There’re subtle hues of blue in the sky;

celeste, cerulean, cesious, my.

Soothsayer’s breath, the wind, slayer of clouds;

Suspended particles gone, there’s no sound!

But what makes the sky BLUE, what shaft of light

stirs this illusionary color so bright?

Mist lingers, and the shadows doth scatter –

Fog, an atmospheric nuance, matters.

Blue has no layers, primary color…

Can I think of the sky as my Mother?


When your Soul needs to fly look towards the Sky;

A playful Mockingbird’s humor is wry.

Looking at birds up high, my mood spry –

Shy Clouds, drifting across the sky, change…BYE.

Celestial hues fluctuate, wonder why.

As a fae cloud dissipates does it sigh – ?

Leaving Thor homeless, rain fall from an eye;

I’d like to see a Hawk’s nest, but they’re sly.

Meditation’ll get me there, by and by.

If’ I could not “have” the sky, I would die.



aka – Why do they do that?


Lifting its face up, the Cat sniffed the sky;

then, closing its eyes, becoming “the why…”

Perched on a thin branch, the Blue Jay MUST see

as he turns his head back, to look AT me.

Art of the Stare, this narrow black Cat knows well.

It wyrds me out, this inscrutable tell.

The mad Mockingbird is a great linguist;

several voices “within” except for English.

When the wind blows the tall green grass’s bending,

But the quiet Rabbit stays put – hiding.



The air at Dawn is a good recipe.

Breathing in and out I seek clarity.

Sunlight shifts through the woods, funhouse mirrors.

When I walk among the trees I’m nearer

Chit-chat Barn Swallows, Avian Gossips;

when they stream overhead their talk blossoms.

A Red-Tailed Hawk soared between pine “summits.”

Soon after, a second Hawk followed.  “COMING!”

Slick ice on the road facilitates whit.

A ripped-up mailbox lays aside it.


The willful wind whistled in the rafters.

It’s an urgent need to know what matters.

The air was still and my mood was plunging;

Then a breeze touched my face, left me smiling.

A strong updraft snatched paper from the ground;

while rolling a trash bin without a sound.

One leaf trembled within a crowded bush;

clever wind to infiltrate, an “inrush.”

Ruffling the twigs, the top, a tall tree –

The wind’s its mother, affectionate glee.

Natural Nuances

Brown rivulets caressed the tabby’s back.

Courage, caution, for this cat there’s no lack.

Infrequent blue skies, sparse clouds, thin black sticks;

Blue Jay peering at me, up to no tricks

Meditating on my black cat’s eyes,

Is like walking down a hall by and by.

Starlings fluttering in the small puddles –

Bathing, dew, black and gold feathers, HUSTLE!

The Wind ruffled the tree’s feelings, Banshee

A faraway dog barks – Oh just to BE.


When a cat’s sniffing, does its nose wrinkle?

Myriad of smell in a scent – SIGNAL.

Whiff of Vanilla drifting in the air,

Evokes reaching into the Cookie Jar.

A shy Skunk cruising through the grass at night

Leaves an aromatic signature, right.

Birds flying into the Wild Blue Yonder,

Do they ever smell of pretty flowers?

Clairolfactance[ART], smelling what’s not there…

Can a Novel be construed on such fare?

OPUS 7 in Gee-Whiz Minor

When a prolonged frost creeps across the land
blossoming may be somewhat behindhand.
Playing with dust, a cat stirs up fun – “craic“.
Is such simple joy sadly archaic?
When a bird lands near, its voice an echo,
I seek the song, corner of the eye, dekko.
In my cluttered kingdom, my cat’s my chum,
but sometimes we collide, how bunglesome!
Sundays are good – a tranquil paseo;
contemplating the stroll of a black crow.

(I REALLY like that word dekko. It’s British slang, and it means “A GLANCE”. I want to use it my everyday who ha he, talk. For example, “Give it a dekko, will you? Anyway, THAT is how I watch the birds outside my window, corner of my eye, a GLANCE. They get nervous if I look at them full ON! HA! )



A kit of Pigeons pecking through the gravel;
they tip-toe ‘tween tourist toes, SO rabble.
When the Blackbirds forage, they’re a rabble.
I like hearing their musical babble.
Scurry of Squirrels, in the grass, dabble
in a frenzied burying, a “nut rabble.”
Angry Mockingbirds chase Crows (RATTLE!)
Nesomimus [group] Mockingbird Rabble.
Litter, kittens tumbling, they dazzle.
Purring calms the nerves of any rabble.



Just a cursory glance, keen Mockingbird
Mimicking all to levels most absurd.
Strutting through the seaweed, gulls loudly laugh
at the cell phone hogs [phubs] who ignore its stance.
The Crow’s pensive, “UFology?”
“Why unknown?” Explore HIS mythology.
Bold Blue Jay screamed at the aberration.
The windowsill’s bare – a seed cessation.
A Red-Winged Blackbird sings an Aria;
soaring ache which thrills me, a GLORIA.