Early sunlight, morning, dawn…
fringes of green grass glistened yellow —
the slight brown ears of the baby Rabbit
almost imperceptible among the blades.
When I blinked he dashed for cover under the tool shed.
Seeking
Piece by piece, separate the thousand parts of a jigsaw puzzle,
then throw them in the air.
Did you see where the iota[s] fell?
Now, put the bits back together.
That’s what waking up is like
and sometimes my morning walks —
a time to figure out where the fragments lay.
STARLING SAGA SUMMER 2019
>>>>>The Starlings swirled <<<<<
Gold flecks dispersed –
Neighboring black feathers…
Wings spread.
They flew to the hole in the roof;
long grass dangling from one beak,
berries in another…
Down to the ground
Peck, peck
Up to the top of the street lamp,
Lifting its slight wings trying to chirp
I lost count:
which one was an adult,
which one was a child ?
A Starling perched on the windowsill
Looking UP
Took awhile for the decision to be made
[fly back to the nest, sanctuary, home..?]
>>>>>A Starling’s beak is golden.<<<<<
Meld (REDUX)
thin black-velvet jacket, ruffles around her neck, sun-streaked… a glimpse through the narrow black-framed window,…
the fragile black and crystal dragonfly hummed as it flew through the air, almost luminous.
TREES – another thought
I think that I shall never see
a soul as sanguine as a tree:
Thousand tongues twittering, whispering
as the wind through the leaves, rustling –
Giddy-UP the tree trunk grows TALL …
stairway to the sky, ultimate law.
If left alone a tree will thrive;
Ancestral conversations MINE.
Fingers stretching, tender tree twigs touch
Spectral currents sigh – it’s a bit much.
Place your hand on a tree and listen,
sanguine sap, a tree’s solution.
(Kudos to Joyce Kilmer…)
IN-BETWEEN THE CRACKS
The cat leaped to top of the tall tall wall.
Clutching the edge [end] of that ledge the cat looked down at me.
— So proud.
Was it due to the night that the cat was able to do the impossible?
When we stroll in the shadows we become ghosts ourselves.
— Shapeshifters.
A glimpse of
tangerine sunlight
“puddles” — sprawling squat bush
the tabbies hiding…
I looked down
flat yellow flowers,
they’re twisted petals
within the green grass.
…hello.
the cat leaning,
tickling my forehead
with its whiskers.
BIRD POETS — an essay
Sometimes, when seeking the gist of a word, look at the second definition in the dictionary. (I prefer OED.)
Poetry is “something that arouses strong emotions because of its beauty.”
This morning, when I went for a walk, I hear a bird sing. Its verse reminded me of a Piccolo – each singular note was strong and uplifting.
I wonder.
When humans created their musical instruments did they consciously imitate the birds, or was it a matter of the heart, i.e. INSTINCT?
A poem is “something regarded as comparable to poetry in its beauty.”
Each morning, when I go for a walk, I listen to the birds singing. I’ve learned to meditate on the sound. With a little bit of practice I learned to feel the sound. And with a little bit of practice, a shift in consciousness, a walk up the stairs so to speak – I learned to SEE IT.
For instance:
Small stones dropped into a slow-moving stream [of water]…
Burbling old peculator, the coffee’s hot and ready to pour…
A scratchy throat, fresh sandpaper pressed against the newly honed wood…
Accent on a letter, little hat, le petit chapeau, circumflex – that’s what this particular bird’s poem sounds like….
Definition of A Poet: “A person possessing special powers of imagination or expression.” (OED)
SNAP CRACKLE AND POP! 