"migratory" poems
*The blue song bird
mellifluous singer admired
for her songs that melt
even hearts of rock,
riding the crust
of the adoring wind,
swoop,
down,
down,
down
without a thought
suddenly alights,
heroically tries to sit,
on a high tension power line;
yet another of her
impromptu acts like before,
she labors to convince everyone
in a shrill chirping sound
that dangerously she lives
taking life in her own hands.
East wind, her companion tells
she is mistaken; he tries to push
her away from the lethal wire
on which death awaits with its dark hum
"young and wayward bird
you tell me you learn so quickly
from your mistakes, alright
from now and the moment next
lies an unknown chasm
in a jiffy if you decide to fathom it
no time is left for unlearning what it teaches
and reverse your journey
to the winter land of darkness
from where no migratory bird has ever come back"
The bird so deaf to wind's words,
still hovers above the wire
the wind in warning hums a sad tune aloud.*
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC
You won't recognize them I bet,
your secrets, even in broad day light,
if they walk towards you smiling,
wearing dark glasses to hide their eyes
in a humid day.They now wear clothes
of different styles to take you for a ride,
even cross dress and change the accents,
they play games with your hazy mind
--the secrets you once buried deep under.
They stand peeping behind blinded windows
prowl as shadows soliciting behind half open doors,.
Time flies in a hurry like migratory birds left behind,
you have to strain your ears too much
to hear even the faint foot falls of the past!
Old memories have changed their manners
they try to distract one with invented details
Like the muffled voices in an attic dark,
on a fateful day so long, your old secrets
speak an archaic tongue, that needs to be interpreted.
One has to be artful as the turbaned village elders
who would for your astonishment interpret
the vocabulary of lizard calls, key to nature's intents.
Or the trained eye of an elder who in flashes
of meteor falls, reads the secret messages of universe.
To get a true sense of your own secret
you have to tread the places they hide.
Make them shed their crusted hides
by which they conceal their true color,
which one has been waiting to see,
with a palpitating heart, walking back
to where one walked once, long forgotten.
That is why elders on days of yore
would exhort, embarrassingly repeat too,
not to have any hidden secrets that hurt
even if breathtakingly beautiful like a courtesan.
In some moment one won't expect
dreadful they could turn and become witches,
with fiery eyes, dreadlocks, and long nails.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 4:11 PM UTC
The air is burly
trees harvest soldiers on the line
combines, threads, manure, life--
A whole world lost amidst the flats
Saplings are the next season's
Almonds, Apples, Dates,
Waiting for food shelves and stockrooms
packed in banana boxes and given a place
They will find the plates of capitol city dwellers
They will be engorged far away from their origins
The Sierra-- oh the great plutonic mass
They are grey from age, peppered with white whiskers of snow
They are asking to be known as the interior
Pilgrims who traveled over their spines, seeking these fertile swampland
Now airstrips and dirigibles
The edges of clouds on the valley, the deserts and the mountains like folds of a book
they crackle in the sun and the skin of the earth shrinks in its gaze
Migratory birds dance in the fields, the lowly clang of bell
Bleached american flags tell us this is the land
The land of things and endless breadth
This is only California, but the majesty of it
a gem valley encased by the rocks, in silicates
A roaming place for cows, wanderers, farmers, dreams
Where the only edge of things is the mountains, saying
-Climb me, surmount me, lay me under your deeds-
Dec 14, 2018
Dec 14, 2018 at 12:26 PM UTC
Golden sand tickling your toes
Pebbles gleaming, glistening, slushing
When the tide comes back to shore.
Sand dunes hiding wildlife,
Multitudes of migratory birds,
Safely returning every year to
This beautiful, marshy paradise.
Skies so orange, pink and red,
An artists palette of natural art
Greet you at sunrise and sunset.
***** kippers, cod and plaice
Shrimps, cockles and whelks,
Mushy, minty peas and chips,
The show at the end of the pier.
The lifeboats and their hardy crew
Risking their lives to save others,
When visitors run into trouble
At the mercy of the cold North Sea.
Crumbling coastlines, cliff walks
And nature reserves full of the
Scent of wild garlic and herbs,
Norfolk lavender. Steam engines,
Fishing boats, river boats,
Paddling boats and cycles
Take you on journeys
Around the Broads or
Past the famous Castles.
Tigers and leopards peer
Through the bars of their
Zoo homes by the sea.
Easterly winds that bite your
Fingers as they whistle and
Howl through the City.
Guest houses closed for
The winter as you stroll
The lonely promenades
Breathing in the air.
Queen Bodicea, Normans,
Vikings and Romans all
Marched through this
Historical landscape
And yet we remain
Stalwart and strong
Proud of our heritage,
Our roots, our birthplace
There's only one place
Better than Norfolk,
And that's the
Beautiful Ozarks.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 6:56 PM UTC
suds fall on black like endless snow.
tarnished paint to spry—
engine's diminutive breath
clout of metal coil, ballasts of portent...
defacing the fog and giving
it a brand new meaning. beside the rice fields in sullen Bulacan,
i ache for the frog defecating
on this tortured piece of land.
birds in migratory V-positions cleave
the azure, vanishing behind the tough ornate. to whence they flee
and to where they shall land
on their poised talons, i do not know.
underneath the dermis and over
it, a long stillness of waiting,
trapped is this
man of Earth.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:43 AM UTC
Ol’ Long and Tall sits
uncomfortably in the
seat next to mine.
It is obvious that his
back is bothering him
this morning.
‘Hey, dad…”
This is how it always starts.
Anytime he wants to talk,
he opens with this salvo.
I think it’s like using a turn signal
when changing lanes or something,
and who really knows what lane my boy
is in as he hurtles down his own highway?
It’s not that I don’t know him,
or care what’s on his mind, not
at all.
We’re both thinkers,
Alex and I, it’s just that
he gets a little bit tangled up
now and then, and just goes blank,
but never dull.
I think “Hey, dad…” offers a bit of a reset;
just a moment’s pause for organization,
such as it is in Alex’s case.
“Hey dad…” he starts.
“Did you know…?”
He goes on to tell me
some facts, which I forget
now,
about Hawaii.
Soon, that folder is empty
so he begins telling me tidbits
about the migratory process
of monarch butterflies.
“Where did you learn this stuff?”
I ask.
“At school.”
“On the internet.”
he states.
“Good.”
“That’s good.”
I assure him.
“There’s more to the internet
than You Tube and Minecraft;
and you found it. I’m glad”
“Yup.” he says and grins his squinty grin
at me.
I nod and keep driving,
it is a school day and we’re on
the highway.
No radio this morning,
just talk.
I wait.
5 seconds
10 seconds
15 seconds
“Hey dad…”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 12:56 PM UTC
Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.
Too tight to wear,
the ring
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.
A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.
I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.
It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.
In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.
You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
Through past/present/future, the Imagist Express still clatters, bending time, space,
and everything else that truly matters.
The eclectic, mingled aroma
of Turkish coffee, French onion soup,
and spicy Kung Pao almonds,
wafts from the kitchen,
stinging the ornamental eyes
carved into the lounge car's ceiling.
A draft clears the air—
squinted eyes become wide-angle lenses;
pupils melt like hot candle wax,
dripping onto toes that are tapping
to the rhythmic beat of iron bones
spinning 'round below.
Barely—just barely,
the passengers feel the engine's migratory yearning as the conductor switches the tracks
of thought, so mesmerized they are
with their reflections in the windows:
pale faces dangling from a moistened,
black bough. The strange, intoxicating fruit
hangs
amongst the smudges of fingerprints,
their spirals, bending time, space,
and everything else that truly matters.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Yes, she stole my thoughts
devoured, digested and made her own
in the shortest possible time one could imagine,
made her imprint to make it a through job.
all between a stuporous sleep of my unmaking
after that frenzied mating instigated by
her cheating instinct at its acme.
she did it quietly in the dim light
of the zero watt bulb,
after we slept together
for the first time;
it was eerie
my romanticized thoughts
were the first to
get drawn out,
a tree full of wild red blossoms,
the name of which slipped
from memory to oblivion,
migratory birds of different feathers
sitting on that tree chirping in love's sweet passion.
i woke up
when the thoughts circling
like blood in my veins were touched,
she was there prowling
with the look of a witch,
a happy one at that
how victorious she looked!
my angst has no place in her scheme of things
after that, she coughed and spat
and pretended ,IPR never was violated
When you get bitten by the
serpent called lust,
and two ***** conjoin,
thoughts go down and hide,
one become unreasonable
and glide through moonlit sky,
stars wink, thoughts wink back,
and the stupor takes over.
*yes, she stole my thoughts
how could one complain?
You need to be one or the other at a time.*
Jun 24, 2012
Jun 24, 2012 at 1:05 PM UTC
**Arrows her eyes shoot, are sharpened by a silver light ethereal,
her heart, excited like a migratory bird, is ready to start, any moment,
they simultaneously practice for exactitude in the art of the dart
precision is enhanced after every consecutive try, I the target, gather,
my ever chivalrous heart, is ready to to receive it all, undaunted
as it gets late, expectant heart, slightly frets,
why hasn't she yet started to shoot at the target, straight?**
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 3:45 PM UTC
Greenfield far far away
In droves luring Africans
Across the foaming flames
Through the Sahara hell
Scaling the stormy Sea.
The sheep in droves
Galloping across the desert
Taking risk in risk, hoping
Till every breath of wants
Dies in want of want.
Many have died
Some are dying
Many will still die
Tell me not why!
Humanity in high flames
Burning in crimson clouds
Coming to outlandish rainbow!
The dead dead!
Would they come back?
To bite the hunchback
Hounding the donkey's back
In search of the greenery.
Dec 18, 2018
Dec 18, 2018 at 5:08 AM UTC
We found the fountainhead of the dark brimming night,
wasn't blue black as one would think, but white,
shimmering bright, flight of the pigeons, unexpected;
waves beating repeatedly against the shores, fluorescent blue poles,
seething in love and lust,bursting bright in overwhelming desire,
limitless yen to break every restraint, to merge and be only one.
put your logic aside and dive in to the phantom depths
where you reach without moving an inch in space,
blue receptacle, the cave concealing silver sparkles
she and I were yin and yang, on an exploration of the self mountain
in the uniform of beasts, though in an incognito vacation in our forest,
it's all fantasy that creates various hues, black and white too
there were no butterflies with fragile wings under the starlit night,
when we wished the night sky was full of them, flying, alighting on our bodies entwined, in a frenzy; they tickled and caressed with tender wings,
like dissipated pieces of rainbow, one following the other,
in a rare migratory path, across the horizon, in to the unknown.
the fountainhead of the night, we see it without even eyes,
interplanetary travelers we are, in our crafts, even if they look fragile,
the essence of being is beyond the realm of real,
we had out of body awareness,
both imagination and dream are filled with
undulating moon grace.
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 3:36 AM UTC
Rhythms of Mother Earth
Those which to life give birth
The pulse of all her life
When disrupted cause strife
Why is it we feel better when we go outside?
What has Mother Earth that is not inside?
Everything is connected
And, in turn affected
By that which causes disruption
Mainly, human corruption
Drop a pebble in a lake
All things affected by that wake
Of those energy waves emitted
Like those from a tower transmitted
Where have the butterflies and bees gone?
Those that took fancy flight above our lawn
Why have their numbers decreased?
And why have more become deceased?
What is this pulse, what is this beat?
That which surrounds us and is beneath our feet?
Mother Earth's heartbeat, herRESONANCE...7.83Hz (hertz)
The same rhythm with which humanity flirts
Circadian rhythm, day and night
Daily cycle of dark and light
A world, from the eye unseen
Yet perceived by those who are keen
Aware of our world which is synergetic
With waves that are light, electric and magnetic
What happens in a world without bees?
Does the fruit still fall from the trees?
Do we want to live without the beauty of flowers?
All for the incessant need for transmitting towers?
What is the ultimate price that we may pay
If we do not hold our cell phones an inch away
As waves lethal as high concentrations of uranium
Are pumped continuously into our cranium
Wireless hot spots become pervasive
Much like a species that is invasive
Birds migratory instincts disrupted
By those towers that have corrupted
That natural balance we have with our mother
A balance that cannot be replaced with another
This resonance attributed to Schumann
Is a frequency that is also human
(C) 2013 Shawn White Eagle
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 7:56 PM UTC
One dozen migratory Black-and-white Warblers lay
like fallen piano keys on the sidewalk in front
of a 14-story glass constructed building;
I watched as the janitor swept
them into the street.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits...
in the Turkish shop buying my beers -
politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir -
talk of politics - deciphered a word:
Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan,
what was it - macabre radish to taste -
niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem raz!
i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk
szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels
and the pigeons, and the swans,
and the migratory storks, and the seagulls -
for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise.
fluff of the wings -
the Mongol stench
reinterpreted - i rather be picking
ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka -
and koniewki - łopieniek & canary -
grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks -
or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz -
kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby.
the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal
variant of fungus - or alias chick.
each time they pithy my assertion to claim the
ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for
the noble families - each time they undermine
the worker testifying the fuck-worthy ****
prior sleep - pride settles in -
and a long forgotten assertive builds up
to architectural proportions -
it just ends up being a game of throwing
copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland...
and dinosaur bones into Wales...
and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily
packed with the labels **** and Hindu;
Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never
supposed to come to this; shame that it did;
the safety option was exacted.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
कोई तो उड़ चुका परिंदा
वादों में बंधा न यादों में बंधा
मौसम जो बदल गया है
Jun 3, 2017
Jun 3, 2017 at 11:27 PM UTC
Arrogance of autumn winds,
mighty trees shake in fear,
on the hillside, wind's playground,
dead leaves are given
a new lease of life,
like a flock of tired birds,
they fly in a pathetic mirth induced,
downwards to the valley,
to their final, certain, death and decay.
The old horse, abandoned
looks on, with faint glow of hope,
lighting its eyes.The evening light,
fades slowly on its face,
Darkness reigns.
This hill station, alive only in summer,
looks desolate.Totally abandoned
tragic in its isolation after palmy days.
The visitors have gone down.
past all 33 hairpin bends,
to the plains, anticipating
a long bitter winter.
The old race horse,
looks like the quintessence of the gloom,
for a week stands there unmoving.
The valley slopes
in to a ground, near the market.
Cricket matches that electrified crowds,
stopped long before.
The racecourse is so still
like a house, death has taken over.
The crowd dissipated hurriedly
like tired migratory birds.
Once a cynosure, the race horse,
old, weak and abandoned
feels the onset of the worst winter
in his old, tired bones.
The chill spreads
from the hoofs upwards,
Buzzing of bees,
nowhere to be seen,
is incessant in its ears.
Its eyes don't see light anymore,
A winter with a dark message,
soon would arrive,
he waits, shivering, mute.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 7:51 AM UTC
Sometimes
when he sees the sky,
awash in its magical,
migratory color,
his heart heaves.
His hand twitches
with a burning desire
to hold the brushes
and translate
those mystic messages
written in the Heavens
to the blank canvases
waiting here on Earth.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
you are a beautiful girl
with a face as next door as you can find
a lovely presence and personality as bright as sunlight
you are young and free
a new soul on this planet
it's first trip into the vast expanse
you remind me of girl I once knew
who became a butterfly
with wings as intricate as her heart
and the endurance of a migratory bird
off she went into the wind
leaving nothing behind
and if you were to ever fly in
then fly back out, well...
I would never take to the sky again
I hide from you
I know if I show you who I am
you would be hooked too
and the last bit of energy my heart has left
would be wasted on something that could lead to my death
but it could be love, and I don't believe in anything else
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:27 PM UTC
Summer calling in August, for the bird named after Saints.
There is a befitting proposition for them both, the season and the bird. She is offered to fall in love for a day, for less than a day, and in so many words, she does.
Two migratory birds dove into hopes and dusted dreams,
Picked the salt form old wounds, binding and mending, singing loss,
Crafting off of creational dust, making new things.
The their giving and giving, given into spent, like pendulums swing. Nature has tricks up her sleeve, and her hopes and promises are not the hopes of promises we keep.
Flying, looking for something over the water.
Wanting under depths of wanting, under depths of imaginations.
The two got stuck deep in the chemical dreaming of songs that played pretend.
The heat lost in the sun, and the season dies in a shell of milky
Indifference.
Birds swoop for signs in the air, flying and hoping that something would land in their narrow mouths so that they may go home and go to sleep.
They glide on. Hoping for ends to their broken songs, dipping and diving farther and farther away, with the batting of imagined wings behind their backs.
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
i hear the collective understanding
of dry sticks as they crack
the shock of alarm signals
like the migratory diaspora
of birds flying south
vibrates across tingling nerves
causing a necklace of choking
to grip at the throat
shivering I try to find a grave
I am watched from the summit of a hill
as a conflagration spreads
flames quiver
orange, yellow, purple, blue
there is an irregularity of thought
within me
my bones will soon
be pitched into debris
a petrified shiver
they still watch from
the summit of the hill
i collapse, gripped with a fear
of a permanent consignment
like that of dropping into a hollow
my face becomes plum stained
the income of breath becomes
a tenacious gasp
smoke swirls around me
blinding my red eyes
I become a misshapen
component of myself
standing like an effigy
hands raised in supplication
hysterically I try to
rid myself of this tyranny
find no distinguishable form
no solidified inquisitive intent
I rush and lash out
with a galvanised
inner adrenalin raised frenzy
a red sun appears
on the summit of the hill
ferocious in its heat
it lacks all euphony
and disintegrates with
debarring light
now speechless and cold
i fear the wind will find me
i move, burrow back
into a darkness
fire strokes across a green canvas
i am fault and disappear
without trace
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
Birds from a distance
Come to seek a warmer place
A beautiful view.
* March 2, 2011*
© 2011 emilou (All rights reserved)
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 2:42 AM UTC
“But maybe your real job is shopping…”
Sleepwalk through stock footage. Life as
documentary. Soundtrack of horror movie score:
ambient electronica, bubblegum nostalgia and
**** love songs. Everything becomes
visual metaphor: blackbirds, barcodes and
birthday candles; Big Pharma pick & mix;
lipstick ritual; pigeon superstition; fraying flags
of fading empires; migratory patterns of
shopping trolleys; special offers; fantastic prizes.
Worker bees are vanishing - they all want to
be queens - and our hives overflow
with honey, but are empty and dead. We got
infected with aspiration, with individualism.
Generically unique career consumers: remember
when you were more than your credit rating,
more than your demographic, more than your
market-driven self-diagnosis?
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 5:44 PM UTC
There’s a sort of hectic language
Life’s inner city airs
The indigent grime, swearing
They do declare
As heated as Vegas summers
All ‘round the block
On the Chinatown Strip
Spring mountain valley view
The homeless congregations
Rolling their luggage
Like albatross droppings
Migratory fixtures
**** white on black walls
Black in white veins
Rolling luggage
Keeping precious metals
Coin collecting, jewelry
The bling and fake gold rings
Anything a ***** can trade
For foil wrappings
Thick with high grade
Napping in the inferno
Silver state of epidemic
Many rolling “carryon luggage”
Goes without saying
That sort of summertime language
Inner city airs
That begs
Help. To differ.
They do
Declare
It should mean war…
But, come again
welcome to our fabulous city!
Sin ain’t fair.
Love is lost here.
And still in herds, in droves
Conventions packed disinventing us
Folk.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 12:33 PM UTC