There was a woman, singing a sore song.
Soft savoury salvation in her tongue :
"Freedom for some, leave the others to rot,
A heron sent flying, and magpie sought."
There was a woman, with birds in her mouth,
Tweeting twinkling tunes, headed to the south.
Those folk listen, take word for opinion-
"All are built to solve the equation!"
There was a woman,- that's not right at all!
There is string and sticks attached round back,
And, there, a speaking gull stands oh so tall!
He squawks out loud talks, to impress the hawks,
And faced with words, prepares his attack.
Through his puppet's lips, holding her pitch forks.
great-tailed grackle
struts across the wind-dried lawn
cackling secrets.
he squawks his madness
jibbering arcane folklore
for any to hear.
Sometimes it shrieks, hoots or creaks,
whistles, cries, trills or squeaks,
rattles, russles gurgles or moans,
babbles, crackles, grunts or groans.
Sometimes it chatters, chirps or howls,
baas, ribbits, hisses, roars or growls,
cackles, coos, squawks or crows,
chitters, bleats, clucks or bellows.
Sometimes it, barks, buzzes or caws,
clicks, gobbles, gurbles or heehaws,
moos, humms, oinks, meows or neighs,
peeps, purrs, quacks, snuffles or brays
the silence of nature is a never-ending song,
forget your troubles and come sings along.
“Snowflakes are winter’s butterflies.” – Unknown
Winter is not always bitter, lifeless and drab
Snow gleams as it blankets and caresses nature
Birds become a vibrant display in reds and blues
A Blue Jay squawks as a cardinal stands ground
Perched on shimmery branches and bird feeders
As their songs warm frigid air with joyous melodies
Trees sleep as their barren branches provide shelter
While ice shimmers in artsy patterns under sunlight
Squirrels busy at feeders, hoarding seeds and nuts
Winds blow snowfall as it cleanses the drab ground
Ducks heard quacking while perching on icy riverbeds
Nature becomes a magical display in winter
I walk along the slippery shore.
of the shingled beach
that welcomes the inland sea.
The sun rises slowly in the east,
lighting my way amongst
the small rocks and drying seaweeds.
There is a lift inside me
that nurture enthusiasm.
Peace and quiet reign around
disturbed occasionally by the barks
of sprightly dogs that race upon the sand,
the squawks of gulls gliding gluttonously
swooping down for their repast.
I look with sympathy on other walkers
on the beach. Thus, I meditate,
a marvellously therapeutic exercise.
Who am I, Lord, to deserve all this?
The quiet meditation calms my mind.
lowers my blood pressure,
a spiritually potent release.
My mind is tranquil,
I know who I am,
my soul is happy.
Ebony ears carving a melody
To not listen is a fuchsia felony
Pumpkin patch a ballroom for hags
As scarecrows do the monster mash
Crop circles and winding corn mazes
People love to explore such places
In the red barn we try to get warm
A spider near apple cider does no harm
Black bats are the birds of night
A hooting owl gives them fright
Frosty air thick fall’s denim delight
Candy apple on stick take a bite
Autumn fair with colorful leaves
All is well on this calm Halloween
Festive fun despite the chill in air
Wind is a hawk that squawks and stares
I sit, this morn, on the bed of
A dried-up rivulet,
Head-bent and full of compunction.
It’s clam-quiet except for the impatient
Squawks above which prompt my heartbeat.
I raise my head, heavy with grief.
Climbers and weevils align in a silent choir,
Singing with precision the lines of a forgotten
Mirth.
It’s 5 o’clock in the morning — a time when
Cockcrows are loud enough to wake the dead.
I cringe and slink as I traipse about in the dead woods,
Among the cadavers of river plants, decimated,
Deserted, and vitiated through seasons’ flagrant ebb.
I see shadows that sing with their mouths tightly shut.
Like them all, I, too, am lonesome, and I draw about me
The dry waves of parched waters.
On my lips is a certain prayer — a revised edition of the
Paternoster.
Return, waters, return from the underrocks, I pray thee.
My sorrows are old and fragile.
Hoots and cries and stridulations beseech me.
I have picked my way among paths that
Cuddle the feet in sympathy and soothe
The souls that hide from the earnestness of
Sunrise.
Wash my dry naked feet, O waters,
And grease my palms so cracked from
Endless chafing.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these ‘it might have been’—John Greenleaf Whittier
without deep regret
apologetic parrot ~
squawks m
i n d racked a
n
g
u i s h
The charcoal clouds melt in the scorched sky,
serenading summer drizzle descends
with the fascinating flotilla in the arid air.
The spectrum of the setting scarlet sun
sparkles in the slant spray of the raindrops,
soaking the singed malachite meadow,
as pristine petrichor exudes in amber ambiance.
The raindrops cascade in soft musical torrent
in the misty puddle, spreading in my pasture.
I feel the nostalgic delight of my youth return.
The little pool morphs into glistening ballroom floor
for the aquatic ballet of the rolling rills.
I hear the silent symphony of the melodic past
in the rhythm of the raindrop dance.
From the barnyard comes a hopping fawn bird,
with spread-out wings flapping in the drizzle
the chicken squawks the tune of waltz for me.
So, I join her doing the feathered twirl,
spinning around together with slippery slide.
I tap my toes as she splatters the muddy water,
bringing back my younger days of joyful chicken splash.
Weary Is My Mind
I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once,
never again.
Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .
never again.
The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,
never again.
Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue
For Weary Is My Mind
Morning sunrise breathed light in filagree
burnishing colorful waves across the sea
It delicately wove golden threads of lace
in dawn's sky while it warmed my face
I smiled at the sea's luminous shimmers
as it moved in rhythmic dappled glimmers
The sun's brilliant shades of topaz and maize
seemed to set the sea aflame in a fiery blaze
I watched my footsteps stolen from the sand
by frothy fingers smuggled as contraband
A flock arrived; their squawks heard as a cheer
The avian's call to breakfast I could plainly hear
Seagulls sang together in a raucous symphony
as dawn in glorious beauty, revealed her litany
They kept watch for light appearing in the East
as the signal it was time for the day's first feast
It was such a wondrous morning upon the cape
as sunlight artfully painted a stunning seascape
all gathered in flocks
with raucous loud squawks
poised pink-grey Gallahs leap up
smashing the dawn hush
in a scramble rush
to broadcast their rude heads-up
they swoop and chatter
all sundry scatter
as nonchalantly engrossed
uncaring rabble
disturbs the babble
of self-righteous flock utmost
a mockingbird sings
mimicking bird melodies ~
comedic chorus
a hummingbird sips
while vibrant feathers flutter ~
a rapid refresh
a hungry bluejay
squawks and shrieks at the feeders ~
blue feathered bully
a cedar waxwing
quickly steals fresh tree berries ~
flying masked bandit
a barred owl whistles
while camouflaged in a tree ~
a prey stalking pursuit
I’m totally transfixed
I hold my breath
Tiny fledgling spreads its wings
Twittering parents are watching anxiously
will baby bird fly
I’m totally transfixed
My neighbour’s cat
Is prowling, ready to pounce
I hold my breath
Mother squawks loudly
Danger is now averted
Tiny fledgling spreads its wings
the birds are alive
busy little group of squawks
scratching fresh mowed grass
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