Boobook poems on Hello Poetry

Francis Duggan Aug 2010

The sky is dark the countryside is quiet
But the spur winged plovers cry out in the night
Above their territory they call and fly
Perhaps the hunting fox is prowling by.

The possums hiss on gum tree in the park
And in a yard nearby a terrier bark
At wailing tom cats fighting on the street
For the right to mate with a female in heat.

The night is calm there's scarce a puff of breeze
And boobook owl hunting for small birds in the cypress trees
Repeat the same call over and again
And frogs are croaking in the pond and drain.

The countryside may seem quiet after dark
But in the sky above the nearby park
The spur winged plovers cry out in the night
Perhaps a fox has driven them to flight.

WJ Thompson Feb 2018

Eutony (a poem full of interesting & obscure words)

I am wild, my akushla,
a solivigant.
But you are a cynefin.

Your kalon conceives resfeber in me.
Beasts rumble within like brontide,
they chant of redamancy, my trouvaille.

The dragoman drew me to you
Speaking of yugen
the susurruss mountains
they cured my atelphobia
Submontane caves
where our lights baltered among the selcouth crystals
Reminding me of basorexic spoondrift
breaking the moonglades you adore,
my fellow parallian.

Perhaps it was boyish werifesteria
or maybe I was selenotropic
to fall in love with a gentle boobook
ever so finifugal when we speak

But I feel filipendulous when abendrot bows for advesperacit

You sometimes consider it sphalolaliah,
my words, going ever on and on,
But I’ll learn your lagom, if you give me time

akushla-A transliteration of an Irish phrase that means “my pulse”, a term of endearment.
solivigant-wandering alone
cynefin-a Welsh word meaning a place you feel you ought to live, where nature feels welcoming.
kalon-inner and outer beauty.
resfeber-the nervous feeling before a journey; a mixture of anxiety and excitement before travel.
brontide-the low rumbling sound of distant thunder
redamancy-love fully returned; opposite of unrequited.
trouvaille-something pleasant you find by chance.
dragoman-translator and guide, usually in Turkish or Persian countries.
yugen-an awareness of the universe that triggers emotional responses too deep to be put into words.
susurrus-quiet whispering, or rustling.
atelphobia-the fear of not being good enough.
submontane-under or through mountains.
Balter-to dance recklessly; yet with enjoyment.
selcouth-unfamiliar, strange; yet marvelous
basorexia-the overwhelming urge to kiss
spoondrift-spray blown from waves during a gale at sea.
moonglades-the bright reflection of the moon’s light on water.
parallian-someone who lives by the ocean
werifesteria-to wander through the forest looking for mystery
selenotropism-growth in response to moonlight
boobook-a small, brown owl.
finifugal-someone who hates endings to stories, trips, or relationships.
filipendulous-hanging by a thread.
abendrot-the color of the sky when the sun is setting.
advesperacit-the approaching dark; the evening drawing near.
sphalolaliah-flirtatious talk that leads nowhere
lagom-just the right amount. Not too much; not to little.

#love #interesting #obscure #nature

Allan Mzyece Sep 2018

DARK LOVE POET (III)

Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.

But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,

Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.

Death is but void and will lead me to become  a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And  not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?

I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?

For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.

Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.

Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,

I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask,  where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******* who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE?  WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!

#best #dark #love #solace #hate #fun

betterdays Oct 2017

mopoke

the candle flame flickers
as the zephyr breeze blows
across our sunwarmed skin

we hold hands like teenagers of old
and you nuzzle gently at my shoulder

the stars brighten, as the sky darkens
from chambray to indigo
and the moon shones with mottled ivory glow

the frogs sing love songs and the lonely boobook calls
the night settles in as we make our way indoors
the candle flame splutters dies and leaves behind
a trail of smoke, taken away by the zephyr breeze
and the boobook calls again....mopoke....mopoke

boobook...an australian owl...with a distinictive call of mopoke

betterdays Apr 2014

boobookery

mopoke

the mournful call

                                      mopoke
of the boobook owl

as she ekes out
an existence
for her and her chick

                                      mopoke
fair warning to,
house mouse and field
you have entered my fiefdom.
now are you prey
to feed my fledgling fold

                                      mopoke
               mo..poke..mo...poke

from my aerie
                                      mopoke
my eerie calls,
defray my diminutive size, my too cute name.
my chocolate feathers
and startled gaze.

                                      mopoke
i am owl warrior queen

                                    MOPOKE

boobook owl
small owl eastern australia
has a distinctive call

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