Roosting Poems

JUNCO

      Junco in winter 
      flies on grass tip, rides on field
      to pick fallen seeds,
      prefers in taking shelter 
      roosting on conifer tree.

Gemini Garden, Silent One

"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!

Soft Murmurings

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

Harbinger Birds of Spring a Resurrection of Spring Life

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.

Songs of Summer Swallows

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.

Evening Bliss

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

N Is For Nature a Happening

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.

Cold Winter Is Not Forever

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

Farewell, Painted Birds

 
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

Sad Songs

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.

Naturecycle

DEATH IN THE MORNING

on her roosting perch
a  wood pigeon awoke 
      fluttered with a nervous jerk
warily 
searching for sustenance

above
    the peregrine made a fateful entrance

a winter harsh & 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 t
in fligh 
   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 & breast

the lawn strewn leavings 
        of a ravenous raptor
as 
nature's journal
       leafs into another chapter

Original Year Posted 2007

Voices

I want to run her thoughts
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just old, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint 

Dinner out together,
the background music is too loud.
I can hardly hear her words,
she barely hear mine

An owl in a hollow tree can hear the whole dark forest.
I imagine I am roosting in her throat,
listening, not to her words or mine,
but Brailing my way around her silence.

Then I hear it, there between her 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.

Voices

I want to run her thoughts
through a carwash, they are not dirty,
just old, the way a classic corvette
needs a rinse occasionally, but never a re-paint 

Dinner out together,
the background music is too loud.
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 her silence.

Then I hear it, there between her 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.

Weather Or Not

Here’s an observation that
You might consider funny – 
If the weathermen predicted certain rain,
Many might be disappointed if
It turns out being sunny,
Though such disappointment 
Goes against the grain.

For most welcome brighter days
To lift the spirits needing boosting
As opposed to those where clouds bring thoughts of gloom,
But for folks who lately feel
They’re better off indoors, just roosting,
There’s a preference
To stay inside the womb.

Robin

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.
Spring with twelve hours daylight, nights my shortest.
I am six 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!


7/25/2020

I am a Robin 
 142 words

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