"snowbirds" poems
I’ve forgotten
to be anything but
space—so enraptured
with the black that
the forest was
less than a goose pimple
on earth’s flesh.
I have ignored the
eighth notes
hanging from the pines.
I have forgotten
the snowbirds and whipped
winds.
I have numbed the needles
pocking skin through
my jeans.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
I have forgotten green.
now
the light of frozen
flies dims
in your mouth.
now
love washes out
in seasons.
now I eat
sugar-frosted buckthorn.
And I see you
ready to touch
through one
hundred leaves
and foliage.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 12:53 PM UTC
Percepts of enlightenment & civilization to encounter
The grim aftermath of tales unspoken from the galaxies afar
Betokening Indian tales of deeper truths than ever,
For the Great Spirit still swirls in gestures previously milder,
At a snail's pace and surely winning the pursuit among souls or
Is example better than pre-conceived precept?
or
“Is that a dog in the manger?”
Now cherishing the viper?
The human dilemma between liberty & authority?
“Has mythology now become psychology?”
A dingy white color in disguise of tranquility
To suit the blemished features of the 21st century
With fair women & brave men turning fables into verse,
Yet Socrates’ doctrine about death bespeaks a wafture so callous!
The new-age “iron claw” screams nastiness in time and space.
The pretences of mankind like the puritan;
Mars trapped in the net of Vulcan,
Jupiter is serene and above the conflict to win,
While Venus tries to fight upon the plains of troy
That the Greek gods of serenity may win at Tuscany.
“When do these sultry groans of mortal remorse cease?”
To calm the sordid uproar that Love may peruse
Through the scattered white aromatic rose petals
In search of the scintillating path back to the highland stables
Were snowflakes are an irresistible lure for the Arctic snowbirds!
Nature herself is proud of her designs
Yet!
There is nothing grating in mortal cosmoses but direct villainy.
Sinister fate climbs the lonesome banister faster
Before the “fanged dawn” descends nearer,
As stronger minds virtually become weaker;
These “shameless actors” are melted into “thin air”
“Must they cheat themselves with that same foolish vice of honesty?”
Mischievousnesses feed!
Like beasts till they be fat, and then they bleed
As they are led to bend the curve of “No return”
Since it is only rational that after the darkest of nights
There is a brighter day to reveal the true knights
Of the once gloomy age of Democritus.
Tis plain, from hence, that our vows
Request hurtful intense things,
or useless at the best.
Sep 17, 2009
Sep 17, 2009 at 5:16 AM UTC
I
Among ten thousand trees,
the transformation begins
with the blink of a snowbird.
II
Snowbirds live.
Snowbirds die.
Wing tips span
the seam between
egg and bone.
III
I baked my snowbird
in a pie; the oven wanted
something beautiful to eat.
IV
A nest is a clever home.
At night, house windows
shine like yellow puzzles
for the snowbird to solve.
V
I steal the notes
of the snowbird’s song,
shackle myself to the silence
that blooms between the notes.
VI
Abandoned women
in thrift store robes,
abandoned houses
warmed by bedroom fires—
the snowbird understands.
VII
The mouth of a snowbird
is small but mellifluous.
VIII
Children with dusty fingers
color sidewalks with chalk.
Snowbirds alight there and dip
their wings into an apocalyptic sun.
IX
When the snowbird departs,
the branches of the juniper
languish like bitter crescents of lime,
ice cubes melting in a glass of gin.
X
To decipher snowy syntax,
etch lines on a sheet of ice;
get on all fours and trace
snowbird tracks in snow.
XI
Rain is turning to sleet.
The snowbird is awake.
XII
She crosses her legs
on the velvet settee,
exhaling cigarette smoke
in rings across the room.
The ashtray is a crystal grave
of severed snowbird beaks.
XIII
It was winter all afternoon. Across the city,
chimneys are spilling snow into the sky.
A snowbird shivers in the fireplace.
I close my eyes and gather kindling.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 9:17 AM UTC
I am quiet in front of the ambient lights.
Confronted among these Ambien nights,
with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry-
It is hard in the valley of the sun
the people who over-extend
self, carry impotence and
a loaded gun-
The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds
who cast out their alcoholic offspring
to grind under gears of the economic machine.
Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:22 PM UTC
That “Grand Idea” of traveling
going with the Snowbirds
as in herds
Changing with the Seasons...
For what ever reasons...
Changed when seven pounds
of squirm and delight
was cradled in my arms-
five years ago that night
Instant Love as from Above
Never to cease, never to release
a 24/7 little boy, Tony Boy,
(and Lucy too)
Filling my life with Joy.
I wondered at times
how it would be...
Retired...
Just my wife
and me.
And when I weighed the cost
Thought of the loss
Someone else called “Grandpa”.
The little voices saying “Grandpa!”, “Poppa!”
Rang louder still, louder beyond all measure
than all the sites and sounds the world could offer.
No other decision was possible to make
Than to spend my life raising my “children”
Building memories, building lives.
Instilling character the only way I know...
Loving and living,
and when necessary -- using words.
My “children” will live their life,
living memories,
giving memories,
creating memories,
of times when they were young
Saying, “I love you Grandpa.”
“I love you Poppa.”
Hearing, “I love you too my child.”
Knowing, “See you in the morning.”
Refers to Heaven.
“The greatest love you can show
is to give your life for your family.”
(It is a paraphrase but
consider the original Author.)
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 8:29 PM UTC
Now an annual autumnal literary festival visit
to our island redoubt,
the snow geese come honking down,
in linear formation
warning itinerant human beachcombers
of their arrival on the beach runways
of our sheltered island
This TripTik recommended diversion,
is a pleasure long anticipated by them,
seen as an intellectual rest stop,
with excellent sea snacks cuisined,
flying down the Eastern Seaboard
keeping Interstate 95 on their right,
an avian version of GPS
Our birds,
follow a minor route,
commencing in Nova Scotia,
the farthest north of all the species,
never making it to Mexico,
ending their travelogue in Georgia,
lest their true species be confused
with other kinds of Floridian snowbirds
Sit by my side they do,
one by one in assigned seats,
on the now scrawny grass blanket,
their attention span famously long,
unless a school of striped bass
seen on radar in the vicinity
I, on my Adirondack throne,
a poetry reading to intone,
with more-than-occasional audience input,
considered their right most fair
Critics one and all,
animated animal devotees of the arts,
unafraid to express their thoughts,
oft in unison or in
unharmonious John Cage
cacophonies of disagreement
Sadly, I only speak local seagull,
thus their effusive exege(e)ses and criticisms,
either damming or acclaim, indistinguishable,
their only "tell" is if
they stick around for
just one more...day...
That my poetry they did favor
was a conceit I feigned to believe,
loving their attention even if not deserved,
for in their service, and nature's too,
I am now trained to sit and wait,
a minor stitch in a famous tapestry,
for well I recall Milton's words:
*"God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best.
His state is kingly;
thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait."*
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 10:05 AM UTC
How to make a poem,
That will never end
How to fix a broken heart,
When you know it will never mend.
How to be gorgeous with grace,
How to stop an infinate hate.
Snowbirds should be beautiful,
Girls should not be rude
But, oh, how we've changed
Even the best are crude.
Light blue lace insilks a treasure,
embroidery and patterns,
They used to make life better.
But oh, how we greed,
How we want,
How we seize.
Oh, how we loath
There is so much hate.
Everyone's so nice,
Everyone's so mean.
Everyone's a fake,
But they're all how they seem.
No need for emotions,
When you can't tell them apart.
No need to care,
When the whole world's in park.
Yet everyone loves,
And everyone's loved
And God has plans,
Near, but so far above.
Life is beautiful,
Even if it's in a twisted way,
Life is gorgeous,
Respect it all, because it will stay.
Horses running wild,
Penguins waddle free.
No matter who they are,
No matter the species.
How to contain an anger,
How to accept,
Nothing can happen
Live life at it's best.
But of course things do happen,
And of course they will
But you don't need to acknowledge that
Move on when you've had your fill.
How to be beautiful,
How to not care,
How to be a poet,
Because I'm not quite there.
How to be a writer,
How to know a deer,
To live like a hunter,
What is infinate fear?
Your soul animal,
Well, it runs through your soul
Picking little fights,
Warming you when you're cold.
It's a dark night,
But you can see the moon
It's a clear night,
But fog will drop soon.
It's a bright morning,
The birds chirp with cheer
But they are shot dead, not far from here.
Now, please, fear not,
There's this thing called the sun,
It works magic wonders
But this was part one.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 5:26 PM UTC
The desert has the eyes of hawks
Soaring wild and free,
Hills painted with russet tones
Were once under the sea
The ocean floor is full of life
Cactus coral reefs
Mesquite flow with the currents
There is no change of leaf
In autumn nor in winter
There is no hint of fall
But many snowbirds come to roost
Can barely count them all!
Sometimes there is a dusting
Of slight, faint hearted snow
The mountains have a power
With sun it quickly goes
Springtime brings more color
The Palo Verde yellow floes
Wildflowers in riot
And the subtle cactus rose
But summer? Ah, the summer!
The desert's but a drum
For the beating incantation
Of a punishing, bright sun!
Not many stay in Tucson
When that drum does beat
Not many can handle it
The brutal desert heat!
That's where you get your sea legs
Under the pressing burn
If you can handle August
You're at the point of no return!
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc aka
SoulSurvivor
(c) 8/14/2016
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
Come here. Look,
The grass is fading, and soon
The snowbirds will arrive.
Unmoved, they'll watch from afar
And, O, so shall I,
- trembling,
For fear that they may fly.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
Leaves of palm fall to the ground
As fish and coconuts abound
Children swim under the sun
Searching for some summer fun
Grownups head on to the bar
Or to gatherings where their colleagues are
Winter's left, snowbirds are gone
Some tourists are here, but most moved on
Sun climbs over the naval bases
Shining upon uniformed faces
Sailors clip along bays and coasts
Besides mangroves and shipwrecked ghosts
Plantains and barbacue, fish and rice
Lemonade for kids, and beers in ice
Corals are shining, and so are the jellies
While artists sunset performances spark passion in bellies
This is the hot passion of summer in Key West
Where oceans meet and birds come to rest
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 8:07 AM UTC
The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.
The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
He had stopped writing the journals
The pages were smelling of ****
Tramping around in the middle of nowhere
He had lost the utmost necessaties of existence
A paradoxical levity however defined the situation aptly
The truth was found in this surprisingly conventional existence
The officers questioned him about his whereabouts
To which he replied in a peeved tone
"I'd rather not talk about my alibi, I'm living my life my way for sometime now"
Moved about from the corners of the streets
He lay bricks on their expectations
Denuded mountains and a cask full of crippled hopes separated him from his loved ones
He spent his evenings gazing at the indescribable tint of the rainbow
With stardust captivating the left over soul
The tangibility of dreams mocked at his living
Fifty bucks and 2 unlit cigarettes
Was all he had for another months dormancy
The people were curious
They wanted to know what he desired for
All the snowbirds now are afraid of losing their children.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 7:35 AM UTC
~~~
In Tucson's fair climes
The weather's sublime
It's the perfect time of the year
Though no colorful trees
Not a ONE drops it's leaves
There is one major drawback I fear
Driving caution's suggested
As the roads are conjested
Tucson's now popular! TRUE!
For the balmy air
And the climate fair
Brings all of the
Snowbirds here TOO!
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) October 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 8:26 AM UTC
I dipped my toe in the Atlantic
and wondered how long it would take to get to England on a rowboat
or to swim there outright
as if I would be so inclined in either fashion
I've seen **** and Jane through many trials
all the running, jumping, and frolicking
never really seemed book worthy
but I read on dutifully hoping they would surprise me
Eventually, I stopped reading the adventureless series
and grew into darker theories of life
that have lead me to ponder the distance
across the ocean to Neverland in ways that I couldn't actually attempt
Safe in my unathletic prestenses, yet vulnerable in my dreams
I remember the snowbirds that chased me
through childhood summers
I remember the accents and crystal blue eyes
I will remember your face... always
but I no longer remember your name
Oct 16, 2018
Oct 16, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC
March roared and rained and ripped
itself from winter
a wounded lion
Last seen following the snowbirds
Mar 31, 2019
Mar 31, 2019 at 12:22 PM UTC
Dramatic color changing of leaves
and cool breezy Autumn evenings
wake the senses with its beauty
INDIAN SUMMER declares a
switching of seasons as the coming
transition to Fall is forthcoming
Light sweater season or thin jacket
brings to bear stylish fashion that
still disavowals white or does it?
Long walks and tandem bike rides
along the lakeshore associates with
a well stocked picnic basket to share
Passion for this time of year knows
few boundaries and yet Snowbirds
pack and escape to warmer climates
The irony is astounding and still the
practice has been in place for decades
Love your seasons be blessed in them.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:20 AM UTC
what we have done
we have crossed all the lines
we have declined
all the warning signs
we have missed the deadlines
now one day our sun will not shine
to so many things, we remain blind
so stupid of us, that it never entered our minds
that we needed to be kind
to little, to late
to stop, mankind's fate
just wait!!
on this earth, the crimes, the crimes
committed against her
silent to what we have heard
we thought how absurd
and we just continue forward
when there is no more
songbirds
redbirds
seabirds
snowbirds
to late, for what we should have heard
then when it is to late
we will look back
wishing we would have listened to and heard
all the warnings
that we should
and should have been
kind
to our mother earth
!!
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 11:04 PM UTC
ice melts on the shore
tugboats bring in the booms
robins search for twigs to build nest
life begins again
to those who count time by seasons
it is mud, flowers, celebration and
a chance to return to old friends
who all hid from winter
the snowbirds return
tan and thin to greet
their hibernating friends
who are just waking from
their snow induced sleep
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 11:40 AM UTC
Just want to say goodbye my sweet
friend. I knew it was going to be this
way for a few years now. I already
felt your sadness because we could
not see each other.
God in heaven and all your loved ones
will welcome you home, you can once
again smile, you always had such lovely
smile. You can see all the snowbirds we
all loved so much.
Fly high my friend, you are free at last, no
more fear to hold you down, you can
now fly through the heaven of light
and love.
You can go to Rainbow Bridge and all
your dogs will be waiting for you, with
tails wiggling all over.
I will be down here to pray with light, love
and peace my friend..Good-Bye.
© Derena Bree (All rights reserved)
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
A hundred and seventeen by day
Cools to ninety overnight
No relief but the shower stall.
Humidity at sixty-five
Mixed with sweat for a nasty soup.
Cold water from the tap is warm.
The shade no cooler than the sun.
Trapped in Air Conditioned caves,
It’s hunker down and find a way
To forge a path though ninety days.
Why does anybody even try
To live in this forsaken place.
Bcause it’s lovely in the Winter.
The gorgeous skies are like no other
With clouds that tumble into billows
Of fantastic size and shape.
The Craggy mountains circle round
In jagged homage to the sky,
And sunrise is excelled by none.
In March wildflowers explode in bloom.
Along the streets and in the fields
Where little bunnies hide in bushes.
And tiny lizards scurry by.
The air is clean and brisk and new
And snowbirds make their yearly trek
Infusing new and different views.
That’s the Yang to scorching Yin
That keeps us here, content to be.
ljm
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC