"warblers" poems
Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.
Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.
Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.
And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.
This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.
As the years pass by and maturity abounds, I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.
And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly, so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.
As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.
It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.
He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.
I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."
Feb 7, 2017
Feb 7, 2017 at 3:59 PM UTC
WHAT was the name you called me?-
And why did you go so soon?
The crows lift their caw on the wind,
And the wind changed and was lonely.
The warblers cry their sleepy-songs
Across the valley gloaming,
Across the cattle-horns of early stars.
Feathers and people in the crotch of a treetop
Throw an evening waterfall of sleepy-songs.
What was the name you called me?-
And why did you go so soon?
5.4k
BECAUSE I have called to you
as the flame flamingo calls,
or the want of a spotted hawk
is called-
because in the dusk
the warblers shoot the running
waters of short songs to the
homecoming warblers-
because
the cry here is wing to wing
and song to song-
I am waiting,
waiting with the flame flamingo,
the spotted hawk, the running water
warbler-
waiting for you.
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The silent whisperings of the wind
The Enigmatic dances of the trees
They are welcoming my presence
After a long time I am home…
Woodpeckers are laughing with me
Warblers are making a fuss
A white moth came to greet me
After a long time I am home…
This place is God’s own
In the silence I can feel the soul
The music in the air is prayer
For making me alive and be here
On to the bed of fallen leafs
I want to rest my aching beliefs
Harsh journey I have been through
A beautiful world its suppose to
The Lianas are the playing ground
Where the childhood dreams rebound
The faint memories comes alive
After a long time I am home…
I know I am not alone
She is there if I ever get blown
Into the comforting lap of her
After a long time I am home…
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 12:09 PM UTC
Departing summer hath assumed
An aspect tenderly illumed,
The gentlest look of spring;
That calls from yonder leafy shade
Unfaded, yet prepared to fade,
A timely carolling.
No faint and hesitating trill,
Such tribute as to winter chill
The lonely redbreast pays!
Clear, loud, and lively is the din,
From social warblers gathering in
Their harvest of sweet lays.
Nor doth the example fail to cheer
Me, conscious that my leaf is sere,
And yellow on the bough:—
Fall, rosy garlands, from my head!
Ye myrtle wreaths, your fragrance shed
Around a younger brow!
Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range, and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which, haply, kindred souls may prize
Not less than vernal ecstasies,
And passion’s feverish dreams.
For deathless powers to verse belong,
And they like Demi-gods are strong
On whom the Muses smile;
But some their function have disclaimed,
Best pleased with what is aptliest framed
To enervate and defile.
Not such the initiatory strains
Committed to the silent plains
In Britain’s earliest dawn:
Trembled the groves, the stars grew pale,
While all-too-daringly the veil
Of nature was withdrawn!
Nor such the spirit-stirring note
When the live chords Alcæus smote,
Inflamed by sense of wrong;
Woe! woe to Tyrants! from the lyre
Broke threateningly, in sparkles dire
Of fierce vindictive song.
And not unhallowed was the page
By wingèd Love inscribed, to assuage
The pangs of vain pursuit;
Love listening while the Lesbian Maid
With finest touch of passion swayed
Her own æolian lute.
O ye, who patiently explore
The wreck of Herculanean lore,
What rapture! could ye seize
Some Theban fragment, or unroll
One precious, tender-hearted scroll
Of pure Simonides.
That were, indeed, a genuine birth
Of poesy; a bursting forth
Of genius from the dust:
What Horace gloried to behold,
What Maro loved, shall we enfold?
Can haughty Time be just!
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I.
Adieu, New-England’s smiling meads,
Adieu, the flow’ry plain:
I leave thine op’ning charms, O spring,
And tempt the roaring main.
II.
In vain for me the flow’rets rise,
And boast their gaudy pride,
While here beneath the northern skies
I mourn for health deny’d.
III.
Celestial maid of rosy hue,
O let me feel thy reign!
I languish till thy face I view,
Thy vanish’d joys regain.
IV.
Susanna mourns, nor can I bear
To see the crystal show’r,
Or mark the tender falling tear
At sad departure’s hour;
V.
Not unregarding can I see
Her soul with grief opprest:
But let no sighs, no groans for me,
Steal from her pensive breast.
VI.
In vain the feather’d warblers sing,
In vain the garden blooms,
And on the ***** of the spring
Breathes out her sweet perfumes.
VII.
While for Britannia’s distant shore
We sweep the liquid plain,
And with astonish’d eyes explore
The wide-extended main.
VIII.
Lo! Health appears! celestial dame!
Complacent and serene,
With Hebe’s mantle o’er her Frame,
With soul-delighting mein.
IX.
To mark the vale where London lies
With misty vapours crown’d,
Which cloud Aurora’s thousand dyes,
And veil her charms around.
X.
Why, Phoebus, moves thy car so slow?
So slow thy rising ray?
Give us the famous town to view,
Thou glorious king of day!
XI.
For thee, Britannia, I resign
New-England’s smiling fields;
To view again her charms divine,
What joy the prospect yields!
XII.
But thou! Temptation hence away,
With all thy fatal train,
Nor once ****** my soul away,
By thine enchanting strain.
XIII.
Thrice happy they, whose heav’nly shield
Secures their souls from harms,
And fell Temptation on the field
Of all its pow’r disarms!
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I recall hearing that term once in high school,
"Urban forestry", a paradox, seemingly and yet,
That is exactly what it is.
Strips of land sanction to be aesthetically pleasing.
For whom, I have not a clue.
I would have preferred a lane or so,
Over the regular 8' by 1' square of trimmed trees.
I also grimace within the grace
Of those knotted furled fists toward a sky asking WHY!?
After a much calmer gardener had pondered the same word
Underneath his humming chainsaw
(Though probably for a more debatable material world)
Amongst other cuboid amputations.
Not to mention those solid soldiers
Whose attention is really standing dead in plain sight until
Wrinkled pavement is not enough ground to hold.
Then our hero makes local news in an inhumane, absolutely atrocious,
Final act of trespassing, vandalism, homicide, and suicide.
Of course nobody saw it coming.
Undetected and decayed for half a decade.
With so so many Ys it is easier to yelp for for those Xs
Crossing against our assumed perfect grids and parallels
To those stories of stacking passed from older cries
For HELP! Though those did not settle quite so well
So I proceed passing over a particularly loud leaf
Amidst this dry pondering
And snap out of the whats and whys and wheres
To take another look around at my illustrious
Urban Forest.
Unto a more practical pensive test,
Which side of that phrase,
Burdens the winning emphasis?
Well, still warblers and sparrows to inspire a song
For how this within time shall also pass along.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 6:48 AM UTC
This is the time I cannot bear: this silent evening hour
As I shut windows and the balcony to prying nightsong:
In the trance of dim lights, I ride the incense plume
Across whispers and half-thoughts, slicing through
The canvasses of time: that unforgettable house of love
Perched by the lakes, circled by the stream and canal
Where worlds and time stopped to catch a glimpse
Many shades of grey silhouetted against stormy skies
Of swans gliding past fresh ripples across reeds
Drenched in a hundred hues of ethereal moonlight,
Hum of the wind surfing on the waters, drunken voices
Of assorted lovelorn: thrushes, finches, hidden warblers
Majestic storks and herons guarded the secret doors
To eternity, pitched right in the middle of the great city
By the home that housed love in precious embrace
O the cold of the winter that screened for damp corners
In our souls, through meditative shades lining the view,
The home that I squandered, I who love ruins and rubble
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
Summer field at rest; alive.
We stopped haying twenty-five years past.
Birds and bugs, golden rod and asters and
Worts, spiders, voles make it their home. We mow
Once a year.
And it breaks my heart. Good-by flowers for
Honey bees. Cover for warblers,
Mama turkeys and broods. Bedroom for deer.
Hidden lunch room for ground hogs
Until Jack Russell breaks their necks,
At least of the little ones.
Old hog mama requires my intervening shovel.
Otherwise she'd shred Jack's face.
9/23/2012
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 12:59 PM UTC
Trickling water through a brook,
Down from the mountain and into a stream,
Gently carving into the land a tale,
A sad yet happy tune for all to hear.
Mountains to those not from here,
Hills to its inhabitants,
Safeguarding those who live here from the poisons of the modern world,
Locking away it's people in a small slice of time.
Moonshine is made here,
Where the big bucks wander,
A place where the turkey, elk, and illusive bobcat roam free,
Where the hawks, warblers, and grouse abound,
Bears trundle,
And hill folk dance and sing.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:17 AM UTC
One dozen migratory Black-and-white Warblers lay
like fallen piano keys on the sidewalk in front
of a 14-story glass constructed building;
I watched as the janitor swept
them into the street.
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
ephemeral laurels,
those lullabies of may,
became fungi while i was still asleep;
none preserved for the non-punctual
who dreamt of spring through spring–
another missed migration.
i walk along the ridge alone at noontime,
songbirds seemingly on strike against the straggler–
the prairie warblers so persistent in july
have gone, with august, silent,
nestled against the mountain walls
of cicadas’ seventeen-year symphonies,
those long encores–
i listen but do not hear.
i press my ear to the escarpment
and feel i’m missing something–
like ice ages are whirling still within the cool conglomerate
in spite of summer and sweaty palms,
like the passenger pigeons blurred
and smudged into oneness under the strata
have become,
without my knowing, the stratus clouds above–
or perhaps there is no spite in spindly evergreens
that flower for flowering’s sake;
that wilt to wilt;
that winter with or without listening.
Aug 20, 2025
Aug 20, 2025 at 12:31 PM UTC
Winged caterpillar
That frees my soul,
Sets my mind to dreaming,
How the hand of man
Out plays the God,
Makes love
To its master.
With fondled fingers, you paint
A dumb firmament, the way
Light dazzles as it breaks
Or how the itching rain
Taps a teasing melody as it falls
To the lover ground.
Beloved of Orpheus
Whose wove you coiled in-
Vents a garment of bird song loom,
Content my breath
The way that water wells
And lolls into puddles
Nesting not before the hot,
Harpy steam.
O melodious pool,
Undulating lake, frame
To emotive vapours, without
Ship you ply in wakes.
The oarsman plucks the main,
Your body is the sail,
Drunkard winds and warblers,
Blow hard, but fail my ears,
Atone as well, the wretched sounds of day
For they are sour spells, and but a fools
Trash canned movements, in a state
So needy of weeding,
Mere sound is soiled
The way you rake.
Evolution spreads,
As stones do,
When moves the river bed,
Grace, in violence,
Sparkles as it blooms,
Like an ears creation—
Rose on the tomb.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 2:19 PM UTC
Those times
we'd go four wheelin'
with nothing on
but the bikini top
were the best of times.
We'd jam Thorogood,
take a cooler
& disappear
way up
into the hills,
get lost in the blm lands
near skagway.
And those trips
into phantom canyon
always gave us
a chance to unwind.
Pulling offroad
up into the conifers
sealed my fate with you.
You were the perfect date
Sunshine.
With nothing on
but a red bandana,
screaming hallelujah
on the roll bar.
And there was never
anybody around,
but you
and the warblers
and me.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:03 AM UTC
My dreams were filled with frightful things;
Warblers riding ravens' wings.
Obsidian bodies flocked in rows,
Walking slowly over trees.
Stiff dead children sailed dark seas.
Warblers riding on their backs.
The ravens marched in close formation,
An army of dark purpose,
Taking warblers to the shore
To ride their grim escorts.
What frightful things must abide
In this gentle heart of mine
To summon images like these.
I dare not try explore.
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 4:33 PM UTC