"nighthawk" poems
I do not see the hills around,
Nor mark the tints the copses wear;
I do not note the grassy ground
And constellated daisies there.
I hear not the contralto note
Of cuckoos hid on either hand,
The whirr that shakes the nighthawk’s throat
When eve’s brown awning hoods the land.
Some say each songster, tree and mead—
All eloquent of love divine—
Receives their constant careful heed:
Such keen appraisement is not mine.
The tones around me that I hear,
The aspects, meanings, shapes I see,
Are those far back ones missed when near,
And now perceived too late by me!
2.1k
Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.
But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,
Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.
Death is but void and will lead me to become a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?
I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?
For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.
Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.
Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,
I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask, where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******** who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE? WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 11:18 AM UTC
This cool forgiving breath,
This wondrous night.
As blue eyes flash,
And bats take flight.
This cool wet ground,
Beneath my toes.
This fleeting call,
And up you rose.
Warmth of your smile,
And of your kiss.
Makes me thankful,
We have all this.
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 2:43 PM UTC
Predators eyes
Wings out spread
Softly brush
The air
Waring screech
Colder air
Two distinctive
Strips of white
Nighthawk
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 7:02 PM UTC
Between the songs of the Nighthawk
and the Mourning Dove
the sound of apples beneath us
and sirens rushing between
life and death,
we lay together in the darkness
like two blind people reading love poetry.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC
Uneven I fly
In the dead of night
Zig zagging towards the moon
Then I disappear
Until you catch my eye
And zoom into hysterical silence
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
Barred Owl , Nighthawk ambient harmony ..The crash of Shellcracker
over smoky waters , the footsteps of Gray Fox and Blue Heron
audible along the shallows .. Wind swept expressions carry through statued marsh , Tree frogs , Katydids and Cicadas fill the young nightfall with varied chantey as white stars cross the impeccable , woodland firmament ..
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:51 PM UTC
The saffron glow of the great north sky,
The old grey wolf and his haunting cry,
The aspen, hemlock, the spruce and pine,
Cool winds that savour of sweet red wine
The raven, the eagle, the heron and hawk,
Soft green valleys and smooth white rock,
Eternal mountains, afire in the sun,
Don’t let me live by the sword and gun
The evening call of the lonely loon,
He adds his song to the owl’s sad tune,
Oh take me back to my green thorn tree,
Back to my earth just to live with thee.
Back to the rivers, the hills, the deer,
Surrender my knife, surrender my spear,
To walk once more in the cold white snow,
Living and learning and trying to grow.
Here in the mud, the blood, and the spew,
BAttle grounds silently mantled in dew,
Where lonely vigil of velvet night,
Reveals its sadness in dawn’s pale light.
Away from the terror, the death and the pain,
The sick, the wounded, the graves of the slain,
Oh how I long for my own dear shore
Beseeching the face of the one I adore
The honeysuckle, the hum of the bee
The trout, the pheasant, the Kokanee
The scream of the gull, and the nighthawk’s cry
Holy Creator, don’t let me die
But Lord, should I stumble in battle and fall
Hang my helmet in Heaven’s great hall,
And lay me quiet neath the Green thorn tree,
Caressed by the earth that once bore me.
The safron glow of the Great North Sky,
The old grey wolf and his haunting cry,
The aspen, hemlock, the spruce and pine,
Cool winds that savour of sweet red wine.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
This morning nighthawk's in a zooming mood -
no bat-flap flutterings or squawking calls;
maybe Miss Luna with her huge balloon
calling harvest home, promises of fall.
His corporal stripe across each slender wing,
slim body more like arrow than like jet,
a final search for fuel before going
to Mexico, Peru, or further yet.
And for the fall I too, hopeful, prepare,
but cleaning out rather than storing up.
A surplus almost caught me unaware,
weighed down by money, memories, and stuff.
As slender as a nighthawk I might fly,
and carry only peace into the sky.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
A line as slow
and undulating as the Tongue
marks the horizon. Last summer's
fireline shadows the jaw
of the sandstone ridge.
Broken shards of hand-napped
tools litter the path. Sun drops,
and bison-dust rises
across the plain. One crystal tear
slides down the cheek of sky.
Nighthawk shrieks, and diving,
takes his prey. The Tongue laps
far below, ripples over pebbles
a song to soothe water monsters
who take us after dark.
May 6, 2018
May 6, 2018 at 1:22 AM UTC
Once upon a time
these many years ago
I never dreamed
I would be the one
The face in broken
mirrors with the ****
A lone voice whispering
A call out in artic ice
The nighthawk's spirit
Dive and flash
Over and over
again and again
In darkness sure
swift and enveloping
I guess you never know
No , remains the mystery
Hush ! I'm listening
Waiting on the voice
Can you hear it ?
The Midnight's Voice ?
(Sigh)
It's been so long
so very long .
Jan 19, 2021
Jan 19, 2021 at 10:58 PM UTC
What will it be?
the nighthawk and cruising
all for the choosing.
I take a pinch of *****
so much nicer than smoking,
that kind of stubborn reasoning
brings me to what will it be.
My life would appear incomplete
if I didn't come back to where it began
and here I compete with the devil and his hordes.
I dream of platform five
and
of staying alive.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC