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.
Categories:
syrinx, bird, nature, spring,
Form: Verse
As my father spoke of wanting a sign that my mom is with us…
CARDINAL
red feathers fly by
stirring cardinal’s syrinx ~
a soar melody
8/16/2021
Songbird haiku
Sponsor: Tania Kitchin
HMS 575
Categories:
syrinx, bird, song,
Form: Haiku
Wasps and bees and grasshopper knees waiting to sting and scratch,
Give them an inch and they respond with stings and holes to patch.
Wren and finch and grosbeak syrinx waiting to burst with song,
Give them a glance and they reply with lusty sings-a-along.
Frogs and toads and mud puppy legs waiting to pump water,
Give them a push and they react as diving sea otters.
Snakes and asps and burrowing bugs waiting to slither back,
Give them wide berth and they will leave without a bold attack.
Deer and ‘possums and red foxes waiting to eat our ware,
Give them a snack and they return for the evening's fare.
Stings or scratches, beauty or song, part of Nature’s lessons.
One must learn to live with all and how to make concessions.
Categories:
syrinx, animal, bird, environment, nature,
Form: Couplet
Dropping a voyage
across the printed pages,
he splashes through
the shallow WhatsApp.
Words are wearisome.
Expression seeks emojis.
Mangoes are ripe.
Song of nature flows out
of a syrinx.
Yet he kills the day
with the Angry Birds.
Ground is dry,
and in the growing shade.
Yet his foot and ball
keep aloof,
forgetting all
in the Clash of Clans.
He’s the winner,
loser too,
in an endless run.
He leaves the world
for the Subway Surfers.
Only finger tips are alive.
This is an electronic growth,
devoid of the human warmth.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
Categories:
syrinx, life,
Form: Free verse
Pan’s Frolicsome Guffaw
’Tis the eve of The Equinox.
Methinks I hear midst Boreas’ frozen rattlings,
an unsticking of great Pan’s frolicsome guffaw;
a cheering hint of his sweet pipe!
The warming sun doth his winter’s musings thaw,
his slumberous desire arousing.
His torpid chill’d soul methinks unbends
in vernal cabbage nigh, in newly trickled streams;
Finish’d then to be, his frosty
abjuration of sweet Syrinx!
Categories:
syrinx, spring,
Form: Blank verse