"fantail" poems
Fantail feathers, of a hazy, 'yellow-orangish-moon'…
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Skeleton-scythes, thorny-stars, swaying in the swoon,
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Fire-pits and witches brew and cauldron’s smoking tricks?
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Little dwarves and wolves and serpents crawling; leftover people bits,
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Trumpets hailing arrival, of Pale Rider, can you hear his tune?
Fantail feathers strain the sight of harvest-yellow moon,
Skeletons, fire-pits, witches, cauldrons and Old Nix,
Animals of evil’s calling, tricker-treaters; Hallow’s Eve and ****** grit!
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Pray to Sáeta, Satá, Saturn…
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern
Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Jack-O’ Lantern*
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:43 PM UTC
Greens and gold of lattice work cascading down the tree,
This epiphyte, so infinitely, delicately free.
A lattice work of green finesse, a miniature Cezanne
With exquisiteness of spiky bloom embellishing it’s charm.
Cascading down the grizzled trunk of gnarled and twisted hand
The hosting ancient Kamahi looms loftily, so grand.
Looms aloft with leafy bough so softened by the show
Of ruffled, pinkish bottle brush amassing high and low.
Hordes of buzzing, bumble bees so clumsy in their way,
Tumbling from flower to flower collecting nectar’s day.
With afternoon the waning sun lies hot on sultry air
And little girls in pretty frocks skip by with not a care.
Summer grasses long and dry stand statuesque and straight
With sweet laburnum’s perfumed heads a nodding by the gate.
Young heifers graze in clover in the dell down by the brook
And the fantail dances daintily seeking insects in the nook
There’s a special, quiet majesty pervading here, so fair
With the thistledown afloat, so still with golden motes in air.
Fills my soul with gentle feeling and a rolling tear, unplanned,
For this blend of quiet ambivalence through my beauteous rural land.
Marshalg
“Foxglove” Taranaki.
NEW ZEALAND.
19 January 2014
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.
when we made boats.
of halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.
when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on dusty driveways and paths.
when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.
when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.
as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.
in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.
looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 12:54 AM UTC
a blue bird dives on the stream
a fish it caught in its beak.
it repeats the maneuver
soon he does not know hunger.
-the kingfisher.
a brown bird lands on the ground
on shallow streams took a bath.
giving men a joyful sight
had its fun, it takes to flight.
-the chestnut munia
a dainty song overheard
a familiar call from sky.
a pair lands on the window
delighting the lone widow.
-the pied fantail
i pick on scraps by the street
and a peck of farmers' grain.
a nuisance i have become
both to animals and man.
yet i am content to live
among these birds beautiful.
choicest food i cannot taste
yet on scrap i still subsist.
once in my past, life was good
but i met my misfortune.
now i am forced to endure
living life as a sparrow.
-a poor man.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 7:32 AM UTC
The gold fish named Tony (a poem)
Happily and freely
Does the fantail goldfish
Named Tony
Swims
With out a care in the world
Tony thinks
The world is a peaceful place
Yet he does not know
Much of what goes on
Beyond the fish Bowl
But it is better
Then hearing and seeing
The bad things
That happens outside of the
Fish Bowl
So freely and happily
Tony swims
Ignorance is bliss
When you’re a fantail goldfish
In your little slice
Of paradise
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
The smoke, the billows, fires flare and winds; strange noises that perplex,
the scented attar waffles through and the bubbling of the brew,
all of this in rit-u-al, we find in the witches kylix.
Who does she send to Charon’s boat to cross great river Styx?
After she’s been boiling them, in the peculiar witch’s kylix...
The onlookers strain at the fantail feathers of a hazy orangish moon,
all the animals and hidden watchers are captured by a swoon,
for something carried in the smoke makes everything betwixt,
and no one knows exactly what, is in the witches kylix?
Some saw smoke against a clear night, while lesser ones caught a smell,
watery mouths, sweet tasty smells, so tantalizing, lead them to a boiling hell.
Who thinks to ask, who begs a question, an old woman and cauldron in the sticks?
Who cooks at night out in the dark with just an iron kylix?
Her eyes reflect when you show yourself, you shudder at the thought,
a predator, hunter on the prowl, perhaps you is what she sought?
That evil star-shine is the signal for you know what is this game,
but the hunger pangs and roiling stomach nearly double you in pain.
You ignore the bones of many sizes, as wolves whimper in the distance,
and you realize to late it seems that you are her subsistence,
-bubbling in the witch’s kylix.
This one is blackened dark as pitch; two handles shaped each like a six,
and you inside cooking quickly, a classic witches kylix!
Beg the night, pray to the moon, slap your face and make it quick,
or you’ll be caught by the swoon and end up in the witches kylix.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 3:05 PM UTC
Light and deep shade dancing
As I stride the mountain pass
My fascination prancing
As appreciations bask.
There's a tui in the cherry
And a magic song he sings
As he annoints the morning air
With the joy a summer brings.
There's a vibrancy a-hovering
And a crispness to the feel
A clarity so scintillating
One might, actually, doubt it's real.
A sky, so blue to be azure,
Extends across, on high,
Cloudless with a baking sun
Impaling you and I.
These old volcanoes soar aloft
They, now quiescent, stand,
Clad thick in stands of Kamahi
And towering Rimu, grand.
Great Egmont with her snowy crown
Rears high above it all
To dominate the beautious-ness
Of slope and waterfall.
A tiny fantail flits about
And so entrances me
With aerial bombardments, flung,
In near impossibility.
The song of rivers plummeting
Down ferny glades and stone-
Causing me to laugh aloud
In serenade of home.
And sauntering through this wonderous-ness
Of magnificence in green,
This glory of New Zealand,
Is, indeed, the very best ...I've seen.
M.
Midsummer Taranaki, NZ
30 January 2021
Jan 30, 2021
Jan 30, 2021 at 6:00 PM UTC
The sun’s leaving a day in autumn
Colours fading as I saw him
A fantail singing in the old silk tree
Chirpin’ in my ear telling secrets to me
I looked as it showed its fan
From then on I knew I was ******
Felt the shockwave beginning to peel
As all the signs pointed downhill
As now I feel like a pit stop
Drenched and worn like a mop
How can you value a void
When you know it’s probably destroyed?
That deflated feeling like a tire
A date ready to expire
One, two count the excuses
That explains the trust issues
But knowing me I had to help
Unknown to the cards that were dealt
Clubs, hearts or the spades of an ace
Still no tears on my poker face
Decisions n’ opinions
With multiplied division
So abruptly it had to subtract
Math wasn’t my best subject
I’m the equivalent to a piece of card
Bored like the curves on my palm
Laying back while scratching my head
With hair strands hanging by a thread
I guess this is the norm now
No talk just the wish of how
Much I want to be a someone
Instead of being a no one
I cannot imagine anyone to feel
Attraction that’s actually for real
As I’m here questioning the situation
And re-evaluating my orientation
The times have changed
With nothing left to arrange
Spring forward and fall back
The fantail kept my sanity intact
Apr 30, 2020
Apr 30, 2020 at 11:43 AM UTC