JUST ANOTHER MURDER OF CROWS
A poem by Ellen Gwaltney Bales
All day long he hears them screeching
Up in the trees
Their raucous cries
Their “Scree, scree, screes”
He does his best to ignore them
To shut out their death call
Have they come for him, he wonders
In the ever-darkening pall
The vile black wings fluttering,
Now beating against the sky
They’re saying the time has come
The time for him to die.
Will that be his fate?
To feel the evil limbs
Envelop him, thumping out their hate
Stabbing at his eyes,
Make him realize
All is not lost
Must he pay the cost
And the screeching goes on
Categories:
screes, bird, cry, dark, death,
Form: Rhyme
In deep specks, the sea flashlight sways.
sapphire flecks, and azure splashing.
Screes’ speckled satins.
Sadness fluid in the bowed beldam.
sprinkle its stretch into the shards
as her wings curled in dismay.
She had morphed into a mountainous waterfall.
a stratum full of opal swords clasped her down.
similar to a thumbprint
Gloved and cloaked in a conundrum
While roaming, she spoke a light
of transforming stone into a mist
Written: November 27, 2022
Categories:
screes, analogy, light, sea,
Form: Free verse
I suppose no speech or pen can reveal.
Hidden mysteries of the cell buzzer.
Whose sleek screes fit conjointly like a deal.
To boast about such a complex shudder.
A thin membrane that provides protection.
In order to shelter its swags inside.
The city is ruled by its switch section.
Yielding hurdles over today's worldwide.
While books about fable intend to sell.
Such a DNA change occurred by chance.
Each organ and nucleus in the cell.
A mind is warned to be behind the stance.
I shake my mind; dawdling was a mistake.
I note the book to read, needing a break.
Written: June 22, 2022
Categories:
screes, analogy, books,
Form: Sonnet
After Halloween, but before the snow,
comes a stretch of time I know
as nothing more than the barren time,
a faded wash-out of northern climes.
Most folks hate it, they say as much,
Ttings get dark, turn to frozen muck,
but in open woods and leafless trees,
I’ve always found a stark beauty.
The undergrowth is now long dead,
and the secrets plain to watching heads.
Giant boulders, pitches and screes,
deer strolling amongst the trees.
The air is crisp and blessedly silent,
free of the buzzing of insects virulent,
leaves crack and crinkle, a dying rug,
and few if any bird-songs are sung.
It’s as if life is put on pause,
momentarily free of nature’s laws.
The wilderness becomes a still-life,
while man and beast await the white.
It ends too quickly as Christmas comes
and a million things have to be done,
but for a week or two it all is mine
the austere breath of the barren times.
Categories:
screes, appreciation, autumn, beauty, change,
Form: Rhyme
I cannot see
Around the tree
In front of me
It's tall and wide
Thus does it hide
The other side
But if I move
Out of my groove
Would this it prove-
A picturesque scene
Well-watered, green
Clear paths so clean
Or crowded trees
Brambles and screes
Uncertainties
But if I stay
Certain dismay
Would come my way
So I must peer
Move out of fear
And pioneer
The other side
That tree did hide
It's vast and wide
For now I see
Around that tree
In back of me
It's smaller now
From bough to bough
No more hoosegow
Categories:
screes, adventure, mystery, nature, seasons,
Form: Rhyme