On this most unusual autumn day
I must say goodbye to an old friend,
a gigantic, ancient oak tree in my front yard:
You have shaded my porch for decades
enabling me to sit in my swing
on warm days relaxing, reading, and writing poems.
You have been the home of innumerable squirrels.
Little songbirds have perched on your branches
and serenaded me with their delightful trilling.
Limb by limb, you have been dying for a long time.
Twice, you have had to part with appendages, felled
by saws—at my reluctant bidding, but of necessity.
Some limbs have fallen on their own, in my yard
and even on the road!
Horrendous weather is coming, with ice and high
winds. For others and myself, I fear the huge limbs
on your right side that have been bare for several
years. How they creak when the wind rises!
The tree cutters will be here tomorrow.
Not even a stump will remain at day's end.
From this time forward, I will visualize you
where you once resided. I won't forget you.
Your kinfolk are still here, tall and strong—
as you once were.
May they thrive long after I am gone.
I long to ink the sunrise pink
in hues of Dawn's innocent blush.
On the brink of sunlight's first wink,
I long to ink the sunrise pink.
Songbirds are in melodic sync,
trilling as lovely as the thrush.
I long to ink the sunrise pink
in hues of Dawn's innocent blush.
Ozark Mountain trails my small bare feet once knew
where whippoorwills stitched dusk with trilling song.
The hills held dusk and my dreams in shades of pine blue
and taught my heart where quiet souls belong.
Oh nightingale,
you rise like a small anointing in the dusk,
your voice a trilling psalm of love and lament.
You carry the mystique of prayer on your wings,
a feathered liturgy drifting toward the listening sky.
Oh nightingale,
you sing from the chalice of stillness where God whispers,
your syrinx a cipher of creation teaching silence to awaken.
You carry ancient wisdom in your throat,
a feathered oracle scripting prophecy on the wind.
trilling of a Jay
trickles through forest's shelter
trees gently whisper~
tales of tough survival
time sleeps below leprous barks.
They tote the burdens
Of the weight of their world
herds of women
underneath
the expanse azure
In niqabs, in stance
Beneath the robes
wounded souls
beneath the wraps
worn from spinning
too tired to collapse
Entrapped in modesty, faith,
their personal choice
Muted are the colors,
as are their voice
above circling them
are the ancient ones
before them, mourning
trilling tongues, lele
for those
who have only their
dignity, and self-respect
the ones who carry
the weight of the world
Red cardinal in pale hand
under mottled white moon.
Stoic, the princess
and the bright hued bird.
Her cute little beak,
crimson blush; long, straight
flaxen hair; eyes closed.
She’s dreaming
of gilded-orb planets.
Her sight is unlimited,
and her attention is slight
to her glitzy crown
and her gown
ablaze with red and gold.
To this teen, asleep
she’s floating
in the dark of night;
she’ll awaken
to a palette, blue spruce,
and trilling of
“Cheer cheer cheer.”
A brush on the ready
in her pale palm.
Lightning has a shocking
reality – the effect of a near
strike, the trilling sizzle,
a high pitched resonate string
reminded by Nature we are
of her awesome power – not
to be underestimated and trifled
with; yet, we do: pissing in her
skies and seas, small wonder
the shark circles and gapes --
man was not his tactical prey,
but tastes can change
in the theory of evolution –
maybe even souls migrate,
back to basics, for
a far more respectful, less soggy host….
Your head is a living forest
full of songbirds.
~E.E. Cummings
The songbirds in my head
are chirping melodically,
and unlike the voices
the birds make no demands.
The voices want me dead
chanting evil plans rhapsodically,
but trilling birds notate a different choice
toward a path to other lands.
Lands where voices can be shed,
lands wherein I dwell harmonically,
lands where psyche can rejoice
without annoying ampersands!
The piano rushing with water.
Cramping hands and nothing feelings.
I used to have my mind.
Now it’s unleashed like a groggy mess.
Like spines being tangled up.
Teeth teeter tottering.
Clamming up like a tree wants to do, but can’t.
He really wants to slip away from the wind.
Drums and cymbals.
Eyes lifting like a garage door.
And stuck.
No one leaves.
No one would leave me.
Even the lonely guy playing the triangle.
The trilling isn't an instrument at all.
Sounds like a sudden exhaustion.
So I was late that day.
They don’t take attendance unless I’m gone and trapped.
I love music for no reason at all.
The piano burst through.
Unleashed.
Drums and cymbals.
Exhaustion.
Exhaustion.
Trilling notes from Bach's classic chime
* )
Duskfall lulls the rhythm of night time
a Trimeric poem
With gentleness she makes no demands,
she gives her request with angelic serenity,
born with magic in her voice
she knows she will not be denied.
She gives her request with angelic serenity
and trilling sensuality in her eyes,
does she realize or is she innocent?
Born with magic in her voice,
you really have no choice
but to give in and rejoice.
She knows she will not be denied~
she mesmerizes with her smile,
and with a gentle hand enwrapts you with her wiles.
trilling twittering
cicadas frogs or song birds
creatures of the night
trilling bird
dainty voice
subtle
not like a cicada
or a crow
I want to sing like the birds sing, NOT worrying about
who hears or what they think."
~ Rumi
And so, it is penned with each poetic verse I write~
I become a nightingale trilling in the dark of night
A mourning dove, tenderly crying for a lost soul
Spring's first robin, tempting a worm from its hole
I'm a warbler, a thrush with songs that need singing
A swallow in Capistrano, north with my flock, winging
Hummingbird searching for sweet nectar to drink
Ebony raven whose observant eye can give you a wink
I'm a wee sparrow but my voice demands to be heard
I know the lyrics to sing for I've memorized each word
I'm part of an avian chorus crooning like a symphony
Musically arranged for our voices in harmonic polyphony
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