"murmuration" poems
I’m the perm of a
Poet
I can choke
I can breathe
I can drink a cup of coffee
And you
Are a murmuration
A flock of afternoon
midnight
I will let your
Black mass love me
However
However
However
It can
I’m reaching for you
Little bird
Take me with your arrow
The streets of this
Pure piano
And I introduce the yowling
Trumpet
The dead skin on
my back
Flecks with the quiver
Of flying with you
By choice
Jan 3, 2017
Jan 3, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
where will they take me
this thick, whirling cloud
of birds?
I lower my shotgun;
my targets were to be
a skein of geese
(corpulent, impertinent
avian freaks I have seen
peck children's shins)
these smaller birds
perform a choreography electric,
black against blue
now I know the meandering
meaning of mesmerize--my eyes
glued to the skies
more agape than the hunter
in me--wishing to watch this wave
undulate an eternity
but alas, the flock turns
into a naked sun; I am forced
to shield my eyes
my hand blocks the blare
of light, with it, the whipping tail of
their liquid flight
when I lower it, they are
but a haze near the horizon, performing
magic for another audience
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
Here lies a continuation of being.
View it as scenery indifferent to the weather channel.
A silent, exponential inverted sunshine euphoria
Warming the deepest letters of the soul:
U and I swaying outside linear cubic conventions corroded-
We sway like flowering Earth Resonance blooming as foreign
[Sensations]
A toe-curling in the chest stretched intimate at the highest hour
[Movement]
An unconditional syncopation of the heart and mind echoing a
Design as Liquid Resonance - I am that which you are.
“I could cry solid tears. Where have I been all these years,” says
You to reflected I rippling
[Perception]
Never spoken, only written as an abstract entity aware of vibrations
Tethered to timeless stories never read, only felt as I and U in
Reflected them, the missing strangers with a need to be found
[Immortalized]
Twisted eyes, encumbered lips, everflowing knitted letters stuttered. Kissed. Growing from itself a rehearsed mantra embroidered pattern discord. Mythical. The murmuration of a serenade’s evil dermis that feigns thick to tooth and claw, but silences to love as the overture.
Wide-eyed, you and I are a nascent reprise of words cloaked in inked pages turning in the billowing wind.
"Read them to me."
So I read in heavy rain.
From Monday to Sunday.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.
I mustn't tell fully what they say.
They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.
There is death in this tumult of words.
Let it not take me.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
There’s a moon like sunrise in her
Glass clouded obsidian eyes
That twinkle like jewel dew
Drops clinging to wind branches.
Yes you:
An essence under Sunday rainfall.
There was a lack of being until the conclusion:
A murmuration in the night and the water
In the glass and the ship that was slowly sinking.
You sang a serenade.
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 1:38 PM UTC
watch the starlings
synchronizing
their collective dance..
each bird deciding for the all
each on the edge of
chaos and fall..
local decisions on moving
coupling a mysterious
non-local intuition..
all spurring our wonder
our disbelief
are we forced to consider
our analogous place
each one of us poised
on a delicate line..
each needing to master
a courage to reach
transform near fear
take that one step our own
trust knowing all steps..
holographic truth at last
each differing step
stimulating
new wholeness and light
watch the starlings
once more..
locate where you now stand
my edge in my time
absorb the starling's miracle
murmuring our own
murmuration
Jun 7, 2012
Jun 7, 2012 at 11:50 PM UTC
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement
muddles across the dewy meadow floor,
as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic
from the corner of sleepy eyes,
to cast an enchanting spell
A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…
hastily, halting , frozen motionless
Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…
Neck stretched and craning,
tilted with an eye to mother earth ;
a canted focus beyond interruption
In the blink of an eye,
with a vigor too rapid to capture,
as the nowness of urgency flashes ―
She stretches the earthworm
with the grasp of subsistence
knowing after fall becomes the long winterlude.
The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s
glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette
A steady stream of animation rushes in and out
of the giant tree’s golden splendor
Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay.
Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts
have left the red breasted robbers foraging
for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.
Harbingers of spring…
Blueberry sneakers…
Gleaners of fall and winter..
“Teeek” “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....
fills the overhead air
with a beautifully chaotic verve
The flock returns repeatedly to and fro the towering Maple
to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash
The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights
Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear
as if it were only an unspoken allusion
of the passing seasons
The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop
for the fickle fleeting migrants
Daylight fades as the flock disappears
into a break in the clouds
fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky…
In the blink of an eye ... life’s senescent seasons
transform the stormy whirling winds of change
bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor
across the rolling vista
like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration
of a migrating beautiful mess
The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch
across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary.
Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,
arrive on a frosty new dawn
Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays,
warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;
Their journey here and now,
from distant mountainous horizons,
is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life…
November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
Just as the horizon was at it's brightest yellow
Before the light began to really fade
I stood and watched the daily starling show
Staged it seemed just for me
How privileged I felt to see
Our very own murmuration
Circle, tightly in a group
Morph into a jet fighter
Then a fragile bi-plane
Direction changing overhead
I heard their wings a lovely sound
As they circled round
What perfect choreography
To soar and dive, flip and twist
And as they passed a clump of firs
Some filtered down
Dropping as if poured
Each new pass some more
The last few, five or six
Carried on just as fast
Until they too went down
The show was over for another day
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 7:02 AM UTC
reach up, outwards, touch the frozen sky
marvel at the dancing shadow
birds in deft murmurations;
before they wave goodbye
lost swallows of yesteryear
traced flight and swift souls in
motion, like tiny frozen tears;
serenade the dying sun
gilded and immaculate
silver auburn summer glaze
to brooding blackness of night;
kaleidoscopic
marvel in the majesty, behold
inhale the epic simple beauty
exhale the stress of modernity
seize natures gold
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 9:13 PM UTC
I remember you standing
in the full and easy living.
wearing, that night, your slightest frock
a conspiracy of breath.
that collected, around your body,
like the murmuration of tiny birds
a loose smothering
of soft luminous folds
smoldering like a dusky halo
the merest graze of weave.
a delicate trace of distance
that clouded the sound of flesh
the skirt fell like an ocean
or a breeze rippling the rain
onto the reach and flow of your limbs
Like an old unwritten story
from the dark earth and brimming sky
it whispered a forgotten language
in the rustle and sigh of dance
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
We will wait there
until the stars vanish in silence and the sky is quietly unmade in front of only our eyes. When there is no one left to know our names, all winds cease and fires can no longer burn. When the sun rises in an infinite western front with a secret smile and a gift, we will observe lights first childlike laughter as it races across the slowly rocking cradle of a newborn eternity, selflessly the eaters of bad dreams and heartfelt goodbyes. The shadow death of what could have been but never was loomed over as I stood by the stair in this long broken house
and watched our sorrows murmuration into the blinking abyss
From the windows of our soul
as a new ache crossed over my heart.
Languor has its cost
And it is beautiful
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
Only two weeks ago it was quiet,
apart from the owls at night.
But now the song thrush has started
his merry, desperate tune,
and a murmuration of starlings
daily pervades the sky.
By day, falls of lambs
spring on grassy banks,
their mothers staring back
at the farmer's straining dog.
At a shout from his master,
he hits the floor,
his wagging tail halts,
pricked ears fall,
but his eyes remain fixed
on the now fleeing flock.
Thistles have clambered out of the ground,
buzzards drift high above.
Now a screeching pheasant takes flight,
my spaniel's footsteps are like
a skimmed stone on the brook -
he tries turning it into a runway.
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 7:25 AM UTC
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind
There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor
There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind
By Phil Roberts
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 11:34 AM UTC
There's a quiet murmuration
Of figments of my imagination
Dreams and broken notions
Feelings and emotions
Swirling and rearranging
Into ever-changing shapes in my mind
There are absent gods and howling dogs
And the broken backs of the poor
While jugglers perform tricks with wealth
As nobody seems to care anymore
Amidst marching boots as children shoot
And hope lies dead on the floor
There seems to be a ghost somewhere
Wandering high in purple mountains
And low in deep green valleys
And this roaming soul may well be
A kind of long lost truth
Inside my hidden mind
By Phil Roberts
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 4:03 AM UTC
She paints the walls
creating a clean canvas for her thoughts.
Words slip through her mind
she reaches, they elude her
Her train of thought is gone
Left with nothing but the feeling
of something dear, now lost.
She waits...
for the words to flock again.
Flooding her mind like a murmuration
crowding to overflow her pen
and spill onto the paper.
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 12:57 PM UTC
by saying the familiar
such as
here I am, Lord
we take comfort
in the suggestion
of return-
I so believe
and utter
here I am, Lord
but do not recall
the leave taking
my good Lord
provides
but instead
remember
being very still
for a very long time
a building went up
around me
I was very plain
for a very long time
and weighed
on the building
like an elevator
might
if broken
and in this manner
of being still and plain
I was called
to paraphrase
a certain
fey opacity
that went
I know
too far
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
so well choreographed the performance
spectacular shapes they perfectly make
soaring up then dipping down this sky dance
synchronized on a collective feather's take
outstanding describes every single formation
orchestrated with an amazing flight's wing
over the countryside you'll see the murmuration
on staying together it repels a falcon's ping
utilizing the waving motion's code of sway
unbalancing any hungry prey by such skill
utmost this inventive pattern's display
undulations devised in an expert drill
the ballet on high is ever so terrific
trooped starlings cleverly will bluff
they'll outsmart predators prolific
trancing them with adept birdie stuff
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:42 PM UTC
'Neath Nimbus Dark
Eerie sings
Nature's Acrobats
Million wings
Splendour reigns
Cascades crash
Aeriel Ballet
Swooping splash
Mesmerising movement
Semaphore Correlation
Phenomenon splendid
Starling Murmuration
thank you
Apr 27, 2017
Apr 27, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
Don’t confuse the hypnotic
hum of highway traffic
with the anesthetic lull
of your dreams deflating.
Don’t confuse the murmuration
of small black flies above the bowl
of rotting fruit with the devastation
you feel in the hard pit of your soul.
Don’t confuse the blinding eyes
of white vapor streetlights
with the coruscating promise
of an unmolested path home.
Don’t confuse the empty auto lot
at the edge of town with an orchard:
tonight the gravel of crushed bones
blossoms in a shower of moonlight,
the interminable hush of a hard rain.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 5:02 PM UTC
Coiled, grey March –snow patches slow to disperse on the townscape -
trying to turn the year.
A grey plume drifts through the low sky, like smoke but not smoke,
slow to disperse
reforming and palping like a long streak of foam on the sea; a grubby bag
turning, plastic and drifting
dividing in the sky: a shifting exclamation mark pulls out of shape
turns pale to vanishing, is gone.
A sound like pages riffling, like a thousand paper fans rustling, a darkening in the air
turning in the low light all together
wheeling , breaking, re-combining, stretching again. Sky geometry.
Still that dry whisper-clustering
of many wings holding close formation, turning and swooping together.
The cloud is back, is gone, is back again – endlessly
The grey light feels unnaturally late
above the Eagle Rec
starlings are moulding shapes, most beautiful murmuration.
The complex maths of defence – stay close, stay close –
turn, wheel, stay close.
Against the pale dusk the moment stretches beyond bearing,
that high, remote plasticity floats on as the light hesitates
dragging out the turn towards darkness.
The hawk must be near, striking into the crowd -
spin, turn on a wing-tip, wheel close, divide and turn: with luck
she will take your neighbour.
The black bunched crowd drops as one, to roost, to rest.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
On my way to the attic,
each step creaks
protesting.
I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the landing
and turn.
You sit there
on top of a stack of boxes
easy-access
composed, legs swinging
insouciantly
I brush off the light
layer of dust,
open you up to the dark room
and take out a golden trophy.
After reminiscing, I return it.
You put your clothes back on;
I fold you shut and walk away.
You don’t bother taping your seams
you never did.
What we do isn’t pretty.
We aren’t two starlings
in our own murmuration;
we are a ****** of crows.
Our dance is getting away with felonies.
Take it from a jail bird
a trophy is no occupation.
You watched as I was polished and shelved,
captive after a year
of looking for a champion.
She had me cast
at the start of that long year
well before she clinched her title.
I was touted around, then passed on.
She never dusts me off, dear.
That is why I smudge your sheen
I have no shimmer left myself.
That is why you stay
you seek the heft
of my cast-iron company,
the weight we have borne
six years without touch
sixty ****** crime dramas
six hundred batches of half-baked cookies
six thousand nights in.
You are my memorabilia.
I just don’t want your dust to settle as mine has.
I want you to dance, gilded, on the sky.
On my way to the basement,
each step squeaks
inviting.
I’ve worn this path smooth.
I reach the foot.
Brothers greet, glasses clink,
plumes build, couches sink.
The ceiling dances with golden trophies
all with your composure
gleaming
legs swinging.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
a murmuration of starlings
shivers over an empty parking lot
blue sky emerges from the gloom
and then disappears again
indifferent to my approach, a stray cat
yawns and blinks its copper eyes
grackles gather on the powerlines
in the middle of the day
weeks early, autumn winds
chase leaves down the sidewalks
anxious about the fate of the nation
I search for signs and portents
a wave crests and then is gone
I comfort myself by remembering
that it has always been so
Tom Spencer © 2018
Nov 21, 2018
Nov 21, 2018 at 7:05 AM UTC
familiar this bubble of emptiness
comfortable as a womb
pain plays hide and seek
my hands are free to write
this hybrid creature that is me
fantasy and reality share a reciprocity
I am metabolized by my dreams and so I become
the aperture of the heart open as ever
to catch the murmuration of silence
of longing and forgetting
circles inside echoes inside circles
we didn't invent love
love invented us
Sep 5, 2023
Sep 5, 2023 at 3:14 PM UTC