"osprey" poems
(Inspired by and dedicated to John Edward Smallshaw, and his "Spice")
I am a summer-man,
Because I'm blessed to sit by the sea.
Let it and the other two Musketeers,
boon companions to me,
Sun and Wind,
erase my discomposure as I
reside in the Poet's Nookery.
Let them have almost
all that troubles,
but not all.
I am a summer-man.
On the bay, on the beach,
I see birth, I see death,
osprey nests, carcasses of
mussels and horseshoe *****
This, somehow reassuring,
the cycles,
this circularity,
the tides and inevitability.
I am a summer-man.
Student of languages seasonal,
Peaches, plums, cherries, poetry
and loving Woman.^
This, the summer alphabet-soup
of my multiple tongues.
I am a summer-man.
Sancerre and Pinot Gris, super cold,
Paul Simon, Nina Simone,
with proper aging,
getting hotter,
Salsa and Afrikaner hints,
super louder,
Even "Still Crazy After All These Years,"
that-who-wud-be-me,
chills outer.^^
I am a summer-man.
When ever this lad's writes appear,
it proves once again,
there is no truth that his
name was once Dr. Seuss
In a prior life, even if
each is signed by
Ogdiddy Nash**
I am a summer-man.
**Disrespectful of the calendar,
if I can, try to make
summer season stretch-marks from
May to October.
I would add April,
but the IRS is already
****** at me.^^^
Though the cherry blossoms of May
now gone away,
the lilies of June
arrive, but but for a week or two,
soon, like my mom, withered away.
Acorns in August^^^^ have arrived too swiftly.**
This summer, beloved,
and love of summer,
deep-rooted.
Season of my Peter Pan Poetry Galore Festival.
A love, incapable, impossible, of ever
growing old, ever growing cold,
it cannot wither.
It is summer heat reminders exposed,
how it misses its man,
that hide in the flames of
the teasing, popping, reminding
Winter fireplace's crackling popping***
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 9:33 AM UTC
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal
I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy
some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats
so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name
watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe
and here is where man comes in...
as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...
strange...
my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals
and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:
*I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation
let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...*
June 2014
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:56 AM UTC
Note the time
by seasonal migration
return of osprey, eagle
each feathered pearl
a moment strung
on the banded necks
of brants and loons
velvet-lined memories
gathered within
my threatened
wild spaces
raindrops find
their way home
watch them bead
on the backs
of sitting ducks
serenely surfing
sibilant waves
silkily filling
oceans within
my tumultuous
wild heart
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 10:11 AM UTC
remember the last great
unpredictable summer
deluded by codeine and cigarettes
pulled by lunar cycles toward reproduction practice
interconnected over coral reefs
before real estate won the forest
we slept untouched on the beach
encouraged by chemical overuse
with our hair tied together in knots
and seagulls flocked on long leafy wings
their beaks pointed out passed the big rubber sun
and i struck your vein with a needle
and you struck my strange heart like a runaway slave
you danced naked in the florida sun
and i stood behind you on tall stalky legs
laughing, getting high like an osprey
sweating into a shrine, wringing out my heart
on the banks of that lazy river in my hometown
when the sun went down we chased each other
through the thready umbrella of vines and pine roots
under the old abandoned bridge
a mile long
Aug 14, 2013
Aug 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
I spied it first from my upper deck,
a huge nest of driftwood, tree limbs and seaweed.
Each summer watching the male do his sky dance
while spotting prey underwater
from 30 meters above Hells Gap Marsh.
His wings constructed in a manner
that allows him to bend and shield
his eyes from the sun as he lands.
The first thing I would look for
after each hurricane took another bite
out of our coastline.
And after six succeeding hurricanes
the nest still strong in the top of the old tree, though
empty in the cold months as the Osprey winters south.
Several generations of young I've watched grow
through summers in my time here.
For two full years now the nest has stood empty.
Mates for life have parted.
No more young learning to hunt the fish.
Standing as a metaphor
for my own
soon to be empty nest.
A reality, not just a
syndrome.
r ~ 30Jan14
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC
Swimming through deep water
Heading for the Holt?
Stop and pause to pray or prey?
Opportunistic?
Jean van jean?
In the forest there are no sanctions
Just life and death and hibernation
In the urban forest
The place we call the office
Or the Learning Zone
There is so much more risk
Classes clash; personalities clash;
Priorities clash; authorities clash!
The mob rules
The bullies rule
The demands/needs of the customer; the consumer; the learner
All must be met
Where am I in the urban forest
A tree shrew
A thorny owl
A wild Ottter
Or an Osprey with a mountain view
Soaring high above the issues of the urban forest
Far travelled wild Osprey
I yearn to be yew
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
Old stones weep in the rain
their darkling gaze unblinking
Glowering with ancient pain
of distant glories thinking
Preening Lords arrogant in imagined might
would quail could they perceive
The majesty of osprey flight
True rulers still of Threave
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 6:34 AM UTC
In foreign land of towering pines
And hammocks, mangrove-torn
A dark-filled night reluctantly
Bequeaths a pale dawn
Upon one battered cypress perched,
Amidst the morning haze,
Bright eyes stare out from part-cocked head
With piscicultural gaze.
Intently focussed on the brook,
That glides beneath the tree
Alive to every shadow’s sound
Yet never truly free.
For choicelessly these eyes are drawn,
As waters break below
And like a flash a head snaps back
And rippled muscles flow.
Within the slightest moment’s breath,
Two mighty wings released,
Two claws full-stretched, two legs reach out
The sinews, strained, unleashed.
The beaten air the only sound,
As time itself stands still
And, tracer-like, on charted course
The osprey meets its ****
With consummate and practiced ease
The painless end begins
The single deadly blow is dealt
As sharpened claws sink in.
Then up away into the dawn
And time resumes its course
Two final beats – then disappeared
Is this magnetic force.
The cypress perch and well-filled brook
As silent witness stay
And as they settle – calm again
The sun declares the day.
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Silver Beach: Always the Sole First
familiar white fishing boat, up with early light,
seeking sustenance and pleasure in = measure,
anchored ‘bout quarter mile east of my under-the-coverlet,
(of course! as the crow, raven or scavenging osprey flies),
it’s precise location amazingly exact, but alas, soon daily
familiarity breeds no secrecy, and now joined by a
farther out, smaller version, a compatriot in spotitude,
of the best spots for harvesting the early running
brackish bay water favorites, striped or black sea bass
what persistent fortitude these fisher-peoples display,
early to rise, first to depart, when others crowd its “spot,”
(amazed by its knowing precision the exactitude of “spot”)
this ship, always the sole-first, invokes a first poem of the day,
always a soul-first, an unburdening of deepest gratitude that
one more day granted me to imbibe this vista, awake to its
soothing silent heavenly serenity, absent machine or
electronic interference with my delicate sleepy wakefulness,
when newly minted words come into my mind, my
secret spot
Sat AM June 3
Jun 3, 2023
Jun 3, 2023 at 8:46 AM UTC
The coastal shoals are your dominion.
No salmon, or smelt, nor bottom flounder
Had ever left the sea until you struck,
You are wraith to the kelp beds dream.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 7:06 PM UTC
Osprey flood-pathed junctures
in the
middle
of Paradise.
Overexposed and diluted
by the
sounds
of the missing heartbeat
and the
loneliness
of the beakless egret
we all feel.
The expression of
the sunlit
reflective pool,
for the
paradise
we know and sense
and understand.
Not quite at the
end of
earth,
but almost.
While the ball
of fire
exposed and
diminished,
flourishes to the
very end., and
awakens on the beaches
of Casey Key,
toward the dusk of
the beautiful day
in paradise…
I smile
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 3:16 AM UTC
I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small
As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems
Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us
I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm
But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause
on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here
in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant
This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 12:31 AM UTC
i love to watch the osprey a lovely bird is he
i like to watch him hover when looking in the sea
searching for some food his very favourite dish
he just loves his diet a nice big juicy fish
he swoops down so swiftly to catch his favouite prey
hold it in his talons and gently flies away
takes it to nest to in the mountains high
i love to watch the osprey i love to watch him fly
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 11:58 AM UTC
She is from all directions
She is the North...
All of the wide open spaces
Crisp as the cold mountian air
She is the East...
Where the leaves fly with the wind
A warmth that surrounds you making you feel less alone
She is the South...
The sweet fragrance of the magnolia blossom
With the gracfulness of an osprey in flight
She is the West...
The smell of the ocean lingers on you
Where the sunset leaves you
speechless from it's untouchable beauty
He is a man for all seasons
He is the Winter...
The chill that hangs in the breath of the air
Frost's intricate design on a windowpane
He is the Spring...
The soft lullabies of the birds
Drops of water as you dance under the rain
He is the Summer...
A heat that burns to the touch
The longest of all days
He is the Autumn...
The sturdy tree that stands alone without his leaves
The chill that goes down your spine
when he's looking into your eyes
Complementing each other gracfully
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
watermelon rinds
and
osprey eyes
float down from a pink and blue sky
kiwi peels
and
albatross heels
surface around a pink and blue wheel
walk, run, turn, keel
the colors bleed and it's hard to see what's real
olive pits
and
garbage spit
chugging liquor in an attempt to feel
white washed
blank walls
seeing pink
seeing blue
coating the barriers down iris halls
watermelon rinds
and
osprey eyes
floating down from a pink and blue sky
*I look up and feel alive hoping these colors never run bleed or
dry*
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 1:03 PM UTC
i like to watch the osprey a lovely bird is he
his favorite food is fish he catches from the sea
swooping through the sky looking for his prey
then a quick swift dive and takes his fish away
he likes to build his nest from driftwood on the shore
mixes it with seaweed to give his nest a floor
such a lovely bird a predator so free
master of the sky and fisherman is he
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
I took to the shore my final day
my final few hours
the Sun was low and the breeze had a coolness
though it was blistering hot earlier
I was watching an osprey returning from the ocean
a sizeable fish in it's claws
the beach was sparse this late
I relaxed and enjoyed the sounds and sheer beauty
of the Outer Banks
from my left I heard a light gasp that startled me
as I hadn't noticed her approaching
she spotted a lettered olive
as the sea gently lapped the shore
it was rolling back towards the next wave
but she managed to grab it just in time
a look of delight crossed her face
glowing like the Sun itself
'Nice find
those are tough to come by in that condition' I said
'they are my favorite' she responded with a smile
her eyes sparkled blue and her auburn air
tied in a bobble hung far down her back
'nice to meet someone who still appreciates
the beauty of a sea shell'
I was hoping for a name but one didn't come
instead,
she sent a gaze that ignited not shivers
but an energy down my spine
'If only everyone knew the beauty that lives here
It's nice to meet another who sees as well'
I started to respond, but she turned and continued down the beach
her white kimono gently flowing with the ocean breeze
appeared to be from a time past
I turned my attention briefly to a group of pelicans
playing 'follow the leader' just above the waves
I could not let her go
I gathered enough courage to continue this chance meeting
but when I turned, she had disappeared
impossible
we are no less than 50 yards from the path off the beach
I just saw her less than 30 seconds...
I called out...but felt foolish
I tried to gather my thoughts
a light voice...or thought came as the breeze quieted
my name is Eve...
I walked the shoreline until it became too dark to stay
bewildered...I bid goodbye to the ocean and turned to leave
something caught my eye in the sand
amongst the thousands of shells on display
there lay a beautiful, perfect lettered olive
I will hold onto this one
Jun 7, 2022
Jun 7, 2022 at 7:32 PM UTC
The coastal shoals are your dominion.
No salmon, or smelt, nor bottom flounder
Had ever left the sea until you struck,
You are wraith to the kelp beds dream.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
the osprey flys overhead, but the baby rabbit trembles not
~for any grandparent-poet lurking about~
the osprey overflies, a regularity scheduled patrol over
our backyard emporium and all its hors d’oeuvre creatures,
***** has parental responsibilities, beaks to feed, PTA conferences,
the pilot, a wary watchful animal-his-rights guy, catalogues their still living existentialism, for though they are not fish, his diet of preference, but in a pinch a rodent or rabbit stew will do, if the fish are running too deep for no warming sun beckoning them to the surface.
Motel^ the baby rabbit, who lives with his parents,
(who doesn’t these days?) beneath the deck,
chews the clover overnight sprung, blissfully i g n o r a n t,
unawares or ignoring the poet be-laureating (him-her) but a mere
few feet above and away, pays no attention to the Poppy’s (grandfather) lecture about the rules of the animal kingdom,
who, eats whom, and to be more attentive to flying raptors.
thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon, severe say
the textured textual phone-netical all green messages, which
of course is a signal signal to the sun his job is done and can
leave the untanned poet in his state of original sin, soooo deliciously
white that he earns an appraising glance from eyes of the osprey,
a privilege he would happily tan away to promote equality ‘n stuff like peace on earth.
Motel, with his thermometer-humidity nasal instrumentation twitcher, decides, after chewing it over most carefully, time to go underneath where the white half naked people domicile, in order to avoid bathing, not his fav pastime, but making the osprey quitter le ciel, which is French for get out of Dodge, they got babies of their own to shelter and protect, even feed.
The Poppy, contented, thinks to himself, god couldn’t be everywhere,
so he invented grandpas to be “En Loco Parentis” which
Does Not Mean Instead of Crazy Parents,
but easily could,
for who else writes
poems like this?
Jul 5, 2020
Jul 5, 2020 at 1:08 PM UTC
The storm passes, winds once upliften have spent their embrace
and Nature calls anew to the ripening surges, budding grass once slumbered burst to life
while birds in willful glee dance the verge, whistling delight
to drink the freshened Air, our thundering night torn through the wastes
or swept swiftly along, kissed the Earth in glance of praise-
Our glad meeting, greeting and raucus entreating.
Here calls like clarion tones, like silver bells, attuned for an ascending climb
and scale of seeming or believing, less tightly held to vagrant wishing
but embraced in sight of sure horizons, traveling on like Osprey on the hunt
or Otter dove for the rivulet streams our minds intend, or hands direct-
a tinkling on the wire, vision, strength against the currents of our times
two matched in each, Above/Below...corresponding on.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
i like to watch the osprey a lovely bird is he
his favorite food is fish he catches from the sea
swooping through the sky looking for his prey
then a quick swift dive and takes his fish away
he likes to build his nest from driftwood on the shore
mixes it with seaweed to give his nest a floor
such a lovely bird a predator so free
master of the sky and fisherman is he
Feb 6, 2014
Feb 6, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
.
The coastal shoals are your dominion.
No salmon, or smelt, nor bottom flounder
Had ever left the sea until you struck,
You are wraith to the kelp beds dream.
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 1:54 PM UTC
What is it about these tired, melancholy streets
That has you all hidden in your little houses?
My feet tread one over another and yet the only
Sound is the echo of my footsteps. Where are the other bodies?
I see no lovers holding tightly, hands in hands and arms
Intertwined as if the cold wind could pull them apart.
I saw you peek from the beat up little house, I was
Enjoying a conversation with your father. Loud laughs resonate.
I saw you peering through the trails of cigarette smoke and
Tattered blankets which keep you hidden in the shack.
Those blankets, much like when I saw you. Tattered and
Not so sightly. Worn by age and smoke. Sickly and stained.
Alas, my dog runs up the field and there is not a soul in sight;
The osprey have left their perch on the cellular tower.
Where are your huddled little bodies, little town?
The winter has not reached its age to have created anxiety.
The anxiety that forces them from their homes
In an earnest search for the sun's warm rays.
Jan 3, 2013
Jan 3, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
It's ninety degrees in the shade back home
And September brings no relief I fear
From sweating and fretting, oh, no, let's go-
We'll be riding on the Rocky Mountaineer
Expecting the best, we heard the "All aboard!"
To the sound of bagpipes whining
Longing to see mountains, trees and streams
But it's for sighting of bears that I'm pining
The meals keep coming-no one stays hungry
With our hostess, Holliday, we haven't a care
By the end of the day we spied osprey, geese and ducks but
When pulling into Kamloops, no one had spotted a bear
A walkabout, then sleeping so deeply
Whisked back on board by our competent crew
I remembered my dream of a bear in a stream
With her cubs-how I wish it comes true
The Monashee Mountains are so peaceful
We spy snow-capped peaks from afar
The leaves on the trees changing gold and red
But rolling into Tumtum still no bear
Soon we crossed the Columbia River
Salmon tantalizing eagles for a bite
While passing through the town of Revelstoke
A family of bears-all plastic-came in sight
"Look out!" came a call from the front of the train
A signal to us who pulled up the rear
We "Red Line" passengers ready with cameras
A false alarm-no bear or moose is near
The Selkirk Mountains promise some glaciers
And Stonycreek Bridge is followed by lunch
The Kicking Horse River showed spirit it's true
But no bears will show up is my hunch
And so surely to see that elusive bear of my dreams
I'll just have to return come next year
Til then I will dream salmon-filled mountain streams
And the all-aboard call of the Rocky Mountaineer
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 12:54 PM UTC
I am an osprey.
Waves of hate roll off my wings.
When I am happy,
I like to sing.
I soar through life
as the queen of the sky.
There is no limit
to how high I may fly.
When I plunge down to earth
and dive into the sea,
the strength in my wings
again set me free.
May 25, 2023
May 25, 2023 at 4:34 PM UTC