SE Reimer Feb 4

fowl flock to a gathering,
exactly why? no one knows.
an unkindness of ravens,
a murder of crows;
a siege of blue heron,
gather geese in a horde;
seem to come in their sadness,
but stay for the show.
see swan sail in wedges,
jay scoff in their scold;
assembly, their strength,
nom de plume from of old.

ask me why do they gather?
could it be they’re unhappy?
might we also feel slighted,
a disservice agreed;
if our strength were declared
our insufficiency?
why do finches and
hummingbirds meet in a charm?
penguins, get to huddle,
and in happiness, those larks?

the cranes come in dances,
in company those parrots;
to parliaments owls,
in wisdom who-hoo-ing;
flamingoes to stand,
for an eagle’s convocation?
no, a nye’s not unpleasant,
for a pheasant you see;
and benign is a bevy,
quail flush neath a tree.

but, ’tis a bit scary,
lurking turkey in gangs,
hawk’s shadowy cast;
and warblers in confusion,
with buzzards in wake;
a wisp full of snipe,
whisp’ring, “good night”;
yet glorious are pelicans,
a squadron in flight;

and nothing so stirring, as
a starling’s constellation,
while an asylum’s
assembly for loons,
and a quarrel of sparrows,
are entirely drowned out,
by a drumming of peckers,
the wood kind, that is!

while sticks and stones,
may break all one’s bones;
those labels and words, do
leave a sting and a hurt;
all human, one race,
can unkindness defer,
diffusing by choosing,
our union assert!
but slinging maligning,
and kicking of dirt,
by abusers and losers,
let's leave for the birds!


post script.

numerous fellow poets far more skilled than i, have posted a variety of well-written pieces using fowl flocking terminology. this is intended to be an assembly of the sometimes-silly, often-absurd and mostly-always-humorous assignments of those flocking terms, used in an imagined treatise about the hurtful labels we humans use to judge one another; labels that vilify, rather than unify.  for would not a battle that hasn’t any "winner" be far better fought hand-in-hand, than hand-to-hand?

terms for flocking fowl in order of use
(a few fowl have two flocking terms, and some flocking terms are claimed by two fowls)

an unkindness (ravens)
a murder (crows)
a siege (herons)
a horde (geese)
a wedge (swans)
a scold (jays)
a charm (hummingbird, finches)
a huddle (penguins)
a happiness (larks)
a dance (cranes)
a company (parrots)
a parliament (owls)
a stand (flamingos)
a convocation (eagles)
a nye (pheasants)
a bevy (quail)
a flush (also quail)
a cast (hawks)
a gang (turkeys)
a wisp (snipes)
a squadron (pelicans)
a confusion (warblers)
a wake (buzzards)
an asylum (loons)
a constellation (starlings)
a quarrel (sparrows)
a drumming (woodpeckers)

oh yes, there are many more.  i'd love to see your favorite(s) left in the comments.
Steve (:

  Jan 8 SE Reimer
harlon rivers
In a midwinter night’s dream i lost myself,    
  or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther out of reach,  
  older than the ancient pyramid stones
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
  unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
  unknown for more than a thousand years

... i've been waiting for so long to see

High atop a slippery edge-cliff
  i clung  ―            
Searching for a deeper understanding
  of who i am;

Roosting like a starving bird of prey
  with a broken wing
  born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
  Staring way down deep        
into an internal pitch black abyss,
  just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
  into the eye of a storm

Intimately parsing the recurrent source
  of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion,     preventing dispersion
  of the nimbus  cold  and  dark

In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
  A swelling silence what loudly knells,
  leeching through a perennial ache

An abating voice within hollers unheard,
  invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
  relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
  deep beneath the light

Awakening to realize  ―  once i was alive
i could feel me holding on to you

Written by:   harlon rivers ... 12/30/2017

Thank you for reading this personal introspective journey  ― peace
SE Reimer Jan 7

had i not known wrong
i had been the lesser man
had i not sung winter’s song
i had known no warmth to gain
had i never tasted blood
i failed to see fragility
and had i not these understood
life’s tenderness was lost to me.


post script.

for Pradip who shared the only muse these words were wanting on this special holy-day. please read SJR's gorgeous post, but then see Pradip’s after-words here:

Epiphany: January 6th

SE Reimer Sep 2017

his ropes are worn but hold the strain;
they’ve seen far worse in wind, in rain.
his deck is bare, his winch is full,
his back and arms ache. yet again;
though soon his catch the hold will fill,
with hissing jaws and snapping claws;
reward of toil with traps of steel.
’neath cloud and sun, to dusk from dawn,
with weathered hand he works and sweats;
to bring to port ’fore sun has set,
there’s hungry mouths to feed at home;
a wife whose face his hands to hold.
in years still young, but days too old,
these seas have aged his weathered soul;
and eyes that peer neath bill-ed hat,
have wept as waves stole all he has;
not once, but twice they claimed his lot,
sunk to its bed like fallen stone;
but skill and luck his love has bought,
her prayers from home have brought him back.
of fable and of myth he’s made,
cup of saltiness with pinch of sin;
with baited traps he lays in wait,
yet knows he is the baited one;
for he’ll ne’er throw in these lines,
or trade his trusted trawler in.
a farmer’s life may suit his love,
but this she sees would be his end;
and so she lives each day in wait,
for his trawler's horn to sound.
this too she knows far too well,
one day his horn will sound no more.
no coffin nor a stone he’ll need;
the sea will bear him to that shore,
his lasting gift to her is them,
each child's face, his own imprint.
the sea his final resting place.
his voice to hear amidst the wind;


post script.

an imagined crabber and lobsterman; with mouths to feed and a love he needs back home, owing much to prayer and good fortune, though even this has it limits as the sea's rigors daily tempt fate.  these lines mused from my own castings of traps and nets... of harvesting the sea’s bounty for a mere weekend, with my lover near at hand.

pss.  i am many months away and life has changed; these changes are still a work in progress.  my goals too have been rearranged... death and hardship have that effect on us, though sometimes change that feels alarming actually takes us to a place of salvation; this being my constant hope!  i make no promises that i am back, only that for now i am here, and have missed you and the sacredness of these walls.

  Sep 2017 SE Reimer
Joel M Frye
Neck-deep in the business
of business,
only his head remains sleepless
in the dark of early mornings
to enlighten those
who sleep in, and spotlight
his peers who delight him.

His capital investment
is love and empathy;
he replenishes the funds spent
on an island of shelter,
the helter-skelter of Monday-Friday
a Distressway away.
North Country chair on the dock
over beckoning waves
sounding their Circe song,
drawing him to the bedrock
of peace
with himself and others.

Generous with his words
his head runneth over
and verses cascade down,
filling one from another
like a mountain of flutes
poured from a veritable jeroboam
of the muse's vintage.

Only love shows as he writes
doing the poetic hokey-pokey,
left foot in, left foot out.
He has turned my world around...
and that's what it's all about.
It's about damn time you got your own tribute poem.
SE Reimer Apr 2017
em>(April’s full moon)


her beauty always
catches me unprepared
her reflection is
a poet’s muse
and as so oft before
tonight again, i pause
and wonder long...
"who else, my love,
is watching you?"


post script.

along with watching April’s moon grow full these last few nights, Sally’s poem is tonight my muse. thank you, dear sister, and friend!

“Full Pink Moon – April This name came from the herb moss pink, or wild ground phlox, which is one of the earliest widespread flowers of the spring.”

  Apr 2017 SE Reimer
Sally A Bayan
High up there, I glance at you
You hide again, sometimes peeping,
While I put aside
My worries for this day.
Waves and curves seem to shroud you
This early April  evening
Though you are perfectly rounded.
We watch each other,
You eye me down,
I look above, to you...
We speak in our silence,
With me, listening,
Offering all the warmth i could share with you,
For, your Ivory white light, is cold and distant
Unlike your warm yellow crescent
.........of some nights ago....

This evening, you awake in me
Dormant, unsettling thoughts,
I am confused, yet,
You show me a panoramic view of faces
They dwell in my mind as I gaze at you
But there is this brilliant one
That smiles beneath your moon glow
It stares me in the eye,
Speaks to me, without words...

My breathing evens out,
It becomes a melody
Because the time has arrived...
These few moments,
When restlessness drifts away
As you shine down on me
When impatience departs from me,
And I am calmed suddenly
And I don't know what else to think of...
For, this evening,
You, and this brilliant face have once again
........comforted me....
I am warmed, I am glad.
I am now smiling, looking up, at you,
My April moon, I bid you goodnight,
I am beaming, as silently...I thank you....

(A repost of an older poem...edited)


Copyright April 11, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
***not much to share, just a brief evening break, a short,
-wordless conversation, between the moon and me...***
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