There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

I stood cautiously upon that great hill,
The breeze was calming, & so very still
That the sweet new blooms were proud.
Languid pull, in a curve, neath a shroud,
Their sweet leaves by sweetness stems,
Crowns  that keep those astral diadems
Caught from the budding tears of morn;
And clouds were fair, so wispy and borne
Fresh from the clear beck; they still slept
Upon azure plains of sky; and then crept
A faint buzzing among the green leaves,
Born of a sigh that that quietude heaves,
For not the dimmest stirring in the scene,
Of all the umbrage that lie o'er the green;
Was seen as yet, such Joy
such solace did bring.

Wild geraniums collected
in pocket, red painted petal stains
my feet squish, squash in this forest
the earthy mud a mossy sponge
with fern and lichen the trees are hung
upon the ground greening with maidenhair fern
my satchel filled with dainty floral sprigs
in spring the sparrows gathering vine and twig
June's an efflorescent carpeting, soft with lady slippers
in summer the wildflowers and grasses wed
when celebrates all the flying things
wooded bees and butterflies in the sun
sparkling with faceted, glistening wings.

So you are
A phosphorescent relic,
A relic that spins together
Nights and mornings alone-
Spinning in the mind like
Perfect spiral in a landscape that
Overflows with your magnetic sphere.

And the orbit
Comes and goes,
From my eyes to a tear,
From a tear to the sky with blue
Waves of current that wallows
Where you were.

Hear me,
Fallen star of my night,
The whirlpool of your hair
In solar winds,
Deafening winds,
Heavy winds,
When your blue sun brings a storm
Whirling in magnetic memories
Hypnotic and joyous.

Speak, speak Pulsar,
When the earth recites your name,
Pulsar, cry for me,
With your esteemed Aura like a lost
Nebula
At the crest of the world,
Searching without finding.

     This is the hour,
Because your dead star
Still burns and makes light,
And it still shines
And someone,
Someone like me must see it.

      Pulsation in my ethereal being,
I believed in dark stars
But don't believe in reading those
I see,
Pulsar you were hope in the light,
And now a radioactive desire
Of my past.

Oh but we tore the night apart,
We constellated passions
And danced upon the penumbra
In the galactic sea.

     Begin again,
We can sail away on the moon,
Turn the world into a playground,
Begin again Pulsar
Within an orchestral sky.

    However you were gone,
A blue giant in a tiny galaxy,
And I was only a firefly,
No, not a firefly,
An ember of a fire that burned
Out a million miles away.
Ressurection of your light,
Wage the gravity towards me,
       And I say Pulsar,
I remember when we were in the same sky.

    You are the infinite memory,
Your lies smell of Heaven and nothing
Else,
And you are a reflection on the horizon
Of the sea,
The glimmer of my yesterday.

      The sky will open
     And the sea shimmers,
       The moon moans,
     Pulsar, sweet memory ,
Magnetosphere of my pain.

chemistry
geometry
satellite love


smell of the Earth
curves of the Moon
fire of the Sun

A Giraffe, with its
Long
Long
Long
Long
Long
Neck is looking down on me.
See him stretchhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh up to those high-tree leaves
And grasp them with his massive tongue.

Two males are having a fight
To decide who will mate today.
They swing their necks at one another
Madly
Until one of them falls.
A battle captured all on video film.
The loser seems quite dead
But then comes round
And totters to his feet.

Magnificent creatures,
All mottle-flanked,
With tiny horns
And telescopic legs.
Giraffes!

Paul Butters

It is late, the sky is black slate, coal
a desolate moon glow, cold
this silent world flecked with tiny lights
diffused amid the softness of clouds
the night, only a blooming dawn
a field of stars that come.

Afternoon octaves from a Raspberry arbor ,
streaming with Honeybee delight , fledgeling
Cardinals hopping from branch to branch ,
Rubies pause then pose , streak away in zig-zag
flight
Bluejays crack acorns on cobblestone drives ,
Red wasp , Swallowtails and Cuckoo bees dance
in warm light , Cinnamon coated fawns dance
the forever fields of soybeans , Sugar Magnolias
stand tall in Purple clover dreams

Most bi*  r  ds call me ugly but
   I'm be  a  utiful & intelligent
     than  v  ultures and most of
  all oth  e  r birds gracing
   the ve  n  *etian skies

Stirring the lemon balm and spearmint
carpet with naked feet , traipsing the nine a..m.
red-tipped grass to the Pileated beat
Drenched , rolled pant legs covered in
seeds and hitchhikers , emboldened morning
rabbits and Apricot skies , Alabama tell tale
breezes tilt broom sage on rustic homestead
drives* ...