The flowing of a waterfall,
the appearance of a rainbow,
the changing color of the leaves,
there’s magic in the air.
A kitten meowing softly,
baby birds twittering for food,
a newborn baby crying
there’s magic in the air.
The forest going on and on,
the mountains going high,
the plains stretching forever,
there’s magic in the air.
The beauty of our scenery,
the joys of our love,
the vastness of our landscape,
there’s magic in the air.
Heaven is not the word to awaken,
with lemon balm sprig bristle in each lung,
a staunch loam-ridden citrus bouquet,
in an urban copse of dulcet twittering tone,
avian wrens in sweet floral flute glaze,
whose madrigal a charmed chestnut chime,
vast tree canopy quiver note suspense,
clam shell ear tilt of mine to absorb,
scattered mint fragrant leaf strewn carpet,
pale grey glisten brittle branch snap I twig,
rain soak mud clump squelch quaint echo,
still morning usher draped in lambent haze,
teaser trickle stream tucked away a prickle,
deep purple rose bush as dawn shelter,
grass blade tuft flicker on rimmed bypath,
breathless so I am amidst lavish terrain,
spellbound, captivated, eye transfixed,
by clement backcloth to a city in slumber,
indigo blue signpost embossed bold cue,
for empyrean trope as shrewd street élan,
mural chalk mark swirl from deft artist,
gourmet menu flair neath parasol,
overwhelmed, stunned, air passage empty,
yet my first blush stroll sun vital tonic
In a bleak and desolate
Barren landscape
She quietly thrives
In isolation, embracing
The benefits of solitude
Resilient in challenging
Moments of adversity,
Her mind freely wanders
Unfettered by pressures
And unwelcome demands
Pleasantly surprised
By lullabies of showers
And twittering birds…
But when twilight fades into
The hushed silence of night
Doubts reveal insecurities
As loneliness creeps in
Stealthily … shrouded
In shadows of vulnerability.
Yours is bigger
and full of stuff
and unwelcoming
angular, modern
furniture.
Mine is small
and colorful
and full
of backwards art
that I made
in my whimsical
corners
of a modest
existence.
The dogwood
is flowering
over the porch.
It will be over soon
and lots of petals
will fall
unappreciated
yet still modestly
breathtakingly
beautiful.
Your house has space
and framed pictures
in black and white
of handsome people
with frozen smiles.
My home has animals
scampering, twittering,
and sleeping,
and plants that struggle
for room in the slants
of sunlight.
Your house has
a quiet that comes
from emptiness.
There are clean
colors and lonely
rooms where no one
sits or passes through.
My home has just enough
laughter, dirt, clutter,
and future memories
for a lifetime
of collection.
A mourning dove
offers soft music
to the tattered ends
of a March sunset.
I sit in the grass
and focus.
How wonderful
it is to appreciate
the home I made my own.
They hedge their bets
Mimicking long fallen leaves
Swaying in Winter’s cold
Soaking up the faint sunshine
Waiting for the door to open
The “waiter” to appear
Immediate “seating” for all
A medley of favorites
Cast before them
A twittering of thanks
A weary eye for the hawk
And on to a bustling buffet
Served on the pristine white
Of last night’s coating of snow
While my son was rock-climbing,
I was running
on wet pavement
back home,
considering the clouds
and the mishappen happenings
of this January day, and myself.
The birds were awake and twittering
because there were plentiful
worms for the taking
and it was worth singing over.
I read that the blue whales
don’t sing much anymore.
The krill swam farther away,
to cooler water.
There isn’t strength for singing
when you are starving.
Tick-tock, tick-clock goes the clock
when every second counts,
not just for Captain Hook
and his sentence of doom:
an alligator’s gaping jaws.
July 21st, 2025
It’s 8:43 a.m.
the humidity in Kansas City is worse than a sauna
twittering birds are doing noisy conversing
there is loud annoying haha of a crow
in the distance I can hear a barking dog
my dogs do not seem to hear this
they are staring in the direction of the crows
there are three of them, flying single file
Haha haha haha laughing crows
a super large black ant zoom-crawls toward me
large black rain spots appear on my gray asphalt driveway
there is a loud cymbal sound of thunder
both dogs enter doggie door, seeking refuge of the house
it is raining flat out now
I see steam rises from the asphalt
the weather has slathered down into comfortably cool
a welcoming breeze tickles my arm hairs; not enough to give me a shiver
there are no sounds in the country today
wait
there it is
a loud truck has accelerated on the freeway
a ten-minute drive but we can hear it
the cardinals and robins are twittering
I feel relaxed
I hear the chirruping of birds.
It emerges from vast hidden spaces
from wherever the birds may be.
Their twittering sounds are scattered,
interspersed with cricket sounds
and the intermittent whimpers of a lonely pup
that seems to be a distance not too far away.
The birds refuse to show themselves.
They are like the happy people of my neighborhood
busy with their lives. . . .
The birds and my neighbors elude me.
The crickets keep to their camouflage in the grass.
The little dog's sad cries have now disappeared.
On this ordinary warm June afternoon
I begin to wonder where Robin Redbreast went.
It seems like it was yesterday - a brighter day -
I saw her in my very own front yard.
If she's singing now, I wouldn't know.
I do not know the song of a sparrow from a lark's.
I'd rather “feel” joy, not just hear it.
And I'd rather see with my own eyes
those crickets at their play (I'm just that way).
I'd like to have that little dog with me.
I'd pat his head and stroke his coat and say,
"Robin Redbreast hides from us today.
She may have gone away, but I am here, sweet dog.
I understand. I understand."
A songbird sings of morning glory,
twittering homage to Dawn's first light.
And ebony shadows fade to shade,
as they lose the protection of Night.
The sun rises from a scarlet shroud,
draping itself in a golden hue.
And climbing above Earth's eastern rim,
Sol paints the sky a robin egg blue.
Blood tints the clouds cotton candy pink,
as the heart of Night is pierced by Dawn.
And color is soon fully restored,
while dew sprinkles glitter on the lawn.
Butterflies and bumblebees awaken,
as a new day slowly fills with sound.
And Hope renews with every sunrise,
it's not lost; it's waiting to be found.
trilling twittering
cicadas frogs or song birds
creatures of the night
From her delicate wings a fine powder exudes and lands on the ground
by the light of the blue harvest moon a touch of Pixie Dust, in nimble magic !
Harmonious weaving, intangible strands of music coming from the sphere
sweet and beautiful arias, melodious twittering from a fairy wing's enfold
Wings not made of nylon, cellophane nor iridescent tulle but made of silk
like spider's webs tough and resilient from the Master Spinners pedipalps
Appendage wings made from embryonic liquid from ejected Neutron Stars
like butterflies they flit and fly through air currents, landing on little twigs;
Fairy dust of old as ancient as the parallels from this world to the next
dare say I, ... if ever you have been subjected to their fairy dust appeal
then flying limbs you shall receive and like it or not you will fly away
inside a land of pure magic where every thought is like a sweet reveal
From her delicate hand a sweep of the wand resting easy on your shoulder,
one single dose is feathered on you and suddenly, you are able to hold her !
If I was any more relaxed, I would be melting
others are scrambling today
there are graduations all over the state
I am sitting in the shade with my two dogs
there is a bee overhead, she appears to be black
probably because I am staring into the sun
I keep seeing her fat shadow
In the distance I hear a twittering robin
If I felt like struggling, I could hear a truck or car
the guy next door just dropped something big
It must have been substantial, sounded like a two by four
This is the country
Our houses are three football fields apart
there is a whistle type whoop
another songbird
answering chirp
these fowl may be plotting my death
but I am too relaxed to care
Love is found when least expected. … by poet
Rudolph was strolling along a winding countryside lane,
humming a love tune. The clear sky shone bright, and merrily
bright birds were twittering as they flew from tree to tree,
whilst a brook was bubbling as it wended its way
to a river that flowed nearby. Still Rudolph was dejected.
Love, alas, had passed him by. Nature failed to attract him.
Despite his meanderings around the surrounding countryside,
he had not found his soul mate to make his life complete.
He was particular in his requirements, seeking perfection.
Suddenly, he took a different path towards the wide river.
There sitting under a willow tree, strumming a guitar
Rudolph saw the most beautiful woman of his life
Her eyes were closed, but Rudolph instinctively knew
they would be verdant like the grass she was squatting on.
Her golden tresses fell in gentle curls, her red lips inviting.
Could he have found his angel on earth?
Placed 1
Birds in the cherry trees twittering their song
Big fat bumblebees hum merrily along
Crickets in the hedgerows chirping all together
A perfect day in the month of May
With perfect springtime weather.
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