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)



The minute, slightly mad,


Flew across the lawn

Dashing against the porch railing

Just missing

As it – instead – swooped

Up to the edge of the roof

Hissing, Squawking…

Standing in the driveway

I responded;

And the cat, brown tabby, feral,

Hiding under the porch

Talking to me [meowed] as well

…it was almost like a duet.




Sitting in the front row with an ex-con who laughed at the jokes no one else “got” in the film STIR CRAZY (with Gene Wilder and Richard Pryor), and I’m busting out, Blue screaming Meanies, freedom reason season —  time to break on through to the other side, but I wish I knew what the jokes were [all about]…


When the sun came out, oh what a sigh of relief;

a consistent cloud-covered sky makes life bleak.

Clear blue canvas — yellow sunlight touches the grass.

I breathe IN the clear air, basking – but alas

the wind [curtains closing] shifted the gray clouds back.

Life is smaller, a need for introspection, a knack…


When sunlight (branches a sieve) reaches a leaf

It hopscotch, picking and choosing which surface shines —

Shadows and lights, however dazzling, can be brief;

So I focus on what I see NOW – and its “mine.”


Treetops – interlacing fingertips

Life-light’s stronger when it has to fight

to get through…

I’m in the shadows looking up…