If you see a hawk
on a bough at field's edge
beyond the corner you should have turned
maybe it's a sign to go on.
Such as during an improvisation on
Flamingo or I've Got You Under My Skin
you play in the wrong key or mode completely
maybe it's a sign to go on, in the wrong key.
Or when my sons cry not wanting
to be alone, I'm upstairs writing
or just enjoying trees in every direction
it too may be a sign to go on alone.
Some people don't always know what they're doing
Including me in the congregation
But some know exactly what they're doing
Down with the tunnel snakes
Looking to shake
The acidic bottle
To see how chaotic the peace becomes
I see you, watching how you swindle the naive
You're brilliant, aren't you?
Eyes like a Hawk
That rarely gawks
At what is in front of me
I see it everywhere
From the mountains of Nepal to the cold, harsh cities of Delaware
People look forward to impair
The full circles, the healthy plant in the desert
Prospering like it should
Don't make me laugh with your intent
You'll make enough dents
But everything will hold like a steel tent
I can jump over any fence
And penetrate any defense
You're able to implement
Don't lower your guard
Regardless of being a race car driver or a Bard
I know sinister yards
and I'm growing in disguise
You won't see it
Until you find yourself in a completed cat and mouse game
How is your game working out now?
The sunrise burns the sky
A carefully coloured explosion
Blooded light flooding the low Kent fields that lie
Before Maidstone, excreting soundless motion:
Yellow carnation shards sway
With this violent advent of day.
In Hucking Estate diaphanous bluebells nestle
Beneath the groping canopy
Of Ash. Oak; the encroaching stinging nettle
Shields the frequent woodland scree
Covering with a verdant flush
Brooks that through the stones invisibly rush.
Within the hour, the Gorgon-headed sun
Sweeps aside the cloud-
The red into blue and orange has run
And in Lower Fullingpits Wood the increasingly loud
Shuffling of badger attacking vole, fox strangling rabbit,
All compounded into daily habit.
The Kent Downs rise and fall
Like resurrected earth-bound music from a time
When hill, wood and pool
Emerged from unfettered chalk and lime.
Before the Cantii hunted in ancient Wents Wood,
For deer and boar, spurred not by hunger but for the love of blood.
Above the sparrow-hawk attacks the sparrows
Claw enmeshed in feather,
Beak unravelling neck. The unalterable sorrows
Of nature and weather.
Cruelty never ceases, but just gets more efficient-
Kindness remains deficient.
Show in contented rest
company wished greenly
how did you know?
Bleeding on too long
they had to be cut down
from hooks and ropes
in order of feeding.
Liars causing problems
under blackberry briars.
Safe from hawks
stay in Juicyland
where it's prickly
free from rape.
This song triples guessed
foxy playing hard
around leafy bush
only snake does not miss.
Dance my badger spirit
agile amongst complexity
ward off and wander.
Kangaroo mouse prance.
Survival in stickers
only seasonal escape.
Where to hide from
next your sly rival?
The only problem with 'Moonstruck'
is Cosmo's moon could never be so large in winter,
stand for luck.
Mid-winter sledding brought joy
snow, speed, although the kids were beautiful
none were boys.
Walking the boundaries, and the old field
boundaries. Aged maples, barbed wire
past the cambium.
Northern hardwood all the way, except
less than an acre scotch pine plantation
and a few primeval spruce.
Pendant spruce cones in tree tops
colonizing the old field too. Conifers
a primitive civilization.
Lyonia has red, scaleless buds.
Shrub or small tree, maximum height 12 feet.
It's a heath, Ericaceae.
Small, white, bell-like flowers become
seamed capsules, similar to but smaller than
The buds had me thinking red chokeberry,
Rosaceae, but of course the fruit
was completely wrong for a rose.
A timber stand improvement now
in the scotch pine would encourage tall
even straight trees, a cathedral.
The maples on the upper rocky slopes
where the skidders couldn't or wouldn't go
are impressive as eagles', hawks' nests.
Mid-summer, Spiraea, field of pink flowers
fully encircled by mountain ranges.
Bees working them.
Nancy, the broker, coming at five.
These 160 acres, a dream, are unnecessary.
Offer 500 dollars per acre.
Not an investment, a sanctuary.
Backed against the Taconic ridge,
real moon rising.
There is incessant noise
in the city—as if the blinding light
blocking out the sky was not enough.
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching
of fighting roosters, the mimicry
of baby cockatiels finding their voices,
the chattering of gossiping hens,
hawks that stalk the night
only to swoop in screaming
at the first sparrow to cross their paths,
the mourning doves who wake alone
to cry and moan their songs of melancholy.
They remain awake and call out into the night
longer than the old owl in the park.
The murder of crows bear witness
to the clamor on this night; looking on—
as the Eyes of God—
in disgust and judgment.
These tall, fleshy creatures see fit
to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls
when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague
that keep all awake at night.
i keep seeing hawks
or maybe it’s really you
swooping down to tell me what’s new
maybe they’re buzzards
and they can tell how i feel
lost without you,
a useless spinning wheel
maybe they’re birds but
maybe they’re planes
and i’m looking for meaning in nothing
in this digital age