On the face of it, there isn't much about this bird
To stop me in my tracks.
             Brown, oblivious, busy with the ground
It totters along on stilted legs
Probing among the frozen fields.

It's the name that's the trouble.

Childhood hours spent copying pictures
From the Readers' Digest Book of Birds
Call to mind the name, 'Curlew'.
In my house, though, birds had Scots names
and my dad, a linguistic David Bellamy
Urged us to conserve these rare words
or lose them forever.
Goldfinch?  Gowdspink!
Starling?  Stuckie!
Blue ***?  Umm...

But the undistinguished gentleman before me
was definitely a whaup.

Curlew or whaup?
Which is it to me?
The English of books
or the fading Scots, maybe closer
to the bird's wild home?

Textbook reality
or romantic poetry?
Or both - can the creature sit
in two states at once?
"Schrodinger's Curlew", I think with a smile.
("Schrodinger's Whaup!" bellows the bit of my dad
that lodges in my head.)

           Here, under a cloud of my own breath
In the low winter light,
            Neither seems quite adequate.

And then, untouched by my musings
The bird spreads its wings and lifts,
Naming itself, with a long, pure note

          And my heart, in two states,
           Leaps
             and breaks.

“day one;
a baby-faced image stared back at him, full of youth and life. he swallowed hard.

day two;
the thoughts that plagued his mind were too hard to forget. he smiled down at her, a strained sort of feeling.

day three;
he thought he’d be able to forget.
boy, was he wrong.
he smiled, a jagged sort and walked down the hall.

day four;
his fingers trembled. it wasn’t long before he went scavenging for things to make him feel numb.

day five;
he’d come home, blurry-eyed and high on bittersweet memories.
boy, was it hard.

day six;
pacing in the flat. back and fourth, back and fourth.
trembling hands, clenched in fists, white knuckles adorned with red.

day seven;
he brushed back her hair, kissed the top of her head and locked the door.

day eight;
he caught his mother on the floor. she hunched in the dark, with agonizing pressure over her shoulders. she wailed.

day nine;
to hell with them.

day ten;
was the day he was dreading. we’ll knock down the door, they said. his mother left it to swing ajar. he held her behind him. “to hell with them,” he’d say. she hugged his torso. his mother screamed. in the second he looked away, she was gone.

day eleven;
he sobbed. no matter how high he could get, the pain wasn’t going away. ecstasy was no more. “may we meet again,” she said. the door closed behind her.
he opened his hand. he clutched a ribbon of red silk. “may we meet again.”

I used to know this guy called big Sam Bellamy
Made many mistakes in life, his own worse enemy
Not a true friend in the world to share his lonely life
Has no children to speak of not even a girlfriend or a wife
People in the streets would laugh and point there finger at him
Always behind his back they where laughing and bickering
But then one Saturday evening he bought a ticket for the lottery
And as the numbers came out, what happened he couldn't believe
Big Sam had all the numbers his ticket was a massive jackpot
Not bad for someone who was treated like a loner or a crackpot
Now all the sad people with two faces want him as a friend
They say 'Sam you are my true friend' in disguise they pretend
And poor old Sam thinks these people are so honest and true
When they say 'Hey big Sam we have always loved you'
Needing love and so open for warmth, Big Sam Bellamy
Made many mistakes in life, his own worse enemy

we sit at the edge of
vespertide
listening to the chorale
of evensong
this day's opus almost done
now tapering off in
slow melodious decrescendo..
it is the gloaming
and the final flurry of light
glimmers on the horizon

now the night becomes
the diva,
the first star has been wished upon,
the first sattelite too.
and the bass note of the cicadas
builds to a *****, needful hum...

lights go on in little square
patches, and the smell
of barbeque fragrances
the summer night air

under the streetlights
the moths come to dance
a dare each other to touch
the midnight sun...

and in our garden
the rustle of the
tame gone feral
rabbit "bellamy"
has begun...

a hulking grey white
shadow now he lollops
toward the tasty green
carrot-tops...
until the sound of pounding
feet causes him to freeze
considering his position
bellamy chooses discretion
over valour and departs with haste

the wind now has a coolness to it
and the grass grows damp about us
by still we sit enamoured of the changing
slow and quiet about us
the seas whisper secrets
and the birds settle in for the night
excepting those who hunt on silent wings

the stars begin to pop
bright white on the darkening sky
and the crescent moon smile with
a sideways grin...

it is now the darker things come
owls on the wing
spiders to reknit there webs
the big bass frog to sing his song
and the small blood seeker
come with whinging wings

now we must give the night
it's privacy, as we walk inside,
from the pond a series of sounds
means the frog has found dinner
hopefuuly a mosiquito buffet

the vesper tide hath turned
the night is now come.....

We miss her smile
her tender touch
the way she loved us
all so much.

From the side lines
she watched our games
Cheered all of us,
knew everyone's names.

She was always there
when needed most
So very humble
never one to boast.

A loving mother
daughter and sis
an amazing soul
we all will miss.

We love you Bellamy
sibling,mom,and friend
But know in our hearts
we will meet again.

When we go to heaven
where you are above
and are all reunited
with the angel we love

Testing
Testing
how goes it in
the crows nest?

You can laugh
but we're all at sea,
and with that bushy beard
the lookout looks like
David Bellamy.

when we get back to
what we should do
because that's the place
we are heading,
it'll be like Bedlam with no beds in
just the bosses with their heads in
the backyards of beyond.

Lingering Feelings

I thought that if I ignored the feelings, they would go away,
Yet they stayed, though I distracted myself with others,
Hoping they’d disappear.

We’re just friends who had—or still have—feelings for each other,
Yet it seems you’d rather find comfort in others.
If I had spoken sooner, would things have been different?

Here I am again, longing to hold your heart.
But what if another already has it? Fear.
I hope our paths intertwine again someday,
When you no longer confuse avoidance of commitment with love for others.

By Bellamy