"birding" poems
Remember me in spring when blossom's blush
and petals flair a - light in morning mists
that'll haze a rainbow hue - of flowered plush
to portrait mine as every bud untwists.
Upon the birding bath as robins splay
the warbling chirp shall voice as tho' from me
for you my sweet, in springtime bloom of may
shall hear the larking flute of my decree.
The dancing leaves shall tap and Ivy's birth
and Snowdrop's bow as daisy eyes unveils
as fragrant, olive air shall scent of mirth
that once were lost, now shrines as spring prevails.
Vernal rebloom shall stream that pulse of mine
then seek that earthly glow, and there I'll shine.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 3:39 AM UTC
Birdhouse under eaves,
Sparrows make their yearly nests,
Cat is on the roof.
Dec 9, 2012
Dec 9, 2012 at 2:45 PM UTC
Somewhere seabirds pipe and bleat,
gathered on a dark low tide.
Shapes and shadows line the fleet,
cold and calling.
In the shore hide facing north
I'm focussing black ten-by-forties,
hunched against the wall for warmth;
the tide still falling.
Looking out, I'm looking back,
thirty years have ebbed away;
the boy, his joy, his haversac,
his notebook scrawling;
I see him, tremulous, wild-eyed,
among the plovers, curlew, knot,
a loosed dog shakes them and he flies,
the seawall salt sting cuts and dries;
there's no recalling.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 6:55 PM UTC
Birdhouse under eaves,
Sparrows make their yearly nests,
Cat is on the roof.
Aug 13, 2012
Aug 13, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
Blankly, fish-eyed
staring down the weighing scale
again the weight of her own
body pulled her under
to the cycled drug abuse
but since the pills begin to choke
gagging where once slipped through
melting her esophagus
**** and filled
****** scars scratched
live upon her bare bone arms
scorching the past upon her limbs
so far from what she wished was truth
Words, no longer will define her
for she has none she will ever call her own
only allowed to listen she endures
those flatulent and birding calls
fat is what she felt
anorexic is what she was
lips, chapped and dripping blood
from the biting need to learn to speak
with the human carnage she's begun to carve
in an attempt to shed the excess poundage
mirrored with each slice growing thicker
aroma's filled of steamed internal fluids
hacking away until her mouth is the only piece left
Has she begun to be thin enough yet?
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 2:00 PM UTC
This
lovely
black bird
swans up to
me, raven haired,
great tits. I'm well
choughed. We lark about.
She said "Bury me in the sand martin"
Strange hobby I'm thinking, puffin as I dig
away. Her feet stuck out, pigeon toed. She owled
when I tickled them. The sea was too ruff to swim so
we flew a kite. A knot in the string made it a dipper
and diver. I had to duck. We swallowed a glass
of wine and under the eider down she asked
swiftly "What was that?" "Just a
little **** I said. She groused.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 7, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
I met a man at the gym
75 I believe
Still smiling and loving life
Came up to me to say hello
We talked for a bit
I hope to see him again
I told this asian guy
With his birding book
That I saw a black and yellow bird
In the gym parking lot
He looked excited
I hope he has a great time birding
Turns out it was a California Oriole!
Next time I see him
I'll tell him I saw an Oriole
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination,
in language. Non-fiction,
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.
Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose,
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.
A robin looks, hops, pecks, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species **** sapiens?
Through the discipline of asking questions.
Mimics, woodpeckers, sing-songers, hawks,
chippers and trillers, whistlers, name-sayers,
loons, owls and a dove, high pitchers,
wood warblers and a word-warbling wren.
Unusual vocalizations.
What did the wood thrush sing
teaching its young thrush meanings?
Too much emotion is the commonest of mortals’ sins.
Peace has many faces,
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against an impatient man,
verbose, unsure of the path, always longing.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC
I should buy a birding book
After all
I now have a video of a sparrow hawk
And an oriole!
I enjoy watching the birds
How they go from one place to another
Like people do
First here
Then there
Flitting about
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 8:56 PM UTC
Man, what has it been? 3 years. Dang. 3 whole years.
Let me fill you in on what’s been going on. I’m 22. I graduated college and now I’m a middle school science teacher. Who saw that one coming?!?
Since we’ve last spoken, I’ve traveled to new states, cities, and even countries. I picked up a fondness for birding and have spent an inordinate amount of money on musical theatre tickets.
I read some of my old poems and I’m just like ‘Dang, why you gotta be so moody 19 year old Alex?’ I guess 3 years of distances gives you some wisdom. So to 19 year old Alex, calm down. You’re fine, you’re going to be fine. The world isn’t falling down around you.
You’ll graduate, you’ll get a job you adore, and you’ll finally get to go to NYC not once, not twice, but 4 times and planning a 5th for spring break.
Slow down and enjoy the ride.
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 7:02 PM UTC