"sweet the cherry chickadees sang"
CA Guilfoyle 

So came the days,
long of summer's winging
sweet the cherry chickadees sang
of June

Grasping leafy ribbons hung,
willowy warm the trees we swung
All the green - the frog soliloquy pond

Fritillaria, frilly forest fronds
grassy mountain meadow paths,
daisy clouds bloomed, swirling past
Wild geese flocked the lake,
dusk too soon alas

August night of seasons end
starry meteors flashed across
velvet black whistling to
a blue moon

"and chickadees,"
Pepper Smith 

i find you in my hems
and in my hair
i can't believe i let you go there.
traded in my soul,
so i could give you more.
our fears were your fuel,
you were you,
i could not be me.
and your convincing lies,
made me believe that i
should never leave.

your shiny new wheels,
and chickadees,
and all the Ben Franklin's in the world,
can not replace
the woman,
the friend,
you found in me.
i leave you,
to find,
in your cracks and corners,
where emptiness hides.

"We'll be free like chickadees,"

An arrow to the heart,
It hit the bull's eye.
Blind by cupid's arrow,
I can not deny.

I am tired of games,
Playing tricks,
Getting you closer to my dick.
I just want to run forward,
And mow down all,
In my way.
Doing everything I want,
Speeding by all the tolls,
Others pay.
I get my point across,
And you know I do it fast,
Get your feelings out now,
Before you are the past.
Tell it like it is,
Regret nothing you have said.
Speak when you can,
Tie up all the threads.
I'll get it off my chest,
Now get it off yours.
We'll be free like chickadees,
In the wide outdoors.
One way road,
And twenty cars behind.
Speed up buddy,
You are only wasting time.

Scream it out your lungs,
Until the ears are open wide.
Say everything at once,
Release your brain's bide.

I told you, and you were impressed I did. Hung out, ended with a kiss. Can't wait till next time.
"chickadees seem to make it home,"
Warren Gossett 

Tall prairie grass, wind-swept and
burnished gold, whispers with the
long-dead voices of all who passed
on this trail in their dream voyage
to Oregon, or California, or who
died, disease-ridden, exhausted, to be
buried just off the rutted trail
under a lonely stretch of sod
or cairned atop a barren lava bed.

A bone-white wagon tongue,
its carriage long ago disintegrated
and fallen into splintery planks,
laps thirstily at the dry sod along the
edge of the trail, finding only
parched earth and no water, burrs
and beetles instead of hydration.
More prairie than desert but still
more a place to leave behind, only
insects, lizards, hawks and the curious
chickadees seem to make it home,
this dusty stretch of history.

Hawks hover, then spiral effortless
high above, as they did so many years
ago, dark against a soft patchwork
of azure blue sky and creeping clouds.
The occasional click of grasshoppers
is barely audible in the billowing prairie
grass shaken by the incessant wind.
Dry bones of beasts and luckless humans
hug the edges of the trail, mute testimony
to the brutality of the westward rush
and the following of the Oregon Trail.


"Still dark.  Two small chickadees"
Karen Dick 

Blue winter morning
Still dark.  Two small chickadees
on a snow-covered branch

(c) White Mountain Publications 2009
"The chickadees cheers for her to sing a story."
Twilight Zone 

The chickadee flies around a little girls head.
Her hair hangs down her back like a rope.
A blade of grass tied around her braid.
The chickadees cheers for her to sing a story.
She won't turn around to acknowledge
the little token of friendship behind her.
The chickadee combs his claws in her hair.
The ribbon spins down and the party begins.
She stares at the setting sun to make it rise.
Her tank top helps her pretend she's strong.
Summer needs to enter the stage of snow.
Her soul is a bottle where she stores dreams.
All the clouds travel to earth in the winter.
The weight of the world is only winter.
The chickadee is the joy of winter.

"Chickadees speak, still sleepy."
Pierson Pflieger 

Waiting    listening    watching-
senses strain against
the darkness.

Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.

The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance

alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes- then ears-
lock on rummaging squirrels.  

Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain        back        and        forth.

then the rise of wind
through the trees.

Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup-
no deer.

The afternoon is spent, back against an Ash, with cautious thoughts
comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.

This is a poem I wrote on my stand opening morning of deer hunting, two years ago.  Hunting is a family tradition I cherish.  I don't have to see any deer for it to be a successful hunt.  I enjoy sitting in the woods, an invisible observer, alone with my thoughts.  It's also the one opportunity I have to have some candid moments with my dad.
"ns on my chambers floor and whether the chickadees here prefer the birches in the park or"

I have not lived here long enough yet to make the miles between town seem any less than what they are but there's a chance they never do

I wonder this when I watch the cynical navy men and women slink from their houses between the trees when it's still dark, asking if I was a newbie, wondering if they were the reasons for the prolific "don't drink and drive in memory of:" signs posted along the the lithe road that twists between lakes and the far flung gas stations that cater to them

where the mountains peeking through in the west seem out of place, unsettling, like a secret relayed to the casual ear

I have not lived here long enough yet to have had that fortnight meeting on the lawn with thoughts of my return to the earth and a pair of nail clippers or to be able to dance with the creaks in the hardwood

And I'm still missing the droll herons that would loop from the north around the pines of my home on the hillside and land in a huff in the low tides amongst the gulls, I miss knowing, the path of the sun across seasons on my chambers floor and whether the chickadees here prefer the birches in the park or the tall broad leaves that stare at me from across the lake and the when of all things that move in the dull quiet


But Ive lived here long enough that the bruise on his neck hasnt faded and I wonder if we'll be over before that happens too

Quick write dedicated to the permanency in my life or lack thereof
"Young Chickadees are bigger now"
Kurtis Cullen 

The race of the Spring is giving way
To the pace of the Summer,
More and more

Bees hover among the flowers, and
Young Chickadees are bigger now
Ripening like fruit on the vine,
Passing the test of hours

And in the lawn grass the Adder lies--
Still, stillness it must keep,
Wrapp'd by a hundred butterflies
Reds, oranges, blues, saffron, whites
All inextricably unique
Save when they rise,
Rising as they do like smoke when the serpent bites
The fang'd body uncoiled, vicious, sheer--

Nothing left in which to hide
Nothing more to make disguise
The Adder is bare before our eyes
The Adder is yielded to scrutinize!
See it before it flies! Spare yourself the surprise!

a poem about the deepening of what i understand about politics, relationships, growth
Next page