the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call

the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer

When we arrive at the beach, the oppressive sun has
begun his slow, creeping descent towards the gap in
the dunes where, if one stood at the very crest, he
might see the swampy bay, tufted in tall, thin grass
and dotted with ospreys and cranes. I carry a bag
depicting a bastardization of the American flag, and
he tugs the narrow mesh cart with cartoon wheels across
the flesh-toned sand. The crowd of hungry beachgoers
is thinning, and the lifeguards have just begun to lug
their tall wooden stand back from its perilous proximity
to the gentle breakers. I walk just a few paces behind
my father, until he stops, asking, “Is this a good spot?”
I nod, never before remembering a time when he
sought my approval for a seaside roost. After ******* our
umbrella—blue-green, as though reflecting in canvas
the fluctuating shades of the mutable Atlantic—deep into
the cool sand, and setting the two chairs firmly in its chilly
shade, he asks, “Wanna swim?” Again, I nod, stripping
until I wear nothing but a mint green bikini and sunglasses.
Leisurely, we stroll towards the small waves and wade into
the just-right water gradually. Subconsciously, I am again
just three or four footfalls behind his frame, as if I cannot
continue any deeper until he has tested the sea, and each
step forward is a promise that everything is okay,
and I may proceed with caution.

Our steady immersion suddenly releases in me a torrent
of memories. I see myself, maybe seven, planted next
to him on the beach, where the sand is only just damp,
digging holes with our hands so that a small pool of
icy liquid slowly emerges, and then cupping the sand
and carefully dripping it along the edges to create a
system of fortresses and castles melting in the breeze.
I see him explaining to me, age nine, the proper way
to bodysurf, and I feel once again a sudden fear that
the salty water will fill my nostrils and cause that
choking burn that I detest to this day. I remember
him laughing that hearty guffaw as I was, invariably,
thrown from my boogie board in the aftermath of a
particularly large wave, skinning my knees against
the broken shells dotting the rough ocean floor. I
hear his careful instructions about the proper and
improper behaviors when ****** into a rip tide—
swim horizontally, he’d say, and if I didn’t understand
the word, he’d clarify that it meant to follow the beach,
because following the sea was certain death.

When our waists have just begun to adjust to the
temperature, I overhear the father of a girl who is
about the age I was in these memories exclaim that
a pod of dolphins has come quite close, and upon
looking, I see their gray bodies slithering in and out
of the deeper water. I nudge my father and point, and
we both marvel at this rare occurrence. Thousands of
seconds pass, and this time he is pointing off in the
distance, saying, “They’re still hanging around. Must
be a school of fish or something.” When I ask him if
he knows why they are within swimming distance,
he tells me confidently that it must be due to the
water’s unseasonable warmth, and I know in my
heart and in my brain that he is correct, as usual.

After the dolphins have disappeared, I say that I
am done swimming, that I want to start the Marquez
tome weighing heavily upon my conscience and that,
besides, we shouldn’t leave our valuables alone for
too long. He simply shrugs, as if to say, “Why would
you want to get out of this ocean?” almost as though he
didn’t realize thievery is such a common occurrence
at the Jersey shore. From my haven in the shade, I
feel goosebumps emerge as my father’s shirt deepens
from heather gray to taupe. Before leaving the
house our family has visited every summer for over
a decade, I borrowed his brand new headphones—he
was so excited to tell me that they don’t knot—and
their bulbous coverings, when stuck in ears on a
windy beach, create the sort of howling found in
1970s horror movies, my own personal FX. Despite
the fact that I have just surpassed one quarter of a
century in age, I still see him, a few years past the
half-century mark, turn around, squinting, until he
sees me safely planted in the plastic chair, as safe
as a father could hope his oldest daughter to be.

The magnificence of trees
The bumbling of bees

Flowers show grace
I can almost taste

The colors they share
I breathe in that air

Grass holds presence
With stable resonance

Birds sing melodious
Beholding to all of us

Rivers thunderously moving
Their essence behooving

Snowflakes fall like a gentle kiss
Delicate, wondrous and full of bliss

Air is so cleansing
Oceans mesmerizing

Herbs are survivors
Ospreys are divers

Ants are intense
Their strength immense

Clouds drift by
Drawing pictures in the sky

Skies are forever
With all kinds of weather

Mountains have stability
With a sense of humility

Rain is calming
Quietly balming

Deserts are mystical
Winds are whimsical

Sunsets are amazing
Well worth gazing

In awe of mother nature
A wondrous creator

The aliveness it brings
Resonates within

I am grateful for that wonderful gift
Of creating a connection and an inner shift

with their great drooping wings
the ospreys returned yesterday
to scan the raging snowmelt for churned up meals
to set up nest in order to begin the process
of egg to chick to selfish fledgling to conspicuous adult
it is tempting to apply human traits to the natural world
[especially for a poet]
but in this case we will work on an unnatural premise
reaching the small point of contentment
in the form of a fish hawk being
putting aside our never ending need for understanding
and stop measuring beauty and form

Long I remember
When alone I’d run
To the sea side shores
For sandy mud-pun walks
On where waves lengths strength
Stretched and end reached
And never passed
And on cliffs patched
Where nests all sea birds
Was a shamble of noises
And a squabble of fights

Some were stealing from others
Others were killing others
Many were murdering in angers
Little were busy battling hungers
Rest were roosting and resting  
Grooving and grooming

Sporadically, a Tern would call
Kwi! Kwi! Kwi-kwiii!
He would gather his feathers
And fully beautifully display
Their clean preened length
Before her maternal mate
To strengthen their eternal fate
And she would appreciate
With gestures affectionate
Her lover’s majestic exhibit

A pair of Puffins pretty would come-Penguins and Magpies black-white coats
Rainbow beaks, puffed cheeks and orange webbed-feet beautiful creatures
Innocent as ever, active as always with mouthfuls of sea foods-fishes
Irregular, her wobbling gait weighed down by her food and hasty walks home-
Worried hurry to luckily escape being bullied and robbed his foetuses’ foods
Along the long ways home full of lethal ruthless poachers and predators:
Feral opportunists and scavengers lurking near paths to their nests
Pitiful I’d feel at how unfair nature is to these hardworking birds
And helpless how they would surrender their hard-earned meals

With Hornbills’-heavy headed huge beak, Ducks’-webbed feet
Fowls’-heavy flying body and an imbalanced Penguins’ wobbling walks
She can’t match the Petrels and Ravens merciless ruthlessness
The Gulls’, and Kittiwakes’-scissor sharp beaks
The Hawks and Ospreys lethal hooked beaks
The Gannets’ and Kites cheetahs’-top speeds
Or the sitting Sea-Steller swift lift of their wings strength  
Piteously he surrenders his hard worked worth meals
And risks another long journey back to survive

A Gull would run, chasing the receding waves
Fast pick a pebble-like coloured sea shell crustaceans
Then poke his long hooked-edge beak
To peep and see if there was anything worth to peak
Of the wavy tides hustles and the sea-side buzzing bustles
The patience of waiting, of watching and of walking
Before the stealth Stilts, their competitor strides
And another giant wave of waves roars and come calling
And they wiggle as they walk and run to escape his sad slaps on sands

The Walrus and the Otters
The Sea-Lions and the Cormorants
Would all nest to rest invest and reinvests
On their furs and feathers fond interests
The Seals and their pretty Pups all would leisure
In colonies on wet large rocks far and away
From washing-waves and terrible-tides and sea-sands
And their Bellow and low and moo like loud grumbles
The irregular moo-mee! Dins of the fish markets rumbles
Would fill and drown the sea-side sounds
Mother besides kids-compassionate
Protecting its investigative innocence
From the cruel colony crushing crashes

Then there would come the tranquility of twilight
The much awaited time for all sea-lovers and watchers
The last of coastal day’s romantic rushes-lovers large leaving to burn their passions
A time when lovers would leave their cottages comforts hand-in-hand: arm-in-arm
To cuddle and cradle and canoodle-to freely display their amorous love
In the sands and mud’s pads, last before the sun bids them another goodbye
The mother of all coastal auburn burn magnificence-the setting sun
The colours of the coastlines as the sun burns touched the ocean’s horizons
It so an enthralling, captivating sight of the sun and the sea and the scenic serenity

The nights quiet with billions lights of signaling stars
and the midnight’s silent with the gleaning moons
These are the nights of the most patient, passionate, romantic passengers-the night watchers
Beautiful! Munificent! Glamorous! Awesome! Splendid! Spectacular!
I’d use all the adjectives there is to describe the alluring scenery of the moments  
So precious-so peaceful to the mind, to the soul and to the heart-a holistic healing
The captured memories of the stars studded nights and the magnificent moonlit midnights
Alone in the nights with just the silences of the soothing breezes on the palms fronds-restful!

© Kìùra Kabiri. All rights reserved.

The manuscript was proofed and approved
when Rachael Carson spoke to us that night.
Silent Spring would be her testament;
her final gift to the world of men.
Her cancer of the breast had spread
and she fought weariness often now.
Still, she knew she must sound the warning;
“Reform your ways or face your worlds end.”
To her well-trained mind, it’s true
She found Our Earth beautiful and new.
Still, she saw troubling things as well
in the thinning of the Ospreys shell.
If these beautiful birds still grace our skies
Thank Rachel Carson for she was wise..
Heed well her words and the light they bring
If you seek to avoid a silent Spring.

Dream on a raft

A balsam raft, with a mast and a Latin sail, I built for amusement on summer days on the inner sea,
but I found myself too far from shore, daydreaming is dangerous,
I had forgotten the dark undercurrent.
The shore is hazy; tomorrow it will have gone it’s just me and the blue outer-sea where fog banks are forgotten memories. I and the raft will end up on a blue painted plaster sea, in an empty bottle of *** that sits on a mantelpiece collecting dust particles.  
Till someone lifts it up to blow cigar smoke down its open neck; I’ll be invisible in the scented fog bank.
When the mist clears I shall be gone, the smoker, astonished, will ask:
“What happened to the raft and the man in the bottle? Fearful throw his cigar into the hearth, sell his scrap metal business, buy a dingy, leave his wife, set sail for the outer sea,
where the fly-fish fly like ospreys across the blue sea, he just might find; whatever he’s looking for
it ain't here

Then all the nations of birds lifted together
the huge net of the shadows of this earth
in multitudinous dialects, twittering tongues,
stitching and crossing it. They lifted up
the shadows of long pines down trackless slopes,
the shadows of glass-faced towers down evening streets,
the shadow of a frail plant on a city sill—
the net rising soundless as night, the birds' cries soundless, until
there was no longer dusk, or season, decline, or weather,
only this passage of phantasmal light
that not the narrowest shadow dared to sever.

And men could not see, looking up, what the wild geese drew,
what the ospreys trailed behind them in silvery ropes
that flashed in the icy sunlight; they could not hear
battalions of starlings waging peaceful cries,
bearing the net higher, covering this world
like the vines of an orchard, or a mother drawing
the trembling gauze over the trembling eyes
of a child fluttering to sleep;
                                                     it was the light
that you will see at evening on the side of a hill
in yellow October, and no one hearing knew
what change had brought into the raven's cawing,
the killdeer's screech, the ember-circling chough
such an immense, soundless, and high concern
for the fields and cities where the birds belong,
except it was their seasonal passing, Love,
made seasonless, or, from the high privilege of their birth,
something brighter than pity for the wingless ones
below them who shared dark holes in windows and in houses,
and higher they lifted the net with soundless voices
above all change, betrayals of falling suns,
and this season lasted one moment, like the pause
between dusk and darkness, between fury and peace,
but, for such as our earth is now, it lasted long.

I smell the past tonight
It hangs low in the air, a brisk chill of what was
The scent the woods while it's too dark to see
Of new intense love and tattered affections
Of liquor and burnt tires
Of ospreys looking down at us from the pine trees
Silent sages
I smell violence and uncertainty, but that's here and that's now
It's mixed in with the past like gin with whiskey
Either one could light the soul afire
But together they're unnatural and bite like a vice grip
Slow and unrelenting
Ashes fall from my cigarette onto my lap
They smolder and blow away
As I would if presented the option
But I'm still here
My only stress is I'm void of stress
Defeated and quietly resigned
Mourning the lonely nights I never loved
Accepting the bleak days to come

Mendaciousness amiss, my teenage
Fillibuster, towards my frescoed haired fray

Etude and capricious aria fawning in veritable aversion
Casting aspersions, with much alacrity

Surreptitiously digresses whilst crescendoing sucre sedulousness
Aspirations forced with petulance and force Carpe Omnia, rather jejune

Creedence clearwater crepuscular Crimean wars, perfunctory indeed
Katydids antediluvian lintels limit ospreys that fly across desires of frost

Dry dreary doth dubious dolorous dunes do much, take me too
Destined to dream beyond dimly lit dimes that count as time
Desired ecosystem

i sat by a bay carrying away bodies, under a

tree hunched over a shore of boulders.

as people came together in temperate weather.

ospreys diving down at clearer water, fish at

their feet--both well on the wing.

the first snow of dandelions underway.

our sun changed position, and the tree melted

diamonds on its leaves.

the breeze came up and away with water, a

mastery seldom seen by eyes--a spontaneous

ceremony of letting go.