My hands are of wrinkles
Worn out by the passing of time
And yet dearly cherishing on my palms
A small pendant silver & bright

Wear it not around my neck
For my poor eyes see not
But leave it brushing on my hands
For be it a gift from God

Like a Jackdaw
you threw freedom away
And stood on the windowsill
Eyes resting off the lane

The pendant such beautiful gift
A shining star falling from above
And yet lay still in the hands of another
The truth a Jackdaw would not want

The universe plays a winter song
A soprana, tenor, bass & alto,
You lift your wings & slowly left
Scared to be called a thief of a pendant, a desire that was no fate of yours.

The broken leg jackdaw
he lost his greed with his leg

now saintly dumb
it's enough if he gets a crumb
complains not when foodless
knowing by his creator's grace
he would be given the span
this world needs his breath for
would live to run the length
in his lone leg's strength
felled by no deadly harm
till ends his term

The broken leg jackdaw
stands on the cornice
in peace
and his jet-black eyes
are deep and wise!

The phone rang almost off the hook
But I got to it in time,
‘You’d better come here and take a look!’
Said the voice of Esther Clyne.
I shook my head, rolled over in bed,
And said, ‘It’s after one!
It’s after one in the morning, Ess!’
She said, ‘You’d better come!’

Ess was an ornithologist
And she lived in Chandler’s Wood,
She’d never been an apologist
But demanded, when she could,
‘It’s pretty late,’ I tried to state,
‘Can it wait until I’m free?’
Her voice came rattling down the line,
‘Not now, just come and see!’

I dropped the phone with a silent curse
As I scrambled out of bed,
And wondered which of her feathered friends
Had disturbed the woman’s head.
She’d called me out for a frigatebird
That she’d spotted from her snug,
And many a rare and crested tern,
And even a vagrant dove.

I wore a hat and a leather coat
It was getting cold outside,
Grabbed me a pair of driving gloves
And I took the four wheel drive,
The track was sticky in Chandler’s Wood
It had rained the day before,
And headed in through the Maple trees
To the house she called ‘Jackdaw’.

I pulled up by her verandah, she
Had been waiting there for me,
Handed over a walking stick,
‘To beat them off, you’ll see!’
We walked together towards the lake
And there we saw old Jack,
The poor old guy was about to die,
Was lying flat on his back.

He seemed to have lost a lot of blood
It was streaked all over his face,
His shirt was tattered his trousers torn
There was blood all over the place,
And round him gathered the strangest group
That  ever I’ve seen, no lies!
For there was a couple of hundred owls
And one had pecked out his eyes.

I started to raise the walking stick
‘Shall I beat them off with this?’
She said she didn’t know what to do,
The ornithologist!
‘The stick is just to protect yourself
Should they suddenly attack,
Owls are nocturnal hunting birds,
We don’t want to end like Jack!’

There were Tawny Owls and scrawny owls
And a Snowy Owl or two,
A couple of hundred Barn Owls
Up in the trees for a better view,
The Moon was reflected in their eyes
As they sat and stared us down,
Perched in the trees around us and
A-blink, not making a sound.

Esther motioned to come away,
‘We can’t do anything here,
We’ll come again in the morning when
The ground and the trees are clear.’
So we edged away and we got to pray
But neither would turn our back,
We knew if we tried to run away
We’d end up as dead as Jack.

No sooner back at the house, ‘Jackdaw’
We locked the shutters in place,
Bolted the front and laundry doors
And blocked the chimney piece,
Esther put on the kettle, thinking
To make a *** of tea,
But outside there was a whirring sound
So we both looked out to see.

The owls were perched on the hand rail
On the verandah, all in a line,
They stared at the house unblinking
Being so patient, biding their time,
They pecked their way through the telephone line,
We couldn’t call out by phone,
And then they set up a screeching that
Sent chills through me to the bone.

I knew all about the Hoot Owl
But I’d never have heard them screech,
If Esther hadn’t have called me up
When I should have been asleep.
The screeching rattled the window panes
Then Esther let out a howl,
And suddenly they all flew away,
There wasn’t a single owl!

They found her out in the woods today
I can’t say I was surprised,
They said it must be a bird of prey
Attacked, and pecked out her eyes.
I’ve never been back to Chandler’s Wood
Since I got that late night call,
But don’t want to end like Esther, so
I keep a gun on the wall.

David Lewis Paget

What does the donkey bray about?
What does the pig grunt through his snout?
What does the goose mean by a hiss?
Oh, Nurse, if you can tell me this,
I'll give you such a kiss.

The cockatoo calls "cockatoo,"
The magpie chatters "how d'ye do?"
The jackdaw bids me "go away,"
Cuckoo cries "cuckoo" half the day:
What do the others say?

Thus reconfigured the party covered the first two days of the journey with speed and ease. As evening approached on the second day it was clear that a village resthouse was to be favoured as its owner had ridden out to greet his illustrious guests. He assured the party of complete secrecy, their valuable horses to be his special concern.
​   Away from the palace Zuo Fen set herself to enjoy the rural pleasures of an autumn evening. This time of freedom from the palace duties, from her Lord’s often-indiscriminate attention, she valued as a most generous gift. She composed swiftly a fu poem in gratitude to her Lord’s trust and favour.
 
How fortunate to dip this hand
In a flowing stream whose water
Is already touched by the first snows
Know that I shall bring its caress
to the mouthpiece of my Lord’s  jade flute
holding its body with spread fingers
to press to open to close to open
 
The stream bisected the village, a village of stone and wattle buildings, though the rest house was stone through and through. She had ventured on her arrival up onto its flat roof covered as it was with harvest produce laid out in abundance. The colours and textures of peppers, yams, marrows, eggplant, and such curious mushrooms as she had never before seen, all this she gathered with joy into her imagination’s memory.
​      With Mei Ling’s help she then transformed herself back into a woman, though with the simplest of robes over the Mongolian garments of wool she favoured to fend off the cold. Then, after alarming the resthouse keeper’s wife and servants by entering the kitchen, she planned a meal to her liking, sought the herb garden and enquired about the storing of vegetables for the long winter ahead.
      ​As the evening progressed she was surprised to discover Meng Ning had gone on ahead to Eryi-lou. It was a capricious decision born of his wariness of Zuo Fen. He felt intimidated by the persona she had assumed. Here was a woman of infinite grace yet simple charm who in the time it took to travel 6 li had become unrecognizable. Even her voice she dropped into a lower register and gained louder amplitude. When they reached the village he had moved purposefully to provide assistance as she prepared to dismount, only to see her grip the high pommel and swing her leg confidently across her pony and her body slide down the pony’s flanks to a standing position. So as the late afternoon light failed he had driven his horse up and up the mountain path, forcing himself to think only of the route and task ahead. He had acquired the company of a local guide who, on foot, out-paced his horse, but would see him safe down the path in the coming darkness. There would be a moon, but it had yet to rise.
        ​To his surprise the caretaker of Eryi-lou was a young woman, a daughter perhaps of its official guardian Gao Cheng, a daughter Meng Ning considered banished to this remote spot: she carried a small child on her back. He would enquire later. For now, he sought in her company to reconnoiter the decaying web of wooden pavilions, some already invaded by nature. It was then he realized his mistake. He thought himself into Zuo Fen’s mind. Surely she would wish to come upon this place untouched and unprepared by his offices. He motioned to the young woman to come outside, and standing on one of the many terraces explained his error, asked her not to speak of his inappropriate visit, but made to suggest that there was a room ‘always kept for an official’s visit’, that it be swept and suitably provisioned. Her voice responded in a dialect he could hardly decipher. It had the edge of a lone bird’s roosting call. He knew she was trying to explain something of importance to him, but he quickly lost the thread. He could see the faint gleam of the lake reflected in her eyes, hear the snuffle of her baby carried against on her back, and in the near distance he was aware of the village guide admonishing his horse. He bowed and left.
 
‘You are a most considerate companion, Meng Ning,’ Zou Fen said, as summoned to her presence, the chamberlain prostrated himself before the woman he was charged to serve and protect.
‘My lady, you already know I am a fool.’
‘Yes, but an honest fool with a kind heart. You sought my well-being at Eryi-lou, but I think you rightly imagined I might wish to experience this dream habitation in an inviolate state. Let us say you made a dream journey there. No harm done.’
     ​He explained about the caretaker and that a suite of rooms was always kept ready for an official. That was all he would say. He was about to retreat from the guest room now vivid with firelight and rich with the scent of cinnamon, when she lifted her hand to stay his going.
 
‘You are a brave young man to accept charge of my company. I am sure you know how my Lord is likely to remove you from his circle on our return. I feel unworthy of such sacrifice. I did not expect my Lord’s favour in this enterprise, but my words, my application, were clearly persuasive. I feel we are bound together you and I, and we must see our enterprise be the making of a fine poetic rhapsody for the autumn season – something you might share one day with your children and their children. You must understand that I am already moving towards a meeting of reality and the world of dreams and visions. Do not be afraid should I seek your intimate council. I know already you dream a little of my person. You may even imagine our conjunction as lovers. Women know these things, and, as you may have heard, I have tutored your Emperor in the ways of the Pale Girl.’
 
‘My lady . . .
 
Zou Fen reaches out for paper and brush Mei Lim had placed to her right hand. Kneeling on the roughly swept floor, her long limbs hidden under her cloak, she deftly paints seven lines of characters:
 
The autumn air is clear,
The autumn moon is bright.
Fallen leaves gather and scatter,
The jackdaw perches and starts anew.
We think of each other- when will we meet?
This hour, this night, my feelings are . . .
 
‘I wonder how we are to cast the final character?’
‘Not yet, and not here my Lady’. And with that Meng Ning takes his leave.
 
(to be continued)

Such a hubbub in the nests,
  Such a bustle and squeak!
Nestlings, guiltless of a feather,
  Learning just to speak,
Ask--"And how about the fashions?"
  From a cavernous beak.

Perched on bushes, perched on hedges,
  Perched on firm hahas,
Perched on anything that holds them,
  Gay papas and grave mammas
Teach the knowledge-thirsty nestlings:
  Hear the gay papas.

Robin says: "A scarlet waistcoat
  Will be all the wear,
Snug, and also cheerful-looking
  For the frostiest air,
Comfortable for the chest too
  When one comes to plume and pair."

"Neat gray hoods will be in vogue,"
  Quoth a Jackdaw: "Glossy gray,
Setting close, yet setting easy,
  Nothing fly-away;
Suited to our misty mornings,
  A la negligee."

Flushing salmon, flushing sulphur,
  Haughty Cockatoos
Answer--"Hoods may do for mornings,
  But for evenings choose
High head-dresses, curved like crescents,
  Such as well-bred persons use."

"Top-knots, yes; yet more essential
  Still, a train or tail,"
Screamed the Peacock: "Gemmed and lustrous
  Not too stiff, and not too frail;
Those are best which rearrange as
  Fans, and spread or trail."

Spoke the Swan, entrenched behind
  An inimitable neck:
"After all, there's nothing sweeter
  For the lawn or lake
Than simple white, if fine and flaky
  And absolutely free from speck."

"Yellow," hinted a Canary,
  "Warmer, not less distingue."
"Peach color," put in a Lory,
  "Cannot look outre."
"All the colors are in fashion,
  And are right," the Parrots say.

"Very well. But do contrast
  Tints harmonious,"
Piped a Blackbird, justly proud
  Of bill aurigerous;
"Half the world may learn a lesson
  As to that from us."

Then a Stork took up the word:
  "Aim at height and chic:
Not high heels, they're common; somehow,
  Stilted legs, not thick,
Nor yet thin:" he just glanced downward
  And snapped to his beak.

Here a rustling and a whirring,
  As of fans outspread,
Hinted that mammas felt anxious
  Lest the next thing said
Might prove less than quite judicious,
  Or even underbred.

So a mother Auk resumed
  The broken thread of speech:
"Let colors sort themselves, my dears,
  Yellow, or red, or peach;
The main points, as it seems to me,
  We mothers have to teach,

"Are form and texture, elegance,
  An air reserved, sublime;
The mode of wearing what we wear
  With due regard to month and clime.
But now, let's all compose ourselves,
  It's almost breakfast-time."

A hubbub, a squeak, a bustle!
  Who cares to chatter or sing
With delightful breakfast coming?
  Yet they whisper under the wing:
"So we may wear whatever we like,
  Anything, everything!"

I shall go to the woods
One summer’s afternoon.
I shall go to hear the cuckoo cry
And listen to the jackdaw croon.

I shall go to seek shelter from the summer heat
Against the cool of the tree bark.
The mantra of old evergreen pines is heard:
Tales of Norse gods, and their lark.

I shall go to visit the heron
Who waits by the stream.
Patiently, she strides down the brook
Until she catches the small bream.

I shall do all these things
Missing the city, where I roam –
I shall go to the woods
And then, I shall go home.

Yonder flies the solitary bat
Entwining with darkened wings
Like a twilight Prince in the night sky

This little creature flies away home
To hide from the advancing morning light
Forever blind to the madness of man

Yonder the little mouse is peaking out
Twitching its nose at the wide outside
Then to venture across the grass

Searching to find a scrap of food
To grab up and run back into safety
Away from the envious eyes of man

Yonder a jackdaw perches up high
Hidden within the branches of the Oak
Watching like a sentry that is looking out

Waiting to spy what it comes to desire
Then swooping down to capture its prey
Flying away once more from the terror of man

Yonder the small child plays with joy
Seeing the pleasure that belongs to his world
Delight is showing at the wonders all around

Running through the buttercups and dandelions
Soon he will have to leave this all behind
His innocense taken away when he becomes a man

A jackdaw’s calls
Ring out the rusted shells of Tractors.
The grey fog, engulfing, perished to
Cloud.

As shadows, linger
In the twilight.

Oh great Ophiuchus,
you stand there mighty above us,
all nights, collapsed in the collapsible
container sky. We do
look up to you, Ophiuchus,
as other-worldly worries nestle us
into our nested doll
worlds. Though Ophiuchus, we must
ask again, what it is you can give us
while your sculpted arms keep
a coiling beast at bay? Go on,
let go. Let go of it, Ophiuchus.
Your strong hands can point us
back, just when our need walks forward,
to a stone-laid patio where broad browns
empty into vast blues,
and our wise Hypatia sits
nose in books. Woe it is, Ophiuchus,
she’s so oblivious,
to those shouts of a smallish mob,
their small minds squeezed by greedy Christian lands.
They pad to her on paws
well-provided with ostraca
claws, and next morning the mourner jackdaw
will refuse to withdraw
its usual caw from a flawed
maw that couldn’t warn her, the time’s off. It’s now
it seems, Ophiuchus,
the day’s come, though the daw’s left us,
when clay heads will fall at golden feet. But
Ophiuchus, do please
tell us, can we focus? After
these many centuries, Ophiuchus,
can we learn to focus,
and on our own keep the constant
nips of the present-preened serpents at bay?

The infinite,
a definite article.

I crafted a faith from the balsa wood tree
subtle and supple and
yielding
like me.

The indefinite article,
a death that lasts for
a lifetime.

Who knows but a long time could tell in what fiction we dwell?
is this mansion a house among many?

While the jackdaw gnaws at my bones I have found friends in high towers and homes where they welcomed me,
Intuitively I knew the new religion was true,
the words on the walls were a lie.

Charity begins when clarity wins and the needs of the many are met.

You can't feed on fish when the hungry go hungry and can only feed on the wish to be fed.

All we can do at the end of the day is count all our blessings and then give them away to those who aren't quite so blessed.

Mind unity
infinity
both
you
me
Intensively
working for the common good
would be good.

I trawl on this travel trying to wrap up or unravel the puzzle of life.
All that I catch are the bones that match those that the jackdaw's been gnawing.

Johnny Johnny jackdaw
playing on the see-saw
never did one jackdaw have
such fun on his own.

As the day dies sun to west slants
my hands water the few potted plants
an evening dawns in melancholic hush
pesters my mood the cawing corvus!

The nose in the air polished jackdaw
can’t fathom why men break nature’s law
wipe out forests root out the green
then on the roof try to grow seedling!

Why at all shrink the men so smart
stretches of wood to build habitat
all the clever brains profound and wise
destroy wastelands to madly urbanize!

The corvus his eyes speak of dark scare
frightened beak caws how is unfair
denuding of trees in insane haste
leaving scarce space to build him a nest!

Early July
and Judith sat
on the wooden fence
beside you

over looking the pond
which she called the lake
dressed in a plain grey skirt
and green blouse

her brown hair
brushed untidily
as was per norm
her hands beside her

balancing her
on the top beam
mum said men
are not to be trusted

Judith said
me included?
you asked
you especially

she said smiling
she didn’t mention you by name
just said men in general
and my dad looked at her

sideways on
pulled a face
then carried on
with his breakfast

a jackdaw flew across
the pond noisily
making Judith jump
****** bird

nigh on made me
wet myself
she said
following the bird’s flight

what made your mother
go on an anti men campaign?
you asked
watching two ducks

move across
the water’s skin
I think she saw us
coming through the woods

behind your house
yesterday after school
Judith said
we were too close together

mum said
but where she was
to see us I have no idea
hanging from a tree maybe

you said
don’t think so
Judith said smiling
maybe she’s spying on us now?

you suggested
Judith looked around her
then back at you
don’t say that

I almost had kittens
it’s not kittens
you have to worry about
you said

sunlight flickered
through high branches
birds sang
white clouds

moved slowly overhead
you touched her hand
with yours
felt her warm skin

her fingers
her short fingernails
she looked at the flickering sunlight
I know

she said softly
come on
let’s go near the lake
she said

and jumped off the fence
and so did you
and walked over
the grass

to the pond’s side
under a vast sky of blue.

the air feels damp

echoes of thunder claps

bounce from the wooded hills

and roll through the vale

sockets of blue pierce

through the disrupted

ceiling of cloud

the jackdaw voices

his displeasure

at the summer we’ve been given

but they find annoyance

in most everything

The ants wave their antenna in anticipation
the bee's do their work in the name of propagation
and as the steamed cake is taken out of the oven
on hilltops the witches hide in secret caverns

The Jackdaw sings to the four winds
thrones are toppled of ancient kings
all the cities slumber ready to wake
when the topping is poured on the magic cake

Toadstools of tales will pop up from the soil
kettles around this aged land will start to boil
the children that have never grown old
will grow with mutuality beings so bold

All the casks from sea wreaked ships
will cast mariners *** onto their lips
for all that do dwell here so await
that wondrous sweet, the magic cake

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris
© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

black dog and monkeys
and demons with grins
or in greasy spoon cafes
with losers who win
and when some folk are chatty
a silence begins
and i look through a window
at the birds and their wings
and i wish for the freedom
their fluffy wings bring
or the chirp of a jackdaw
who tries hard to sing
but never can tell when the shakes will begin.

Sorry about
your granddad’s death
Judith said
as you stood

beside her
by the pond
at the back
of the house

in the woods
the autumn sun
lighting up patches
of the water’s skin

it was sudden
you said
my uncle told me
she took

your hand
in hers
and squeezed
her soft skin

on yours
her thumb
rubbing
the back

of your hand
best remember him
as he was
she said

living and smiling
not some place
lying dead
you nodded

trying
to conjure up
when you’d
seen him last

sitting in
the back garden
of his house
months earlier

talking
of his flowers
he’d grown
from seed

his white hair
moved slightly
by the breeze
he liked my new suit

you said
thought it looked smart
she kissed your cheek
and said

hold on
to things
like that
your memories

place them
in a drawer
inside your head  
a jackdaw flew

across the skin
of the pond
the black and white
of wings and tail

reflected
in the water
below
what comes

from God
she whispered
whether
nature’s beauty

or ones
we love
will one day
sadly go.

My ragged wings are black as night, my eyes are cold as sin;
the crows and rooks and magpies and the jays, my nearest kin.
I am a rogue and vagabond, I raid the nests of Man;
I’ll steal their golden trinkets and I’ll take whate’er I can.

Some fools have tried to trap me, and yet others have their guns,
but they who think me stupid little know what’s to be done.
Some others think to bribe me for to leave their crops alone;
I swoop in with my brothers and we take their kernels home!

To superstitious folks who see me perch upon their roof,
a new born babe will follow, for that is the Devil’s truth.
Yet down your chimney should I flit, beware the Reaper’s blade!
Within the year cold death shall come to master or to maid.

So look outside your window now and see what I may do,
If on the weather vane I sit, then rain shall come to you.
But if me and my brothers all do chatter, jack and caw,
then pray we are mistaken, for we tell of coming war.

The hedgerow pulse
seems quickened as the dipped flit
of three blue **** from here to there
declares that something is coming

Maybe too early to call spring,
the jackdaw on a slack wire
is still willing to give energy to balance,
as his eye sees good things

And the fettered earth begins to flex
as something elliptical
solar
inherent
returns to tickle us

My ragged wings are black as night, my eyes are cold as sin;
the crows and rooks and magpies and the jays, my nearest kin.
I am a rogue and vagabond, I raid the nests of Man;
I’ll steal their golden trinkets and I’ll take whate’er I can.

Some fools have tried to trap me, and yet others have their guns,
but they who think me stupid little know what’s to be done.
Some others think to bribe me for to leave their crops alone;
I swoop in with my squadron and we take their kernels home!

To superstitious folks who see me perch upon their roof,
a new born babe will follow, for that is the Devil’s truth.
Yet down your chimney should I flit, beware the Reaper’s blade!
Within the year cold death shall come to master or to maid.

So look outside your window now and see what I may do,
If on the weather vane I sit, then rain shall come to you.
But if me and my brothers all do chatter, jack and caw,
then pray we are mistaken, for we tell of coming war.

daws cry on my roof,
viewing musty lights
builded high on rocks.

seven towers sing
your old song, now gone:
it is not my fault.

Within the stomach of the world
The country stretches its branches, uncurled
Who is the horror of Napoleon Bonaparte?
Who darkens and fools the heart?
Often when man is shaken to the core
Other worlds sneak peeks in his door
And even in the junction of cattle
Metaphysical and mystical truths dazzle
Touched by the sea, a vision came
The pearls of the earth in flames
A jackdaw perches itself on pistons
Radiating heat from all of its mission
His mystic sense stayed tight beneath eyelids
Yet lit the flame in all said and undid
Like a voice in the wilderness
Or even a prophet of old, who might deliver us.

The grass, I do remember
the grass where you once lay
just smiling at my smile
now time is passing by
your flowers still convey
their smells throughout the day
Are you coming soon, coming soon?

.....It's easy here, you'll have your wish
.....and I'll prepare your favourite dish
.....Are you coming soon?
.....Tea this afternoon?

This peaceful it can be
a couple under a tree
the hopping and the caw
of a busy jackdaw
while a pink balloon goes high
up through the orange sky
Are you coming soon, coming soon?

.....It's easy here, you'll have your wish
.....and I'll prepare your favourite dish
.....Are you coming soon?
.....Tea this afternoon?

The house cleaned-up, the papers read
I weigh the phone and go to bed
there is not much I have to tell
but I can listen very well
Are you coming soon
are you coming soon
are you coming soon?
Tea this afternoon?

A confession of crows
crowd and clamor around
a jackdaw preacher

Our silence baritone'd by
an ageing jackdaw, as the
crow flied, one caw to every
fourth foot fall, he must have
been counting wing *****!

Other than the occasional
jet stream when the clouds
permit, there is not a lot of
activity at Iskeroon in Winter.

The sea hesitates, stage fright on
the last step up to the mainland,
despite repetitious attempts to
overcome its bashfulness.

An occasional Jackdaw perches
on those stranded whale rocks
at low tide, no doubt expecting
to meet a nice Gull.

Kamikaze Cormorants, diving
Ganets, Robins and Finches,
not forgetting Wren's which
were hunted and killed by
Kerry people until recently due
to a Celtic myth that it was
the symbol of last year, thus a
sacrificial offering to some
pagan God which I should not
have accredited with a capital G.

Then there is post, a delivery to
the door, yet we being 2 miles
from the road and with the mail,
comes all the local gossip, of which,
no doubt we are now part of, but,
as we are only blow in's, the delivery
is brief, a mere exchange of our
impressions relating to the days
weather, which by his standard,
is always " Grand ".

About now, I go to put the Hens in,
the radio in their coup is set to Lyric
FM, a 24 hour non stop classical station,
apparently the Foxes are out witted by it.

Our fire is already lighting. It is said
" The burning of turf and the smoking
bacon has kept the Irish in a state of
euphoria, for centuries ".
I'd believe it, for it schmells like
marijuana schmoke wafting in the wind.

That and a drop of Potcheen, and
sure what would be ailing you.


ps.

Time now 16: 55 pm Co. Kerry
Ireland. 16th Nov 2019.
Iskeroon.com