Like an addled cuckoo that garbles
the birdsong that he warbles,
I've experienced many strains.
I've got gremlins in my brains,
and I've lost my marbles.
nightingle warbles…
gliding on its tufted veil
to serenade trees
~
from huff puff of wind
songbird tweets fancier tunes ...
in autumnal dance
The tremolo of mourning jays vibrates
In bittersweet tracks when nightfall scans
An almost dim backdrop, gripped
By low warbles from birds' paean
Indistinct as dusty tunes--a whip, wallop
A whistle of drones becomes
dangerous and still;
Throaty on a lane of funeral's last rites:
The hazily drawn view turns ambient...
it is another blasted evening
Moistening wail of eyes with monotone lull
that I hide my face
from past autumnal romps
reminding me of chimes, soft cuddles
pressed in heavenly light...I whisper
to a young silhouette now cradled
By the starkest of blue stars...
Tunes stale,
while jays moan on the horizon, until...
20
He knows more than I do,
The blackbird that warbles
In the rue Verlaine,
She knows more than I do,
the cat purring
When I stroke her,
He knows more than I do,
The old live oak
Whose foliage is crying,
She knows more than I do,
the titmouse without complex
In the street Dixmude,
He knows more than I do,
The dog that barks
To scare his master,
They know more than i do,
That’s why I toast
With the Big Dipper,
That I think of the Ionian Sea.
Terminology metamorphosizes,
the chrysalis is forgotten in the butterfly,
likewise, in times so ancient
that a cultural amnesia had
thrown its opaque cloak across
original meaning,
names have become misplaced
upon an ever-shifting scrabble board.
So it is, with demons and imps,
once both were considered to be
the perfect fauna of human character.
My demon is quite a charming sprite,
in Spring it jumps over itself
transforming into a mischievous imp,
it often warbles from a cherub's throat
while genius (that other face of a demon),
sings lustily from every songbird’s gaping mouth,
both recall a time when we all sailed together
above the celestial wavelets
of an angelic womb.
Then there are those supplementary divinities
that guard our various talents
nymphs that slumber within the soul of mankind
until one fresh sunrise
truth awakens them to flight,
then all at once
they change their many names
to - You. and Yours.
Narrow winding road passing through the stretched fields
A flock of white storks strutting on the ridges
As if they were the landlords
Slight warbles and trills of birds
I went on enjoying the symphony during my morning walk
A chaos...
The purring of a gasoline car
All the birds soared upwards with a flapping
One confused stork flew in the reverse course
And hit the hood of the car
A thudding sound followed by a weak wailing
I sensed what had happened
Saddened at the sight of the discoloured bird
The static stork plucked my heart strings
An unknown bird...
Still, turbulence in my heart
The hard lucked bird has become my storyline
My tranquil RIP to the hapless soul!
Premiere Contest : 3rd Place
Birdsong
And the leaves of grass
Make their own music
As the bubbling rill
Warbles it's way
Lawns hum their busy state
And butterflies add their flutter
~kcm
Written: July 17, 2025, for contest Sponsored by: X F Lacasse
******************
From the anvil of solar eclipse flame ~
Sunsmith struck with a mallet lit by light
Blows hump the sky ablaze by molten might—
a yellow nepenthe for summer's shame!
Sapphire sea warbles hymns amid her name
cy(press) woods rostrum by a hedge of white—
shades turned long as time that denied the night ~
Below straw frame—time seems to be the same.
She wafts the fruit till flesh begins to burst!
unbuttoning the orchards one by one —
her breath is spice, her (kiss) an early thirst ~
a blaze baptized in laughter, sweat, and sun
Yet 'neath her crown, a melancholy hides—
a knowing nod to how the sear subsides?
red robins eggs are in her nest
as she warbles her mothers song
melody flows from east to west
red robins eggs are in her nest
song birds agree her songs the best
her neighbors gather in a throng
red robins eggs are in her nest
as she warbles her mothers song
I heard a song about a pretty bird.
As he flies, he clearly warbles,
the prettiest sound you ever heard.
Below, a boy has lost in marbles,
but he never said a word.
As he sits, the words he garbles,
Stranger things, you've never heard,
ever since he lost his marbles.
my peaks hard as tiny bells,
ringing out a seductive melody,
i swirl, a dervish of debauchery,
legs spread wide — calling,
a gilded gates of paradise,
beckoning ye to surrender
to the abyss of my desire.
my voice, a sonic tonic call,
warbles, a throaty come-hither all,
weaving a spell of meander,
as the crowd's frenzy reaches a fever pitch,
their sweat-slick fingers clawing at the air,
yearning to touch, to claim,
to possess the forbidden.
i am the mistress of the mating dance,
the high priestess of hedonism,
the seductress of the damned,
and they are my willing flock,
led to the slaughter of their inhibitions,
of their sanity, o their very psuche.
grin slashed across my countenance,
plush velvets of garnet blows a kiss,
place erupts in a fit of madness.
With gutteral blows
He leads the pack
Warbles like a tuba
And lacks no gumption
To deliver the next line
Like a setting sun
Only to trumpet again
More profound words
The brook murmurs as it flows on the plateau,
across the draping emerald forest spread out opulent,
splashes on the curved contours of the lowland
as flicking cascade of the soaring swan flock in flight.
It meanders on the jagged swathe clad with ferns,
sprinkles with exuberance the splatter of pearls.
It glides with sigh through the drizzle of rain,
warbles in musical whisper with the ripple of air.
Flying over the crystal water that wheezes as it flows,
the returning robins chirp the springtime song.
As in the boughs of trees the new leaves rustle,
beguiled butterflies flitter around the flowers.
The shimmering night sky above the silhouetted canopy,
wears bejwelled crown shining with the twinkle of stars,
silver tinsels trickle through the moonbeam film,
in a trance I’m charmed by the splendor of nature.
The most famous flower, the rose,
Sits on a stem, in a regal pose.
With scent and mien, God did endow 'er,
The rose, the most famous flower.
The nightingale, with the sweetest voice,
With ardor, serenades his choice.
He warbles an excitin' tale,
With the sweetest voice, the nightingale.
Their love story, never outshined -
Is the tale of these two, combined,
For you and me, an allegory?
Never outshined, their love story.
yellow canary
warbles to the lure of love ~
youthful dreams return
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