The Wild, Wild East

Black crow’s
harassing white-tailed hawk again,

arctic cold
dangling icicles from their wings when

they fail to
flap, gliding in the spinning wind.

It’s ripped
their wings and rattled their brains.

I’m not
going out, not me.

Round brown
sparrow’s flown right down junco’s hungry throat,

the arctic
cold drifting snow over spring’s lean offerings, and when

they plunge
off the feeder and lose their seat at the table,

nuthatch and
chickadee snatch their seeds and spittoon the hulls.

I’m not
going out, not me.

Red-capped woodpecker
and cardinal watching, wind-whipped,

perch on
arctic-iced twigs and dream that when

their
feathered ‘friends’ smash each other to the ground,

they can snatch
a bite and reel back to the safe, soft pines.

I’m not
going out, not me.

At the Feeder

While the snow whirls

the junco,
gray and white,

shares the
sunflower

seeds at the
feeder

with the
sparrow, brown and rust,

but not

his own kin

a second
junco, gray and white,

at whom he
rages

casts back

into
the storm

while at
school

the twins and

triplets fight

fur and
feather

tooth and
nail

and worldwide

fellow
artists

scientists

poets

inventors

politicos

philosophize

extemporize

minimize

undermine

each others’

designs

and

dreams

too

close

to

their

own

.

Spring Suspension

Sharp and icy

winter's knife

slices through spring's soft

shimmering rain

scattering snowflakes

on red-breasted robins

sunny goldfinches

foraging mice,

and silencing

the daffodils'

trumpet song.

Tentative Territories

Bald Eagle, National Bird, please

                  do not eat

those terrified waterfowl migrants fleeing.

NaPoWriMo 2016

April is so close! Even though it's spring officially, winter is malingering with a last flurry of snow. It's a great time to ignore the naysayers and celebrate spring with poetry. You can visit many others who choose to take on the NaPoWriMo challenge by following this link and exploring the Contributors link.



National Poetry Writing Month 2016

Spring Bulbs

young green spikes

arrogantly flair their display

despite the lingering, aged snow

Going Home Late

dark

and not much to see . . .

rain draining and

scattering the headlights

useless against this wet road . . .

just the eerie appearance

of a tiny white hand . . .

the end of a broken branch

sleeved in bark . . .

pointing the way home

Hibernation

curled up,
sleeping soundly

inside of me,
snoozing

during the
noisy holiday season,

stretching
ever so slightly

during the
January thaw,

poking its
ears up at the sound

of rustling
seed catalogs

then
drifting back to sleep

until
jostled awake by the

curious
inquiring if any new words

were sunning
out on the bright

white
surfaces of sheets

of paper, or
if

there would be

6 more weeks

of silence

Last Night

By the bulging half moon's light

Orion hunted over my home

knowing full that I wished

for a dark and silent night.



But he was set on hunting

the double dozen turkeys who comb

our mown grass and forest edging

and perch on dark branches chatting.



Calling out to his buddy Mars

Orion stood outside my window

shouting their conquests from afar

waking me with all his bright stars.

Wind Break

From child memory

I recognize

                   you standing distant at the edge

of the abandoned field

          tall

         lank

      parched

       ragged

one

     of many

scarecrows waging stillness

against the winds of winter

        once

     long ago

      planted

       or left

in solitude to stand

cold roots clamped to lichened walls

come spring

a few sparse sprigs of youth

may scarf your branches and

lend you the warmth of middle age.

October

The flame of swamp maples

fallen

sizzles cold black

in the still water;

yellow embers cool

on the frost-tipped earth;

yet

high

on

one

lone

tree

a candle of leaves

flickers bright

fanned by the breath

of the autumn sun.