"buntings" poems
As I look outside I see the colors of the rainbow
The red of a beautiful sunset
The yellow of the sun light burning through the sky
The green of trees
Blue clear skies
Fields of violet, fields of lavender
Pumpkins growing a beautiful orange
Skies full of indigo buntings
Outside my window I see the colors of the rainbow
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:28 PM UTC
she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell
simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs
and so it is - the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas
the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-
and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below
- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-
leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go
the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...
i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -
- autumn, you know?
r ~ 10/6/14
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Surrounded by beachgrass,
as the sun bares its teeth,
and wind tugs my hair,
we've laid the sea out, swelling
against the skyline.
We are a nest of angled limbs,
blue buntings perch on our legs
for words like what and why
and brine gathers above your lip;
Brace the slick dip between
shoulder and neck,
this swiftly tilting planet has
eyes like yellow fish weaving
circles around us.
Leave yourself up-rooted and
hide the homecoming in your kiss.
On the grass, and the sand, inside of me,
We fall apart slowly.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:28 PM UTC
lying here waiting to wake
may unconscious streams return me home
as a gentle flow succumbs to riverbank
meandering drift through memories of yore
aromas of sweetest royal fern consume
my days now passed for this night I long
to wrap me around a reed buntings song
so far from this storm of rattling gates
destined to tear through a fragile facade
reality she rides late on a January gale
entrapping my dreams in her deceitful fog
riverbank night heed a compassionate plea
o let sleep announce that I may finally wake
Jan 17, 2018
Jan 17, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
The summer leaves
As autumn leaves
Begin their bronzing change,
And the midday sun
Has now begun
To exit this once idyllic stage.
The quiet mornings
Crowded only with buntings
Become louder and more coarse,
As bescarfed children
who were once at play
Commence their scholarly chores.
And so the memories
Gained during warm days
Fade into a sepia hue,
But what remains
In the shortening days
Is that darling, I love you.
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
Today at work
I saw:
A box turtle
treading water
while
a three foot long
water snake dozed
on a nearby rock;
two Admiral butterflies
making shameless, passionate
colorful love
in the uncut clover;
four indigo buntings
slicing the air
like Imperial lightening;
six vultures
sailing the thermals
above the berry patch
in an eternal gyre.
What did you see?
-mce
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 10:10 AM UTC
...in all this imperfection i seek the perfect tone the lost chord the forgotten lyrics that call the lord to action when last we made love i built a pyre of your clothes and burned them because i wanted to make an offering and to hold you perfect and naked forever but you were only chilly and distant like god well who knows what successful supplication requires so now i light many candles against the gloom lace my morning coffee with bourbon ply the fire how many shades of gray does the world contain i have tried to count them and failed perhaps you know tell me love what is the spark that sets alight and where is the fire that breaks the night i want to take you violently from behind deep and without remorse like a centaur mounting a greek maiden on a perfect frozen vase i am praying hard for redemption and more whiskey perhaps a smile but darkness swirls in my brain an old friend whispering me toward the abyss saying it's ok just a few more steps and silence shall reign so what is the sound of one synapse firing why did the golden rule tarnish where have the indigo buntings fled the squirrels in my walls are scratching out messages in code if i can decrypt them and expose the international rodent conspiracy will i become famous and rich will lovely women fling their lingerie at me like silken boomerangs and ride me like a trojan horse or will the masters find me first and sequester me and my waterfalls of words in the madhouse of obscurity and is this a chance worth taking that those who care not should know the truth i know i am a river but where am i running the words pour the words rain it is hard to know what all this means and yet it must mean...
- mce
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:27 PM UTC
it’s easy to miss the juncos’ slow, sudden departure in spring;
messengers from colder warming worlds
they arrive a dulling autumn:
peppering notations of life in a landscape encased,
each deep dark demitasse
brewed on increasingly tardy dawns
painting a night sky inverted
standing ankle deep in first snows
searching for leftover springs beneath the detritus
but then they finally emerge with the warblers,
orioles, robins, and buntings
and pointillism fades beneath impressionist palettes
that flash over treetops and underbrush
but the last juncos linger:
quiet familiar trills outside my window each morning
disrupting stillness till it disappears
Apr 18, 2025
Apr 18, 2025 at 6:53 PM UTC