“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label falcon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label falcon. Show all posts
Sunday, January 20, 2019
Sky stalker
He was close
atop the next door
roofline,
two doors and eight windows away,
I can feel him
not caring
but staring
at me
clearly
cocking his head
and aiming his
attention my way.
I return his gaze
between two crows feet
I squint
and am unable to define
where wing
and feather divide
like the wind
no where
Now
how he can soar
based on feeling
a passing breeze
across his breast
plate
I maintain my ground
feeling anchored
under air
the predator holds its breath
while the raptor releases
a piercing scream
before
he takes flight
giving one more glance
downward
I stay affixed
under this eave
awaiting a closure
of wing, sky
and the hungry eye.
Painting by Edwin Henry Landseer, 'The falcon' c. 2837 in Public domain.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Nocturnal trees
See these
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll
if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.
And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.
They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.
Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
These are nocturnal trees.
Smell them.
Smell them
in deeply. Take thier scent away. With you.
They are not disturbed easily.
They are the kind
with night vision
in tones of chlorophyll
if you trust inklings, as in sense,
hints like notes of new saplings, young.
And it is simply our symbiotic nature,
a pair, apparently, a part.
These people.
These trees.
The leaves.
Branches, hands, bark
wave with symmetrical measures.
They, they, all day,
stealing each others breath away
naturally. Dancing. Aglow in green envy.
Tiny white feathers fly
the falcon feasts naturally
the tree is happy to night.
Painting by Caspar David Friedrich, c. 1819, Two men contemplating the moon, in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, October 23, 2016
Symbolography in Sakura
People think it says my name.
I forget that it is there,
not seeing it the way others do-
it says Unity,
anyway.
Signs you say...
it was the pine that drew me here.
The smell, the sap was worth all the needles,
it gave me something to do
as a conifer.
The creek out back, back at home was the gate,
outside.
There were no bears there
despite the name given.
Summer rains are sad it is said,
but how a monsoon is cleansing
and out of character,
it is welcoming.
And I agree, the cherry blossoms do resemble sunset clouds,
or blushing cheeks,
“searching the wind
the hawks cry
in the shape of its beak” said John Knight
follow my calligraphy
do you know the inference
“The sparrow hops,
Along the veranda
With wet feet.” (in Spring)
A fisherman, a nun,
the snow, years past,
the snow, years past,
the pattern of the iris
and blood stain of cherries
are simply symbologies
and not to fear.
are simply symbologies
and not to fear.
When I was a little person
my grandfather used to make me climb his rickety old ladder
my grandfather used to make me climb his rickety old ladder
to pick the bulging bunches of bing cherries
from the neighbors' tree
from the neighbors' tree
which hung liberally
over the fence.
Good fences make good neighbors, he would smile casually.
He also read Frost to me.
My grandmother would watch me from the kitchen window
clutching her hot black cup of coffee
clutching her hot black cup of coffee
staining a fake bone china cup
showing her dentures in propped open way,
her name was Pearl.
Lately, the murders have caught my eye,
and I noticed how they prefer the pines.
Reeds and ginger,
even a shiny new Gold Medallion
are futile flora for them,
they mock my gestures in watering.
they mock my gestures in watering.
All the while, the falcon still
stalks the tiny ficus dwellers,
stalks the tiny ficus dwellers,
the cats watch back intently.
Tenacious,
I have not given up either-
even when my thoughts remain stained
with disease like Worry.
with disease like Worry.
Thankfully, the summer rain washes all the blood off the driveway,
he succeeds
he succeeds
tiny under feathers fly low as
cherry juice runs by in a river
where I stand.
where I stand.
The crows cry out
my name, blaming the mockingbirds
fortune on the falcon, my fault.
fortune on the falcon, my fault.
It all sounds the same,
sole(less)ness, a cumulus,
one cymbal marks the end.
sole(less)ness, a cumulus,
one cymbal marks the end.
Painting by Frank Nuderscher, Cherry Blossoms (1914) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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