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Writing things down
Feels like
Plucking hummingbirds
From inside my head
And holding them
In the palms of my hands
In front of me
So that I can
Eye them
Microscopically
Then
Let them go
And finally
Finally
Exhale
CK Baker Jan 25
Two Anna's hummingbirds, dance at the door
alongside the pane, in a mid-morning pour
whispering winds, voices through chimes
a whimsical picture, woven in rhyme

Perched on a limb (just a few yards back)
a pileated pecker, with breast of black!
foraging sparrows, partners in crime
picking out seeds from conical pine

A weighted blanket, and dark roasted brew
sipped from a rocker, with the daily news
the stream keeper watching, fluttering high
dipping and darting, at (wild) passers-by

Baseboard heaters, warming the room
four months to go, to the April bloom!
the afternoon passes, in dense gray fog
a sliver of sunshine, catches a log

Into the evening, a soft glowing light
gusts on the water, gulls take flight
crows at a distance, nestled in trees
branches swaying, to a south-east breeze

Patterns of nature,  the rhythm runs deep
those rich forest gems, to the soul they will creep
an archway to heaven, with guiding raccoons
look over yonder…the quiet tan moon!
These 2 lovely hummingbirds really did put on a show today!  In the middle of winter nonetheless!
Just like a Disney special!
Absolutely delightful!
Deb Jones Mar 2019
I wish I could word-paint a hummingbird
One of Mother Nature’s gorgeous jewelry

Quick strokes of gray
Geometrically filling my mind- page

My eyes trace his vibrant contours
Hold still, little bird

I can already see

The paint on the word palette
Will be difficult for me

Paint brushes poised
Over the head, bow of the back

The iridescent hue
A quick swath of green then blue

With tiny speckled feathers
Of yellow and black

Such an accommodating
Posing little fellow

His belly is jeweled
In brilliant gold and bright yellow

The smallest feathers
Overlapping and flat

With a gleaming peridot green
He dips his head, a proudful preen

The wings red, purple then blue
Dipped in green and brushed with maroon

Mimicking the tail feathers
That now twitch with impatience

I think he’s getting tired
Of my pointed contemplation

His long dark beak
Black with a hint of dark blue

Finally his eyes
The darkest ebony

Yet full of mirth
My imaginary dots of white
So inadequate

He brrrrrrrs
Then he rises in flight

He chitters his goodbye

Meet you back here in an hour?
I love living in a part of the world that allows me to see these beautiful creatures year-round.

And at the same time regret I don’t live some place that allows me to see parrots outside of a cage.
TheMystiqueTrail Sep 2018
You woo me deep
into the ecstasy of your pristine chasteness...

where dry leaves of Aspen and Beech and Birch
sussurate to the music of a lazy breeze,

where Hummingbirds
**** in frenzy
nectar from the orange glees
of the flame-of-the-forest trees,

where Hawthorns
lure the breeze
to weave its vibrance
in their domes of green glory,

where shrunken streams
bask in their white pebbly flourish.

Like an enchantress,
you lure me to the depth of your
rapturous bliss!

To say farewell, my heart pains.
I leave a beat of my heart
to ramble with the roving breeze
perennially in your alluring meadows!
Emily Mitchell Feb 2018
Words I love... jovial clear inconspicuous Bamboozled Incognito opalescent pearly radiant Airy green sprig mushroom Sprite twig nose toes land Sunset deep Vision laughter flame tongue heart hunger cold mold tail rail Grail hand ring sing orange Tangy Sweet scent delicate mysterious deep inside a rose dark hidden within the Mind lights of many colors the layers of an onion peeling away revealing the Pearl inside the oyster...

..........

The scent of an orange Tangy Sweet energetic enthusiastic Lively vibrant bright wet sparkling jittery hummingbirds...

......

Acorn Leaf twig mushroom dark deep loamy Earth dig in moist brown worms and moles Growing Seeds tiny things beginnings...

.......

Butterflies.. Jewels peacock colors drifting on the breath of the Breeze beautiful gifts tiny angels flitting from flower to bright flower...

...................
Collection of Stream-of-consciousness poetry snippets written on a note card when I was a kid... used as a bookmark for an unknown amount of time...and found recently on a dusty shelf.... it made me smile to read them... ^__^
Joe Cottonwood Jul 2017
Me, a teacher of poetry, the idea is insane.
Yet I’m here once a week at the nuthouse. Oops. Hospital.
A lunch conversation with a nurse.
“That old guy, Russell, he seems so gentle,” I say. “So normal.”
Russell writes about hummingbirds.
“It’s either here or prison,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say.
Actually I’m not allowed to ask about patients.

But the nurse, now she’s worked up.
“Russell had custody of his granddaughter,” the nurse says.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“The mom died,” the nurse says, “the baby was six months.”
“Oh,” I say.
“To call him ‘*** offender’ sounds too clinical,” the nurse says.
I say nothing.
“He must’ve bought Vaseline by the bucket,” the nurse says.
“Um…” I say.
“He ****** that baby every day,” the nurse says.
“Three hundred and sixty-four days a year,” the nurse says.
“Christmas, she got a holiday,” the nurse says.
“Oh,” I say, and I push my plate away.

“Sorry,” the nurse says, “I ruined your appetite.”
“Not your fault,” I say.
“I hate hummingbirds,” the nurse says. “I hate poetry.”
I say nothing.
“Can a poem be ugly?” the nurse asks.
I reach for a fresh napkin, slide it across the tabletop.
“If a poem could ****,” the nurse says, “I’d write one.”
From my pocket, I hand her a pen.
Enchanted by spring’s
rustling whispers
     ... whistles swirl
in the pungent springtime breeze;
steeped with a bedazzling
        cadence
   heart dancing
to a hummingbird’s
         whirs

   waves of breath,
of little wings waft,
whooshing throughout
twining honeysuckle lattice
       a
tiny manger
beset of hidden gold
precious speckled eggs, 
silver lining of smallest hopes
   fruits of fruition
   continuum beheld prize,
concealed in interwoven rootlets;
   
potently perfumed flowers
       while away
the waning dark hours;
swollen full flower moon
           waxing yellow,..
         heavenly fragrance
sweetly-scented suckled nectar
  
the one with eyes of a child,
   wonder ― hidden inside,  
   marvel in the light of grateful eyes
imbibing an unholdable moment's
    spellbinding elixir 
    ... poetry alive

air  so poignantly perfumed
       with blossom
        moonstruck
by spring’s frolicking cadency
a reverent moment's
edifying intoxication

       a sobering beauty that just is...



someone ... May 2017
Anne Webb Feb 2017
They say there isn't much to live for nowadays
but for love and for beauty of the trees
and for flowers which remind me of your face
and the colour of your mind which only my eye sees.

Your lips are the colour of a rose
and only when they smile the world feels whole
like the cupids with their arrows and their bows
they pierce my heart and overwhelm my soul.

Like the hummingbird's faithful song
your sweet voice can open all doors
you make me feel right, even though I'm wrong
so my heart and my body are for ever yours.

And never before have I loved someone more
and I would live for you, die for you or unleash a war.
I wrote this for a friend for her literature class. But when she read it, she said it was too "professional" and that her professor would never believe she wrote it. So instead I put it here.
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