The blossoms are calm,
and yet still, she sings for
the heavens within, the white
heron bows to the sea water,
it sees the clouds of night
touched by lunar wind, the
lucid paintings of seagrass
contemplate the presence of the
poet floating upon the waters,
and say to her, “you too,have wings”,  
the lights beneath her
as dewdrops, bright as cricket
melody, the lone lantern glows
in the silent hour of all, where
the artist’s senses awaken
as ripples of butterflies
opening, the petals in far  
flight ask her, “are you
I?” , her starry form is light
upon the mirror of the moon,
a ghost of time and being,
she held a secret, the
beauty of imperfection
decorated her as the
stars, the heron asked her, “your
nature is delicate as my feathers, why did you wish to hide?”
she sung back “I hid because
I was afraid, I loved in a world
of no love, I realize now,
to reveal the amygdala
that lives in color is to be
brave in a world of grey,
to be delicate is a strength,
to have tears is to have power,
to paint your emotions
through eyes and lips is grace,
being is the greatest gift”
she perceived a divine
revelation, “I am human,
light and dark, I release the
suffering”, her hands floated
upon the water, the sounds
of the ocean echo the  
endless journey, she becomes
the milky amber dream, night
has turned to day, the flower of
the sea has found her home
in the embrace of the one whom
loved her before existence, she spoke not, for
all the songs have already been sung,
the eons have spoken, softly, she closes
her eyes in the heavenly warmth,
there is only the whisper, “I have
returned to you when I was never lost”

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.

As white as the snow that is yet to come
And as delicate as a fallen autumn leaf
A Heron patiently waits like a philosopher lost in thought

Basking in the sun
Savoring bliss of solitude
Heron on one leg

Piercing Eyes of Goldenrod.
Both bold and brilliant.
The calming center in a hurrricane
Of blue and white feathers.
A gaze which levels any ego,
That should find itself too
Important, in either size or space.
(Do you believe in omens?)
Rebirth is on the horizon,
Or so the star seekers say.
Change, the end of old ways, days.
(But I'd not think it)
The Universe likes to share whispers,
Of things to come or happenings of maybe.
There is no intent ill or otherwise,
Just the honest grievances of time.
As this God of Death, sits high upon
Stilts which bathe in still waters,
I see horror. I see despair. I see death.
That vision, those eyes, golden and
Sinister, but humble all the same.
While the winds sing of new life,
I hear the sorrowful hymns of death.
(Balance.)
There are many ways of knowing.
Magic both black and white.
Magic old as time, as new as a moment.
And if I should see the dark days ahead,
Count that a blessing, to see anything at all.

majestic white herons,a siege,
spring up, winging skywards
in unison, as if according to a
well designed rescue plan,
following a disaster,
scattering to all directions
from a tree,a flame of the forest
imposing and wildly bloomed,
like a high rise with secret ambitions,
creating an illusion of a sudden fire accident.

avian music,
march past of herons follows,
sunset formalized!

A regal white heron,
a bird of passage
that had followed
it's beloved dream
a long, long distance,
sits quiet unmoving,
atop a flowered lemon tree
on the bank of a tranquil pond
that wasn't known to it before.

Fish, enjoying freedom,all along
play meddling it's reflection
as if daring the heron to act
by trying to catch it's attention.

The crowned heron,
more placid than the pond
on the wings of an elating thought
resumes journey chasing it's dream.