"nestlings" poems
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.
Logan Robertson
7/25/2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
#
*Through the withered branches
where the verdant leaves once grew,
I stared up at the old oak tree
against a sky of blue.
The branches stretched to heaven
as a supplicant might do.
It seemed to pray, as if to say,
"My time at last is through."
I wondered at the gnarly trunk
and limbs of twisted wood
And for a moment thought of life
and almost understood.
Life and death go hand in hand.
Our time is our's to spend.
But like the tree against the gale,
‘tis better if we bend.
I'll pay it forward when I can.
Thy brothers' keeper be.
I'll keep the roots well watered
and learn the lessons of the tree.
It shares the world with nestlings
and it's acorns oft abound,
To feed the hungry denizens
that glean them from the ground.
It's leaves give shade to those below.
It's branches form a gym.
Children climb to see the world
and love this gift to them.
And as I watched, the farmer
came and laid the old husk low.
Firewood now, would be it's fate
and make the chimney glow.
Ashes unto ashes and to dust
we must return.
All of life in cycle goes
and from this I hope to learn:
This gift of life to all below,
all creatures great and small,
Is just a stop upon the trip
we travel, one and all.*
#
Apr 22, 2018
Apr 22, 2018 at 9:04 AM UTC
Frost-locked all the winter,
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
What shall make their sap ascend
That they may put forth shoots?
Tips of tender green,
Leaf, or blade, or sheath;
Telling of the hidden life
That breaks forth underneath,
Life nursed in its grave by Death.
Blows the thaw-wind pleasantly,
Drips the soaking rain,
By fits looks down the waking sun:
Young grass springs on the plain;
Young leaves clothe early hedgerow trees;
Seeds, and roots, and stones of fruits,
Swollen with sap, put forth their shoots;
Curled-headed ferns sprout in the lane;
Birds sing and pair again.
There is no time like Spring,
When life's alive in everything,
Before new nestlings sing,
Before cleft swallows speed their journey back
Along the trackless track,--
God guides their wing,
He spreads their table that they nothing lack,--
Before the daisy grows a common flower,
Before the sun has power
To scorch the world up in his noontide hour.
There is no time like Spring,
Like Spring that passes by;
There is no life like Spring-life born to die,--
Piercing the sod,
Clothing the uncouth clod,
Hatched in the nest,
Fledged on the windy bough,
Strong on the wing:
There is no time like Spring that passes by,
Now newly born, and now
Hastening to die.
14.6k
What can lambkins do
All the keen night through?
Nestle by their woolly mother,
The careful ewe.
What can nestlings do
In the nightly dew?
Sleep beneath their mother's wing
Till day breaks anew.
If in field or tree
There might only be
Such a warm soft sleeping-place
Found for me!
8.5k
Merrily swinging on briar and ****
Near to the nest of his little dame,
Over the mountain-side or mead,
Robert of Lincoln is telling his name.
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Snug and safe is that nest of ours,
Hidden among the summer flowers.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed,
Wearing a bright, black wedding-coat;
White are his shoulders, and white his crest,
Hear him call in his merry note,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Look what a nice, new coat is mine;
Sure there was never a bird so fine.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife,
Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings,
Passing at home a patient life,
Broods in the grass while her husband sings:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Brood, kind creature, you need not fear
Thieves and robbers while I am here.
Chee, chee, chee.
Modest and shy as a nun is she;
One weak chirp is her only note;
Braggart, and prince of braggarts is he,
Pouring boasts from his little throat,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Never was I afraid of man,
Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can.
Chee, chee, chee.
Six white eggs on a bed of hay,
Flecked with purple, a pretty sight:
There as the mother sits all day,
Robert is singing with all his might,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nice good wife, that never goes out,
Keeping house while I frolic about.
Chee, chee, chee.
Soon as the little ones chip the shell,
Six wide mouths are open for food;
Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well,
Gathering seeds for the hungry brood:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
This new life is likely to be
Hard for a gay young fellow like me.
Chee, chee, chee.
Robert of Lincoln at length is made
Sober with work, and silent with care,
Off is his holiday garment laid,
Half forgotten that merry air:
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
Nobody knows but my mate and I,
Where our nest and our nestlings lie,
Chee, chee, chee.
Summer wanes; the children are grown;
Fun and frolic no more he knows,
Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum drone;
Off he flies, and we sing as he goes,
Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link,
Spink, spank, spink,
When you can pipe that merry old strain,
Robert of Lincoln, come back again.
Chee, chee, chee.
4k
Coral leaflets sway through my attention, singing with the wind's path. Lemon accents separate as sting rays of warmth and light swim toward the earth. 88 degrees tickle my skin as small beads begin to perch upon my brow, patiently, until they join the body of crisp bits between myself and the trees around. Or it may simply evaporate into the embrace of Autumn.
Above, black veins creep through the lemon and coral maze, snuggly holding onto their nestlings, ready at any moment to let them fly.
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
When showers betumble the chestnut spikes,
And nestlings fly;
And the little brown nightingale bills his best,
And they sit outside at ‘The Traveller’s Rest,’
And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest,
And citizens dream of the south and west,
And so do I.
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe,
And meadow rivulets overflow,
And drops on gate bars hang in a row,
And rooks in families homeward go,
And so do I.
2.3k
Across the sky is a blaze of scintillating gold
When the dawn quietly begins to unfold
Each morn is a fresh wonder
As the night willfully bows down to surrender
Every minute is a novel creation
With scenes and sights of great sensation
With every passing hour, new vistas unfold
Bringing insights varied and visions manifold
The blades of grass glow in sparkling dew
As the sun makes his customary march anew
Over the expanse of the brightening sky
Feathered folks to different directions fly
Here and there is many a plant in bloom
That dispels all clouds of graying gloom
Bees hum round opening flowers
Squirrels come out from their hidden covers
The gust of breeze that blows over
Brings scents so sweet in the morning air
The mountains that tower so high
In grandeur seem to touch the sky
The cuckoo and the magpie sing in joy
Their nestlings have nothing to annoy
The cascading falls sound the stringed trumpet
Running down from the mount’s heady summit
As Nature thus pipes a thousand songs
In capturing sounds and melodious tunes
In my heart is born a heavenly melody
That I shall pour out in euphonious rhapsody
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 10:41 PM UTC
Because my mom once said,
Life is a journey
And it won’t be that sturdy.
Crawl like a creeper
Or dance like a tapper,
It would let you decide
But still will push you over the tide.
There will be a day
It will hold you back,
Fight the tears
Dread the day
There is a light in you
Don’t see others fly away,
You are there to fight the grey.
Those who’ll go out of your sight
Could not make your home bright,
Don’t count on people
They are not for you,
Look up to those stars
That’s where you can hide your scars.
There will be days
When all you’ll sense would be darkness,
Don’t forget to look through it
Colors will be waiting
To fill your emptiness.
Feel the breeze
Open your arms,
Drink the rain,
Love the wind,
Let the smell of the flowers
Cover you,
Let the music of the birds
Be your language,
All you will learn is to smile
Because all days won’t be alike.
Because my mom once said,
Promises are like rivers
They don’t have any shape,
They begin from an end
And those ends seldom meet.
Don’t wait for any soul
Winds are born to be blown,
What they take
And what they leave
Is another story
Little told and so untold.
There will be days
When you’ll get tired
You’ll crave for love
You’ll wait for someone to hold you,
Breathe and begin again
Because some cries go in vain.
It won’t warn you before the fire
Not even when you will be half burnt.
It won’t collect the ashes
But that end
It will go in your name.
Because my mom once said,
Life is like a game.
You’ll never win
But you won’t mind losing in the end,
This loss would bear what you are
Like a mirror to your sabotage.
It won’t flow with happiness
You’ll be the struggler
And you’ll have to be the believer.
Because those who don’t believe
Throughout they bleed.
Even when you don’t find the reasons
Remember, autumn is also a season.
Beauty is not in fulfillment
It’s in half said quotes
Musical notes
Unsung melodies
Quite soliloquies.
Happiness is not in the balloon that flies high
It’s in the wings of those nestlings
Who so adamantly try,
It is not in victories
But joyful histories
Curious mysteries
Unexplained madness
Self created sadness.
Because my mom once said
This life is your creation
A battle without destination.
Catch all the butterflies
Live all your cries
Rise like someone will catch you,
Fall like someone will push you.
Because one day you’ll start this journey
All over again
Not because this won’t be enough
Enough is never the word
It’s always more and even more
But because you’ll once again become my sword
And I’ll not hold you ever
I’ll let you sway.
Because my mom once said,
I am born the brightest sunray
Life is just a child’s play.
-Prachi Bhardwaj
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
I sat beneath a silver maple split
in two, yet still growing.
Dead leaves and nestlings
chirping like quick fire sirens
settled in the vein-like branches
above. The maple's cracked
canyon bark was dotted
with yellow lichens like distant
city lights.
May 5, 2014
May 5, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
I hear the Autumn singing, the varied carols I hear.
Those of nature, each one singing its own as it should be
mellow and simple.
The breeze singing his euphonious tunes as he
howls or sighs.
The trees singing as they make ready for their
deep slumber, or leave off to welcome winter.
The birds quietly singing what belongs to them in their nests,
the nestlings singing from their eggshells.
The people singing as they smile or hum across the street, their footsteps sing as the dry leaves crackle.
The flower's song, her petals on their way to the ground,
shriveling to bid farewell for now.
Mother nature singing changes, of the seasons at its due time.
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else.
The colors tell what belongs to the earth
---at September the Autumn
of the Equinox.
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
the cicada's have begun to emerge
after seventeen long years as a dormant miner
they arise, pushing through seveteen years of dust
and compounded muclch, breaking out into a brave new world
and for seventy two hours, if they are lucky
they seek to mate, to consumate to extend their species
some become garish decorations on truck windscreens
some become exhibits in a small boys jam jar zoo
some become waylaid and sing their cacophonial opus
on barren concrete patio's
some become Sunday dinners to peckish nestlings
some succeed gloriously, then die happy
some don't...succeed...and die wondering
but apparently seventeen years ago...
a lot succeded...
if the booming base opera being performed
is a gauge of the primeval drive of the cicada
it is summer eve in the burbs
and the living is..... noisy....
Nov 21, 2016
Nov 21, 2016 at 8:22 AM UTC
*creepy night river awake like a fever
as fireflies glow in furtive morse code
the eerie evening commands silence
in the hollow empty spaces yielded
in sonorous silences by a yawning dearth
of everything that's sacred, pure and sweet
once there was raw laughter and joy here
and weavers wove rich tales of fat worms
for their pampered nestlings afloat on air
once there was life and presence here
but now small spaces abound in this vast absence
of sunshine smiles and catwalk swinging
now it's plovers, owls and night jars galore
as their apocalyptic cries smite the night
like a plague in New Canaan where glory
is never too far away from the surface gloss
of a loveliness kidnapped by the salacious gods
of lewd desires and morbid libidos alive in tales
that are forever testifying to the loud presence
of envious divinities on a free ride upon our egos
everything is gone now but the thunderous silence
and the smiles that lit up our days are now but a memory
of wan looks and faded joys clad in the hollow feelings of pain
and that's all that ever remains when our futile antics are done*
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
hollow whirr of swift wings returning to clamorous nestlings' chitter
Apr 20, 2012
Apr 20, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
The day gets dark,
Thunderous monsters chants the arrival;
The gust forces you to hide.
Soon the nature starts crying with relief.
Cracked Earth celebrates giving a soothing fragrance,
The green angles starts dancing;
The peasants smiles at the heaven.
Nestlings starts wandering with their paper boats,
While the feathered friends rushes to their nest;
The droplets falling on the pond wakes up to dance on the surface.
Frogs wakes from eternal sleep,
Little mushrooms sprouts in the logs.
The heaven showers the blessing on the Earth.
Let the rain drain away your sorrows,
Stretch your arms and feel it right on your brow.
Blessed are we to glimpse this nature's euphoria!
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
Call her the child that joyfully hid in the box .. A young lady whom did speak freely without reservation , expressing herself with song on a medium of heartbreak and denial .. Whispered melodies , in constant improvisation , imagination eventually retained , naive thoughts sadly sequestered ....
Love .. Nestlings high atop a Willow tree , expecting to fly , all that is good in the world crashing around you as you die .. The sunbeam bringing the rainbow to life , a new Moon seeking audience on a cold black night ...
Nov 21, 2015
Nov 21, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
Twig by twig,
living a hollow,
dreaming a nest for the nestlings...
Chirpy screeching voices,
like lullaby to her ears
Awakening her sole purpose
A mother as well as a father figure
To protect
Nothing is too much
She'd feed herself to the tiger if she must
...
Breaking of a new dawn
another day to break
Until her nestlings can leave her nest
But never...
ever...
even so...
They are her own little royals,
forever ...
the only rulers of her life...
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 7:30 PM UTC
Excuse me Mr. Robin , pardon my interruption , I was wondering with you being so busy if Winter had finally run it's course ? If you had met your Spring lover , working the ground cover for twigs and little what -nots , building a sturdy home for nestlings to hatch and grow in the coming months ?
Mr. Bluebird was far too busy to entertain any such questions , his blushing bride was tweeting directions , every little leaf had to be just so , working studiously on a birdhouse we built the year before ..
Mr. Robin .. If your too connected with work I totally understand , I'll be on the porch enjoying the weather with visions of April in my head ! If you should find yourself in a quandary don't hesitate to come calling ,
knock three times and wait a few seconds so I won't confuse you with
my old buddy the Woodpecker !!
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
My passion ignites
As I read their thought's
Deep in contemplation
Their hearts get tossed
So unaware of their special gift's
And so here I must insist
The nest is high, the fall is far
But your not a nestlings
Your are a rising star
Dear young prodigies
Life is how it ought to be....
Humane stains
Droplets of pain
Mixed in a bucket
Of why oh why's
Post cognition
Hidden behind
Fresh wings
Write it and post it
It's time for you to fly.....
My comments aren't advice
I only say , hay
Roll those dice!
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC
Because Her Heart Is Tender
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth, on the first anniversary of 9-11
She scrawled soft words in soap: “Never Forget”
dove-white on her car’s window (though the wren,
because its heart is tender, might regret
it called the sun to wake her). As I slept,
she heard lost names recounted, one by one.
She wrote in sidewalk chalk: “Never Forget”
and kept her heart’s own counsel. No rain swept
away those words, no tear leaves them undone.
Because her heart is tender with regret,
bruised by razed towers’ glass and steel and stone
that shatter on and on and on and on ...
she stitches in damp linen: “NEVER FORGET”
and listens to her heart’s emphatic song.
(The wren might tilt its head and sing along
because its heart once understood regret
when nestlings fell beyond, beyond, beyond ...
love's reach, and still the boot-heeled world strode on.)
She writes in adamant: “NEVER FORGET!”
because her heart is tender with regret.
Published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Villanelle, The Eclectic Muse, Nietzsche Twilight, Nutty Stories (South Africa), Poetry Renewal Magazine, and Other Voices International. Keywords/Tags: villanelle, 911, terror, terrorism, never, forget, heart, tender, regret, heroism, patriotism, courage, sacrifice
Mar 21, 2020
Mar 21, 2020 at 11:45 PM UTC
Fragile passerine
Singing songs, expressing art
Seems you want to tell the world,
everything you saw up there.
Letting nestlings know
Mama is on her way.
Selflessness of love’s defense.
Shell ✨🐚
Jul 9, 2023
Jul 9, 2023 at 10:52 AM UTC
In the cold northeastern flow , silvery gusty moments persuade brown waters , Pines stand tall in her reflection .. Cirrus whips and windsongs
filter through earnest thicket , delivering free voices ... March's airborne delivery divides morning tidings , in question of the young day ..
She hides from something yet unknown , her topwater lying tepid and unsure , shorebirds fly low across the waters tension and temptation , red songbirds answer from each shoreline , belated zephyrs swirl in temporary confusion ..
I vision the writer , feel the cool struggle of verse upon the empty page ,
where solutions lie to many an inquiry , thought turns to Oak leaves
sailing the ever evolving lake , to the brief intense sun showers that garble the poets stage ....
Chortling , avian neighbors delivering previously unheard melody , turtles vying for the crest of exposed Oak branches , godspeed the call of warm weather nestlings , the playful fawn , the taste of May ..Greens , clusters of dead Pine cloaked in tall broom sage , life slowly returning to zero ..
Sparrow , Finch and Wren escort me home as I view rolling hillsides amid the cracking of elder giants along the sandy field road...
A witness to change , to eroding wind and the cataclysm of time , to mud puddles brimming with life .. Sing for the day sweet Cardinal , for blue ceiling influences among amber hues and gray scenes , color my beautiful vision with vibrant , native grasses and natural serenity ...
Mar 7, 2016
Mar 7, 2016 at 2:00 PM UTC
I hate how words die in me and other days they fly in me.
Wings flapping against my heart,
Trying to flutter out of my mouth
as they take off from my tongue.
Right now, there is just an empty room
With feathers on the floor
and nests waiting for eggs to hatch.
What do I do to get it all back?
Where do I find the warmth for these eggs
and how do I nourish the nestlings long enough
to teach them to fly
like I did once before?
Sep 25, 2016
Sep 25, 2016 at 9:14 AM UTC
For every creek stone that contains the rushing waters , every unique tree dotting the forest , a drop of morning dew reflecting the morning Sun , the changing colors of the canopy high above ..
The glow in ones heart as the soul is touched , a familiar hand on the shoulder can mean so much ..
Gardenias that captivate the senses in the Summer breeze , the morning fog that obscures mountain scenery , the call of nestlings in a Cottonwood Tree , the endless foraging of a Carpenter Bee ..
A mind secured in the glow of meditation , a place in your heart for all mankind , the blessings of divination for all creatures , the heartfelt song of liberty performed for every nation ..
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 8:14 AM UTC
White Pine boxes painted blue and red
A brand new home for a Carolina Wren
Lodging paid in song , harmony and
wonderful nestlings ..
Adorable , mirthful Wrens , make this
house your own forever ..
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 11:44 PM UTC