"whippoorwill" poems
Daddy takes me to the greenhouse,
behind our rotted trailer, deep in sovereign backwoods.
Marsh voices, thick like tupelo honey.
The coo of a loon, hiss of a cottonmouth, shiver of a snapping turtle.
The silver of swamp lilies lip the land in wild haze,
a veil of ochre moss tickles my nose like gauzey ginger ale
and soil clings to my ankles like a lonesome hound.
Daddy’s greenhouse is a shed, a haven.
A milieu of magic and fleur-de-cannabis
where pixies pull my curls and gnomes dance
under mushroom parasols.
My hands dip into a hollow of muddy earthworms.
I feel akin to the yellow blood of a butterfly
or pale jade of perplexing geckos.
Daddy is a shaman.
He trims holy blooms that come from spirits
who sing in the wind like the whippoorwill at dusk.
Snipping sticky bushels, he pads tufts into his pipe,
carved in the shape of a sullen armadillo.
I watch him inhale.
His breath
stiff
as a braid of mangroves.
He exhales a ligneous cough.
I don’t mind,
much.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
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The light beyond the windowpane reads like the lines of a poem
And the headlights crash into streams on their way home
The lampshade brushes your arm and crushes you like a stone
You're still there but over here you're all alone
The streets are all black or maybe it's just the night
The day was long but now it's time to make it right
But when your memories are wrong and blurred out of sight,
Do you really have the strength to put up a fight?
You light your cigarette and close one, ****** eye
"Don't bat a lash" says the woman who last made you cry
And she follows you down to the depths of your mind
She complicates your soul and then she just hurries by
Somewhere down the alley, towards the church bells of dawn
You hear a voice that slowly carries on
Like a lost whippoorwill still whispering its song
A feeling comes over you and you wonder why you waited so long
Jan 19, 2016
Jan 19, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
Neither Nightingale or Crow
Neither Whippoorwill or Sparrow
Perched on phone lines, never trees
Still those birds have the right to sing.
Target of bad boys’ B B Guns
Splashed with water canons
They fly til they can fly no more
And tremble in the shadows.
Their feathers have a bit of shine
When sunbeams fall just right
But all too often that just makes
Them that much easier to find
And targets them for hatred rocks
Thrown by those who only
Recognize a Woodpecker
And a Robin Red Breast.
Too bad their music goes unheard
Most often it is beautiful
If they could sing with the other birds
The music would become symphonic.
ljm
Mar 6, 2017
Mar 6, 2017 at 8:15 AM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
Down a long lane
With a sunset in the west
Flowers here and there
Tall firs and pines
From in the distance
The song of a bubbling creek
Comes from the dark beautiful forest
Where shade mingles with twilight skies
Only the faint painting of a sunset
Is left in the celestial veil of
Sky now
Slowly the colors
Bleed and fade
Then suddenly all together vanish
As I walk down this lane
Listening to the evening sounds
Crickets, cicadas, and katydids
The song of the whippoorwill
And the solo of the wood thrush
Makes me dance alone
On that long lane
Now I skip and now I jump
And now I twirl around
'Til I make my way to that sequestered cottage
That makes beauty sing
And happy tears cry
Some say it's just a cottage
Nothing fancy or grand
But in my heart I know
That this cottage is
A Home Sweet Home indeed
And I will always remember
This scene I created and painted in my head
Perhaps this painted journeys
Will help my broken heart heal
And my broken wings mend
Whenever I think of
Sunset Cottage
~Marian~
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
Let's get back to the lazy days of summer
Where time stands still
Where we sit in the shade with our popsicles
and ice cream until we get our fill
Sip on some sweet tea and have a little picnic
or lay in a hammock reading with my sidekick
Where we walk around barefoot on the freshly cut lawn
or turn on the sprinkler for the kids to get their jump on
Where we watch the bees and butterflies flit and fly around
and listen to the whippoorwill's calling sound
Once God turns off the light we catch lightning bugs in jars
then lay back with our lover and count the stars
Let's get back to the lazy days of summer
Where time stands still
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 11:28 AM UTC
THERE was a wild pigeon came often to Hinkley's timber.
Gray wings that wrote their loops and triangles on the walnuts and the hazel.
There was a wild pigeon.
There was a summer came year by year to Hinkley's timber.
Rainy months and sunny and pigeons calling and one pigeon best of all who came.
There was a summer.
It is so long ago I saw this wild pigeon and listened.
It is so long ago I heard the summer song of the pigeon who told me why night comes, why death and stars come, why the whippoorwill remembers three notes only and always.
It is so long ago; it is like now and today; the gray wing pigeon's way of telling it all, telling it to the walnuts and hazel, telling it to me.
So there is memory.
So there is a pigeon, a summer, a gray wing beating my shoulder.
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161
A feather from the Whippoorwill
That everlasting—sings!
Whose galleries—are Sunrise—
Whose Opera—the Springs—
Whose Emerald Nest the Ages spin
Of mellow—murmuring thread—
Whose Beryl Egg, what Schoolboys hunt
In “Recess”—Overhead!
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I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me—
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
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473
I am ashamed—I hide—
What right have I—to be a Bride—
So late a Dowerless Girl—
Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face—
No one to teach me that new Grace—
Nor introduce—my Soul—
Me to adorn—How—tell—
Trinket—to make Me beautiful—
Fabrics of Cashmere—
Never a Gown of Dun—more—
Raiment instead—of Pompadour—
For Me—My soul—to wear—
Fingers—to frame my Round Hair
Oval—as Feudal Ladies wore—
Far Fashions—Fair—
Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl—
Plead—like a Whippoorwill—
Prove—like a Pearl—
Then, for Character—
Fashion My Spirit quaint—white—
Quick—like a Liquor—
Gay—like Light—
Bring Me my best Pride—
No more ashamed—
No more to hide—
Meek—let it be—too proud—for Pride—
Baptized—this Day—a Bride—
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Last night up on the ridge
a whippoorwill sang
its incessant sweet song
in the thick, firefly darkness.
Dante was right to make Hell
a place without birds.
They fill the world with music
and ask nothing in return.
The purity of sweetness
without the demand for profit.
What a lovely notion.
- mce
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 10:41 AM UTC
Ribble rabble rim ram
wabble wing flip do pip pop
Slipper hinder thankly to dur
jammer gamtit slingly tripon
wishel fromage wankly underwash
Rapt crapt frappe wingnut
Shmoozing rosefront biging whippoorwill
aminacry killicat deedly nono
Allah Akbar Achoo Amen
Mar 7, 2014
Mar 7, 2014 at 2:59 PM UTC
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true,
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear.
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour.
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She stares into her vanity, vainly she catches my gaze,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour,
Her smile sings Frere Jacques, her lips wet with French kisses.
She leaves for work, I stretch for the package of Reds, our vice in my hand,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
Suddenly an invalid, blind, holding two cigarettes for just one lonesome man,
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true.
Dec 25, 2011
Dec 25, 2011 at 12:35 AM UTC
i hear the whippoorwill in the night-
it seems we have a common trait:
our voices, strongest in the dark,
with no specific audience,
echo across the fabric of time
to reach the ear unseen.
should no other creature hear our songs
that cross the face of night like rivers
it would seem to matter little;
we are our own listeners.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
276
Many a phrase has the English language—
I have heard but one—
Low as the laughter of the Cricket,
Loud, as the Thunder’s Tongue—
Murmuring, like old Caspian Choirs,
When the Tide’s a’ lull—
Saying itself in new infection—
Like a Whippoorwill—
Breaking in bright Orthography
On my simple sleep—
Thundering its Prospective—
Till I stir, and weep—
Not for the Sorrow, done me—
But the push of Joy—
Say it again, Saxton!
Hush—Only to me!
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I want to put on Coltrane
to experience the verbs
of a sweet bastardization
oh kind whippoorwill
sing to me
jbm
Oakland, NJ
09/86
Music Selection:
John Coltrane
Wise One
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:48 AM UTC
A symphony of woodland imagination , Sycamore trees that mimic the forlorn's indignation .. Persuasive River Birch's cover quiet brooks , compel the fragmented light crossing the waters surface between moss covered stones , Honey Locust armed with their crown of thorns , instruments of the Passion stand majestic as regal Live Oaks command the high cliffs above the swirling tributaries confluence and utter confusion ..
Pan awakens the creatures at Dawn with the song of whippoorwill and Mourning Dove . Helios sets the floor aglow , Redtailed Hawks deliver their morning anthems..
Angels walk freshwater streams without question , forever charged with unfolding the tapestry of divine creation ..
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 10:18 PM UTC
A whippoorwill &
some mourning doves,
the gutteral croak
of the wood stork,
chasing squirrels,
a dying cricket or two.
Who knew
the splendid call
of a hawk circling above
could be such a sweet sound,
part of the greatest symphony
ever composed
& played for us
by the master,
conducting
beautiful harmonies
from the pulpit
above.
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
Sitting here hoping you miss me
Cause things ain't been the same
Since that good for nothing city slicker
Keeps trying to give you his last name
Rolling into town
Like a brand new Cadillac
Well I'm here to tell you mister
I want my baby back
He may take you to far off places
Places we could never go
Like over there in Georgia
Where you could visit the streets of Rome
Or take you to a romantic dinner
With candle light just you and he
Toasting you by the riverside
In Paris, Tennessee
You can drive a world away from here
In his fancy sports car like it weren't nothing
Clinking your bottles of Lone Star beer
High stepping it out in Dublin
I even here tell he's taken you
To the sunny shores of Naples
Way down South in Florida
Something I was never able
But can he take you out frog gigging
Or catch fireflies in a jar
In all your worldly gallivanting
Don't you miss the way we were
Has anything he done for you
Been as sweet as chewing on a piece of Bahia grass
While standing in an open field
Watching the clouds blow past
Or listening to a Whippoorwill
Sing out it's nightly song
On the front porch you and me swinging
To it's rhythm all night long
Don't give a hoot about places he takes ya
That's about all I gotta say about that
After all this highfalutin society traveling
All I want is my baby back
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:00 AM UTC
wind in the willows and the hollow tree's maw
the howl and the moan, chattered whippoorwill song
golden leaves crumble into golden leaf dust
withered willow creaks and sways however it may,
dancing to demented beat from perverse piper's pipe.
The moon is gone hiding not present on stage
of this eerie queer setting in this most uncanny scene
hark, come in the calling owls
sing harsh the shadow come by bleating of night's drum
a hit come dark, a hit pitch shadow cast on the land.
Owls call who, call who to none there
crickets screech a symphony with wicked leg's sliding
horned incessant toads boom tenor through the night.
Come twilight, come dawn
the moon is chased from clouds to the horizon it returns.
come 'gain the whippoorwills with strange and deviant song
come now the shady crows to join and gibe along.
When light comes now through purple veil of dark and mal' cast
cascades the sun through horrid mask; the sky a great cloud
a swirling pool, a terrific mass, a great storm of poison,
can't run for fear for end is near
solace in light is naught,there is no savior from the tempest.
The night was prologue enough, now day will be pure no longer
the nymph of sun ***** in taint of wicked shadow's hand
now alone evil and mal' shall stand.
So come the crows, come the raven
sing a devil's tune with the chitter of the chattering birds
sway now the willow, howl the wind and moan along
laugh the maws gaped of the trees
whirl the wind, wither and crumble the plants; now gone.
dance and sing and cry as one, symphony
symphony fade to whisper... whisper fade to dust...
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 12:25 AM UTC
infused with moonlight, casting sharp shadow_ i hear first whippoorwill
May 6, 2012
May 6, 2012 at 11:26 AM UTC
On her bed, she lay so still,
Listening to the singing,
Of the whippoorwill
I took her hand,
Put it in mine
Combed her dark hair,
So long and fine
Then I dried,
Deaths sweat, from her brow
Knowing she didn't have,
Too much longer now
She opened her eyes,
Gave me a smile
She said,"Dear friend,
I'll see you,
In a little while."
The tears in my eyes,
Oh, how they stung
And on, and on,
The whippoorwill sung.....
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 9:13 PM UTC
Chirping birds that fly and play
Time change makes a longer day
Green grass shoots and flowers bloom
No more winters gloom and doom
Squirrels and bees and buds on trees
Sunny days with gentle breeze
Smell the blooms and fresh cut grass
Joy rushing in, its spring at last
Carpenter bees fly around
New growth covers the once cold ground
Rainey days replenish the land
The master’s creation, so beautiful, so grand
Spring time evenings, tranquil and still
Sunsets slowly over the hill
Frogs and crickets sing a song
The owl and whippoorwill sing along
I lay my head down in my bed
Spring time memories in my head
I fold my hands and begin to pray
I thank my God for another day
© William Power (2011) All rights reserved
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC