"goslings" poems - Hello Poetry

Oh you, you champion. You have won us (some by losing us) We all adore your scissor-shaped mouth: even unsettled goslings honking claims of flying south. Shine on, halo of a man. Shine on, newsie flash in the pan.

0

Apr 7, 2010

Apr 7, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC

christina-gillam

To John Ashton Upston

Oh you, you champion. You have won us (some by losing us) We all adore your scissor-shaped mouth: even unsettled goslings honking claims of flying south. Shine on, halo of a man. Shine on, newsie flash in the pan.

8

she sleeps and dreams of goslings, dewbows and moonbeams and all imaginary things.

0

Aug 12, 2012

Aug 12, 2012 at 2:57 PM UTC

rhian-jona

She sleeps and dreams of goslings

she sleeps and dreams of goslings, dewbows and moonbeams and all imaginary things.

6

Cyclical desires baking, swelling in the swelter Rotisserie ambition put to test by push and sway Greasy golden goslings cooked a-wadd’ling from the shelter Decisions made e’er quickly keep the wild world at bay

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Dec 5, 2011

Dec 5, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC

samantha-dias

Feral Soup

Cyclical desires baking, swelling in the swelter Rotisserie ambition put to test by push and sway Greasy golden goslings cooked a-wadd’ling from the shelter Decisions made e’er quickly keep the wild world at bay

4

mild, so mild in the night to travel with the earth amongst an early starlit bloom, muddy fields fill the air with pubescent June. goslings waddle, fuzzy scurries. mother, father, enlarge and hiss protecting their long months work, now free from pipping shells. so cool is the night while laying hidden in uncut fields. chilling winds dance atop feral growth. sanctuary for outward gazing, through to unknown worlds. there is no envy from a distance. breath feeds wonder, spilling over into this vessel, so soon to be forgotten. spoiled from within, the unborn, rotten. a shell too hard to crack. there is no nest for that sacred sibling. forgotten by mother and father. their failed incubation, rotting. lost amongst the stars but within the field of all. Apollo sings to Pollux and Castor stroking somber tones from Lyra. "Greet the voiceless into forever; attach to them their rightful wings", "chirp, chirp, chirp"

0

May 16, 2017

May 16, 2017 at 1:33 AM UTC

fern

Apollo plays Lyra for the Twins of Helen

mild, so mild in the night to travel with the earth amongst an early starlit bloom, muddy fields fill the air with pubescent June. goslings waddle, fuzzy scurries. mother, father, enlarge and hiss protecting their long months work, now free from pipping shells. so cool is the night while laying hidden in uncut fields. chilling winds dance atop feral growth. sanctuary for outward gazing, through to unknown worlds. there is no envy from a distance. breath feeds wonder, spilling over into this vessel, so soon to be forgotten. spoiled from within, the unborn, rotten. a shell too hard to crack. there is no nest for that sacred sibling. forgotten by mother and father. their failed incubation, rotting. lost amongst the stars but within the field of all. Apollo sings to Pollux and Castor stroking somber tones from Lyra. "Greet the voiceless into forever; attach to them their rightful wings", "chirp, chirp, chirp"

30

Two eased from the sedan. A blanket, a brimming wicker basket. A pond filled with geese, the birds claiming the embankment. Water’s edge, he spun the blanket outward and The geese scattered, and the cloth descended in an almost perfect square. The valley’s familiar diversions, the white steeple a mile away, Copses scattered acres apart, poked above the low brush. Elbows propped in the afternoon heat Listening to the rustlings in the bramble Until the valley’s natural rhythms brought him sleep. Awakened to the rustling of paper, He watched her scatter bread crumbs, Circling the water with goslings in tow as they Nuzzled at the bits of dough, an odd parade Until a goose made chase, and the dithered fowl Marched her brood away And the woman laughed an undignified laugh in delight. Alone, glasses descended from his furrowed brow, An envelope withdrawn, Elegant script, long luxurious parchment perused and then Extended to her on her return. Her lined face turned away, skyward, The glorious heat warming, much preferred Above the chilling words. Together, they sat until the day had cooled And she wrapped herself in a thick sweater and Their shadows distorted as they relinquished the day, He guiding her in the gloaming before the beams of light Bounced unpredictably in the irregular road.

0

May 27, 2017

May 27, 2017 at 8:29 AM UTC

philip-lawrence

Almost Nightfall

Two eased from the sedan. A blanket, a brimming wicker basket. A pond filled with geese, the birds claiming the embankment. Water’s edge, he spun the blanket outward and The geese scattered, and the cloth descended in an almost perfect square. The valley’s familiar diversions, the white steeple a mile away, Copses scattered acres apart, poked above the low brush. Elbows propped in the afternoon heat Listening to the rustlings in the bramble Until the valley’s natural rhythms brought him sleep. Awakened to the rustling of paper, He watched her scatter bread crumbs, Circling the water with goslings in tow as they Nuzzled at the bits of dough, an odd parade Until a goose made chase, and the dithered fowl Marched her brood away And the woman laughed an undignified laugh in delight. Alone, glasses descended from his furrowed brow, An envelope withdrawn, Elegant script, long luxurious parchment perused and then Extended to her on her return. Her lined face turned away, skyward, The glorious heat warming, much preferred Above the chilling words. Together, they sat until the day had cooled And she wrapped herself in a thick sweater and Their shadows distorted as they relinquished the day, He guiding her in the gloaming before the beams of light Bounced unpredictably in the irregular road.

29

Witless children wet their eyes in rage At the stalling of things, the crawling of Time. Their impotence fuel to an imprudent Fire. Freedom, they say, is spirits and smoke, Music and new dress. Freedom, they say, is years away, far off And too far. They wail for time to flit past, Transient as the wisdom they cling to. Unaware or without care, the sun is Brightest before noon. In throes no less fierce, the old codgers cry. Cry for a time and a life gone by. Cry for the age when no Winter, no grave Patiently waited to allay the old pains And take them away. Youth, they say, was paramount. A tear down A wrinkled face holds joyous laughter, The sounds of summers back, way back, way past, Way back past the weathers of age. And time- O, time moves too fast. Be still! Stay that yearning, my old, my young. Stay your wistful watches in bitter corners Of the night. That covetous need to steal The seasons, trick the ticks and tocks of clocks. Time assents no greed. Rejoice! Do the goslings grieve at their plight? At the comfort of strong and downy watchmen, The easy and gentle waters? Do they moan, moan to suffer age? Theirs is not to Count the airy days. Delight! The tufted owl is mute. Content In his lot, his wisdom and shrewd. Esteem Lifts his head, his repute a plush luxury Won in hard contest with the threads of fate. Perched in regal seat. Hurrah! Do the dead rattle chains at their Sullen and shadowed fate? Of course they do! The clawing and dark is nothing in light Of the phases above. The ages and Labors of changeable life. -c. c. Condry

0

Mar 12, 2011

Mar 12, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC

c-c-condry

Be Still

Witless children wet their eyes in rage At the stalling of things, the crawling of Time. Their impotence fuel to an imprudent Fire. Freedom, they say, is spirits and smoke, Music and new dress. Freedom, they say, is years away, far off And too far. They wail for time to flit past, Transient as the wisdom they cling to. Unaware or without care, the sun is Brightest before noon. In throes no less fierce, the old codgers cry. Cry for a time and a life gone by. Cry for the age when no Winter, no grave Patiently waited to allay the old pains And take them away. Youth, they say, was paramount. A tear down A wrinkled face holds joyous laughter, The sounds of summers back, way back, way past, Way back past the weathers of age. And time- O, time moves too fast. Be still! Stay that yearning, my old, my young. Stay your wistful watches in bitter corners Of the night. That covetous need to steal The seasons, trick the ticks and tocks of clocks. Time assents no greed. Rejoice! Do the goslings grieve at their plight? At the comfort of strong and downy watchmen, The easy and gentle waters? Do they moan, moan to suffer age? Theirs is not to Count the airy days. Delight! The tufted owl is mute. Content In his lot, his wisdom and shrewd. Esteem Lifts his head, his repute a plush luxury Won in hard contest with the threads of fate. Perched in regal seat. Hurrah! Do the dead rattle chains at their Sullen and shadowed fate? Of course they do! The clawing and dark is nothing in light Of the phases above. The ages and Labors of changeable life. -c. c. Condry

41

*Afternoon walks around this calm body of water are as precious and innocent as a toddlers first steps , orange sunshine reflecting across her mirrored surface , Canadian goslings proudly trail their mother , Great Blue Herons stand guard at the treetops as young couples laugh and share their joy for one another Pekin Ducks feast along along the manicured shores , Bullfrogs signal the hour of Dusk as the Piedmont Corn Moon heads for home Shadow lovers commit bucolic images to lifetime memory beneath the periwinkle twilight blush Astral plats of silver and gold , the distant cry of Turtle Doves*

0

Apr 30, 2016

Apr 30, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC

randolph-l-wilson

City Lake ..

*Afternoon walks around this calm body of water are as precious and innocent as a toddlers first steps , orange sunshine reflecting across her mirrored surface , Canadian goslings proudly trail their mother , Great Blue Herons stand guard at the treetops as young couples laugh and share their joy for one another Pekin Ducks feast along along the manicured shores , Bullfrogs signal the hour of Dusk as the Piedmont Corn Moon heads for home Shadow lovers commit bucolic images to lifetime memory beneath the periwinkle twilight blush Astral plats of silver and gold , the distant cry of Turtle Doves*

5

purple Lupines create a foreground effect below glistening concertina wire as the morning sun shines down the prison in April blooms forth despite itself – goslings, tan with black spots stop traffic forcing recognition of nature in a place void of hope springtime blessing the groundskeepers and those fortunate enough to have been given yard time blue skies only corrupted by chemical spray – laughing inmates break my concentration as a pigeon lands on barred windows a cool breeze creeps in diluting the stale air education floor buzzes with activity as forgotten men seek to become more better different I sit encouraged by light bulbs – crackling radio signals the line movement round two of handshakes and polite jokes another hour and twenty minutes of magic I quietly sit back and smile at the scene laid before me no student has more fire for education than a man who thought himself less than nothing

0

Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 12:46 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

inspired morning

purple Lupines create a foreground effect below glistening concertina wire as the morning sun shines down the prison in April blooms forth despite itself – goslings, tan with black spots stop traffic forcing recognition of nature in a place void of hope springtime blessing the groundskeepers and those fortunate enough to have been given yard time blue skies only corrupted by chemical spray – laughing inmates break my concentration as a pigeon lands on barred windows a cool breeze creeps in diluting the stale air education floor buzzes with activity as forgotten men seek to become more better different I sit encouraged by light bulbs – crackling radio signals the line movement round two of handshakes and polite jokes another hour and twenty minutes of magic I quietly sit back and smile at the scene laid before me no student has more fire for education than a man who thought himself less than nothing

27

I leave damp mudprints there where I met the shore. The dragonflies' dances, the goslings scrammed, and I for now (or 'lo, for once) exhaled. Edges do that. A turtle somewhere spied me not spying a frog; quick to leap. And splash! My eyes follow my ears. A biped clown, here at a threshold. A stronghold of thrushes. And red-winged blackbirds... briefly visiting tufts and reeds. When I go, I think it likely no memory of me will remain - no indication, no story, no song - but for there where my callous kissed the muck. Invert puddlings, concentric whorls. A fish somewhere, like I, determined to visit an edge. Marks with its 'foot'prints, lips breaking the tension, a visit to the start of Sky... now gone. We each leave our prints. We leave each other's memories, in time.

0

Jun 13, 2019

Jun 13, 2019 at 10:53 AM UTC

ShhDragon

The E(n)dge

I leave damp mudprints there where I met the shore. The dragonflies' dances, the goslings scrammed, and I for now (or 'lo, for once) exhaled. Edges do that. A turtle somewhere spied me not spying a frog; quick to leap. And splash! My eyes follow my ears. A biped clown, here at a threshold. A stronghold of thrushes. And red-winged blackbirds... briefly visiting tufts and reeds. When I go, I think it likely no memory of me will remain - no indication, no story, no song - but for there where my callous kissed the muck. Invert puddlings, concentric whorls. A fish somewhere, like I, determined to visit an edge. Marks with its 'foot'prints, lips breaking the tension, a visit to the start of Sky... now gone. We each leave our prints. We leave each other's memories, in time.

30