Born into the soothe of tide pools.
Hardly a ripple, hardly a care.
Infinity in the shallows so very nearby.
There are no treasures here
Only the seduction of security.
On the horizon you see shining things.
Maps to treasures that we're born to seek.
Knee-deep we frolic about.
Then slide into the thick blue
where thrashers abound.
There, destiny lies like a sleepy silver eye.
On a sandy shelf just above the abyss.
You reach out bit by bit,
But it's always one bit out of reach.
You've convinced you've given your best.
Heart pirates move in, gleaning the last fleck from your chest.
Return to shallows warm. A bit battered and worn.
Back into the tide pool of reflection.
The horizon scribes the journey from beginning to end.
Knowledge and wisdom came at a premium.
Beyond the wave-sacked pebbles
lie the pockmarked dunes,
sea-wind swept heaps,
burrowed by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, the working class,
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers
as a chill summer drizzles on.
I am a brine-spattered small fry,
a boyhood caught in a swirl
and flounder, bare feet
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
an ankle tugging surf.
Mother, her demeanor
soggy and sagging at last,
pleads to be led back
to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea,
looks to see God knows what,
then turns to drag me away,
from our holiday day.
The Mockingbird sings out his misleading best,
in hopes to attract a dupe with a nest,
where the squatter believes mate’s eggs should belong;
so mimics and jabbers uncountable songs.
Catbirds and Thrashers, related critters,
both grey North Americans sport throats of a twitter.
These gifted Warblers mock tricky bird tunes,
deceiving, deluding as feathered dragoons.
In fairness to balance the Tweeters’ intent,
creating, demanding a need to invent
a song to attract a new or lost mate:
so, a beacon to follow and commitment to state.
EXAMPLE MOCK SONGS
whistling, hey-hey yip pittie-yap
frog gurgle, snarf-chickie claw-saw
peep peeping piccolo-staccato bleat
sniftering chit-chat, yodel-do do
snerling, rat trap, blah tat-tat-tat
crunchy nasal chirp, coo-coo-coo
A walk through the meadow
is now out of the question,
for I need no signs of death
and shadow to remind me
that life is fleeting.
A walk through the meadow
would not elevate my mood,
or bring feelings of elation
though, even in spring, I know
that life is fleeting.
A walk through the meadow
would bring tears to my eyes
as I would miss the thrashers,
colors of the asters, and know
that life is fleeting.
A walk through the meadow
must be reserved for uplifting
thoughts, meditating on life,
warmth, and no stark reminders
that life is fleeting.
Written October 6, 2022
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
needles and nettles
thistles and thrushes
thrashers and hashish
each has a has as each
a brother and sister
a mister and missus
a this and a that is
their there and
they're there
and no
where
to be
found
finding
all is lost
what cost
freedom we
shall overcome
Beyond the wave-sacked,
lie the pockmarked dunes, heaps dug
by the claws of scaly thrashers.
Here they huddle, my blood kin
flogging grim pleasures,
wolfing eggy sandwiches,
dipping tea-stained teeth into beakers.
By a shoaling shale and monochrome spray
one brine-splattered small fry.
A boyhood caught in a swirling freshet,
he whales barefoot in the flounder,
skimming the slimy kelp, stalking
a slippage of tugging surf.
Her demeanor soggy at last, mother
goads to be led to the creaking camper.
Father smokes a plug of leathery shag,
grunts upright, walks toward the sea.
A toppled thermos and leftovers
scooped up and lugged away.
Windswept, the lingerers
trudge from the chilly churn,
while a soused and hectoring bay
records a working-class holiday.
IT’S SPRING THE SONGBIRDS DO SING--
Oh, perching birds Passeriformes on branches sit Passeriformes;
Singing unto me a songs mimetic merrily in vocalization;
Territorial repertoire attracting mating calls characters;
A Chirp Whistles and Beeps Tweet-Tweets cries in formations;
Nightingales and mockingbirds attracts mates or hold territory;
Variety of many oscine songs thrashers and catbirds allegory;
Blue Jays, Mockingbirds kiss and flap their little wings;
The song in this clade signals sexual intentions race;
Sexual selection among songbirds is highly based;
And in Backyard marrying and dancing they do sing;
Alas! Tis the sounds and coming of spring, all the songbirds do sing;
Songbirds Poetry Contest
Rhyme poetry form only.
Sponsored by: Tania Kitchin
The Old Soul Ponders
The Old Soul Ponders
Old soul, ripped its tent and retired
into another long daylight fog
Pay the wages, old age is soundly mired
in the barks of a lazy dog
Serpent like- Each day twists its tail
where angels fear to ever tread
Sticky- Those tentacles leading to Hell
rude awakening even for the dead
Tunnel is long and dark with no light
thrashers cutting stalks for the corn
Bruised thoughts invade before the fight
as wisdom belches out its high scorn!
Alas! Wise words shot me in my back
as blood soaked my racing feet.
For courage was never what I lack
Yet Time eternally laughs at our defeat!
Robert J. Lindley , 11-17-2015
Birds flurry...
Frenzy feed...
Gold Finches...
Nuthatchers...
Red Cardinals...
Male Blue Jay...
House Finches...
Some Sparrows...
Nairy Crow...
Brown Thrashers...
Mockingbirds...
Come to stay...
Spring has sprung...
Blueberries...
Bloom blossoms...
Spring still ify...
Her heart was a watercolor foyer.
Drifting about eddies-beneath fatal falls.
Wishing away the violets,
morning roses and midnight glories.
Fading mist-stained beating.
Her loves inheriting the aromas
percolating from her water garden mind.
Those who thought they knew her,
stood high upon crystal-browed shores.
Slinging burning stones and bits of bone.
Summing up her life in bold font quips...
She was that-she was this.
Green viper bitten -black moon kissed...
As her final palette faded,
blackbirds escaped her brilliant veins.
Time greedily sweeps the gold to gray...
The thrashers scattering her starry soul.
Into the misty orbit of Monet.
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