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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.
ok okay Jan 2019
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
SR Nirmal Kumar Oct 2018
Basking in the sun
Savoring bliss of solitude
Heron on one leg
TheMystiqueTrail Oct 2018
Snug in the trance of your solitude,
you whoosh through the silver clouds
like a Sphene meteorite
lighting up a green fluorescent trail,
while the music in your soul
dance to the phantom glow of the stars
that lullaby you on your numinous path.

You came to roost in the frigid dreams
of a callous winter that haunts my soul,
to paint mysterious charms in my yearnings.

Your eloquent 'kyowks' entrance me -
I long to fly with you
on your pilgrimage
through the silver clouds
to a land beyond the frostiness of this callous winter!
Devin Ortiz Jul 2018
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.
K Balachandran Oct 2017
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.
K Balachandran Aug 2017
avian music,
march past of herons follows,
sunset formalized!
K Balachandran Mar 2017
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.
Tommy Randell Nov 2016
A wonderful thing the Heron are,
When still they fade almost
Into the space between water and air,
Pointing to a focus place.
When flying they hang almost,
Grey Flamingos, mysteriously still still.

Tommy Randell 23 July 2016
Brandon Hall Dec 2015
Just beneath the road insensate,
in the little creek that crawls through town,
the rains brought him.
Iron-blue, patient, slender, high sits his head –
a lance, now raised – now half-tilt as he sights his prey – raised again
as a drifting leaf disrupts his aim.
Upstream he prowls, that his prey sees
him not.
He stalks with long, slow strides, his legs thin and
graceful not to disturb the quiet current of the water and
give himself away to senseless quarry. Few call him spindly,
I imagine. Not I.
By the shore, fish-bones, whole
but for the flesh,
sink into the mud.
A thoughtless dart, a flash, a writhing
beast falls still on his speartip.
What am I, then, that
he flies when I draw close?
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