for a new season, Spring birds
Shake off winter; embracing
The bonniest warmness weather,
Babies born, and color of nature's crowns.
Scarlet Tanagers chatter, flying round,
Feasting on caterpillar's slowness
And beetles boring away that are found;
whilst
Eternal sunlight reft through sturdy limbs
And myriad leaves of the mighty old oak;
Rapid rhythm clatter drum sounds
Of the Woodpecker on its breast shout.
A hum, a garden faintly woo a smile
At song sung by pretty red feather Robin dancing.
A sweet kiss, a seed, the male Cardinal
Feeds his blush pretty mate favor.
Yonder pond, tree boughs
Teasing the water's edge
Whilst
Little Mallard ducklings
Follow mamma to the bank.
Bluebird builds her nest
Right in the heart of the sprouting
Redbud flowering tree.
Camouflage in the red begonia
An orange breasted Oriole
With its sweet enchanting sound.
On the horizon the fire fades out,
Hush around in high perch, tiny roosting
Cold blue moon comes into sight.
I hear serenading songs of summer swallows
and ruffling feathers of roosting starlings.
I catch the sweet scent of heirloom roses
that have not yet budded upon the bush.
All these things I know have been given to me
as surely as I see you standing before my eyes.
Unrolling aroma around,
blooms the marvel of peru;
Yellow and dark peach are their hues
and the red hearts inside never fail to
amuse.
Kopsias the pink beauties,
Ixoras the colourful cuties,
Pin wheels the white queens
Every one happily waves and grins
When the summer sun is about to set
when blowing breeze wipes out sweats,
swinging on the contorted branches, koels sing
melodious harmony to the garden they bring
Rising crescent moon,
roosting birds' tunes,
redolent night flowers,
are tuneful treat to eyes, nose and ears
These are my evening bliss,
which I never want to miss
The wood pigeon awoke on her roosting perch,
fluttered with a nervous jerk;
warilysearching for sustenance,
above the peregrine made a fateful entrance.
The winter harsh and icy cold,
driven far from its familiar fold,
seeking food further afield
to an urban garden that might increase its yield.
Under a biting wintry sky
the short tailed falcon hovered high,
an efficient killer from above,more than a
match for pigeon or dove.
Taking its chosen meal in flight,
swooping sudden from a great height,
the momentum imprinting our window pane,
her throat slashed she soon was slain.
Talons sunk deep into the pigeons chest
this finicky eater pecked at head and breast.
The lawn strewn leavings of a ravenous raptor,
as nature's journal leafs another chapter.
Within the oak tree, I have settled here
Whilst aureate sun peeks between the leaves.
My chirping song is heard roosting from top;
Can you see me; beguiling is the day.
Inherent nature's rhyme, a placid scene.
Winter has passed its chilling visit.
Spring with twelve hours daylight, nights my shortest.
I am three years old with reddish-orange breast,
Unbound and quintessential of them all.
Tugging squirmy earthworms out of the ground.
Cherubic is the flanking mockingbird
Has alone flown away now is silent.
I rule the passing hours of night and day.
Good-bye, good-bye the fiddle months last flit.
Summer nearly done, Autumn outburst late
With fruit bayberry, cherry, pyracanth;
Around the lattice to set pudgy grapes
Budding flowers for fructifying bees.
Lingering on a branch plume with winter
First snow my wings are spread quickly, fly off.
A glow of warmth I bring on winter's day!
1/27/2023
Winter is not Forever Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: BJ Legros Kelley
In Canada we love the red-breasted robin birds,
that sing a repertoire of songs with no words.
A cheery welcome in each new morns' hush,
delight is watching them tug on fat worms lush.
But, they are migratory and leave when its cold,
gathering in flocks that are beautiful to behold.
Before snow to warmer climates they fly away,
but not quietly- they chirp and call all the way.
Their flock can be twenty, two hundred, or more,
some left today up, up into the blue sky they soar.
The flock follows no set route but south wander,
and I thought where are you going- I wonder.
But, in the springtime they will return to me,
and groups will be roosting in my backyard tree.
__________________
September 23, 2022
Poetry/Couplet/Farewell, Painted Birds
Copyright Protected, ID 09-1489-978-23
All Rights Reserved, 2022, Constance La France
Written for the Standard contest, A Flock of Birds
sponsor, Julia Ward, Judged 10/06/2022
Fifth Place
I want to run her words
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just stale, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint.
Dinner together in a roadhouse,
the nasal song of a country boy
trapped in a ball-breaking melody.
I can’t hear her words,
she can’t hear mine…finally we’re communicating.
An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her mind or mine,
but Brailing my way around.
In those vocal folds, a little girl is weeping.
a mother belittles and scolds.
The server comes around. “How you’ll doing.”
She and the waitress look to me,
but I am still in the hollow of her throat
a space now witnessing
my own doleful litany of sad songs.
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