POETIC BLOOMINGS is a Phoenix Rising Poetry Guild site established in May 2011 to nurture and inspire the creative spirit.


Photo Credit: Laurie Kolp

Photo Credit: Laurie Kolp

This morning, our poetry has gone to the birds. Choose a bird (Laurie gets first dibs on the Cardinal!) and make it the focus of your poetic piece. Common or exotic, wild or domesticated – these poems have waited to spread their wings and soar.

How quickly this month has flown! Don’t let it head south without posting your avian verse!





take time to observe
and rediscover this:
does not equal
nothing special.
© Copyright – Marie Elena Good – 2013




Near the park bench along the lake,
he takes his time basking
in its reflective glow.
His avian brethren swoop
again and again, enticing;
it is nice that they are concerned.
But he has learned that to fly
high, he must go it alone.
Until he makes his way home.

© Copyright – Walter J. Wojtanik 2013

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623 thoughts on “GONE TO THE BIRDS – PROMPT #92

    (a shadorma)

    One day, her
    wings will spread widely,
    giving rise
    to her low-
    ly state, and all will see her
    as I always have.

  2. OMG!!! I am going to LIVE this!! Birds are my favorite animal ever. Thanks guys!

  3. Pingback: A Swan Song « echoes from the silence

  4. Had to write about my FAVORITE bird. 🙂

    Swallow (a Renga)

    On delicate wings,
    She soars into the heavens;
    Graceful little bird.

    Darting hither and thither,
    Never resting nor tiring.

    Vibrant colors trace
    Her form, flashing in the sun,
    ‘Til she darts away,

    ‘Til her flight is out of sight,
    Lost in fields of bluest blue.

  5. Marjory M Thompson (MMT) on said:

    and each of you are on the wing ahead of the rest of us with neat poems of your feathered friends. I’ll have to think on this one.

  6. (A Haiku)

    Nightingale’s song sounds
    Clearly in the moonlit skies,
    Sweetest melody.

  7. Laurie Kolp on said:

    Ahh… we can’t let him down, now can we? I’ll be back…

  8. Laurie Kolp on said:

    My Cardinal Connection

    His chirps like chimes
    scattered sporadically,
    a loving wake-up call;
    tattered, vast reverie.

    Skirted, a straw periphery
    a curved mirror image,
    inverted flash of red
    the edge is all I see.

    Still, I’m touched.
    An electric mist of peace
    surging through my body
    overwhelming ecstasy.

    High upon the Richter scale,
    His presence known to me–
    a cardinal connection, above
    the love He’s shown me.

  9. The Eagle

    David De Jong

    The eagle soars overhead,
    Dancing in the sun,
    Wings full spread.

    His eye, on the surface,
    Searching, what lies beneath,
    Flight, still keeping pace.

    As a spear from the tower,
    He dives without fear,
    Beneath the surface, all cower.

    Swift and accurate, his attack,
    Grasping his prey in a clinch,
    What he holds will not go back.

    So the Lord, watches overhead,
    Dancing the stars, the moon, the sun,
    Arms of mercy, full spread.

    His eye on the surface,
    Knowing all that’s beneath,
    Never rejecting infinite grace.

    High on his cross, his tower,
    He died without fear,
    Without the cross, all cower.

    Swift and accurate, his attack,
    Carrying lost sheep in his grasp,
    What He holds, will never go back.

  10. Robin Sighting

    Robin bobbin’ searching for worms
    Unaware of how it affirms
    Humans watching for spring
    Feathered of orange and brown confirms
    As hapless worm wiggles and squirms
    “I saw one!” people sing

  11. THE QUACK OF JOY by Salvatore Buttaci

    To the drake god, to the clouds that do his bidding,
    Let that rain pour down on this one happy duck!
    The dry season of mud dust and arid sitting
    Have left me quacking like someone out of luck.
    I waddle about on the lakeside, recalling
    Those long-gone duckling days when life came easy.
    There was a mama and a papa spoiling
    Me, busying themselves looking to please me.
    And I, fool feathered bird, wanted to grow up,
    Fend for myself, be independent, do my thing.
    What did I know? Did the lake waters flow up
    Or down? Which wind could move my wings?
    And now, at a crossroad, close to ending it all,
    Debating whether to dash this duck shell of mine
    full speed into a very hard tree, I feel it fall:
    That rain from gray skies. I took it as a sign.
    This lucky duck would subscribe to happy songs.
    I would make it my business to clean up my act,
    Forget self-pity, get out there and be strong.
    Oh, rain, rain, don’t stop falling on my back!


  12. I LOVE Sparrow, Marie. Such a wonderful message.

  13. The Doves

    How quiet is the dove who flies alone;
    I saw them only yesterday as two
    who, nuzzled beak to beak and sang in tones
    of love; a murmur midst the dark`ning blue.

    There’s silence in her nest where love once bloomed
    and colder than the freeze at winter’s crest;
    a song of desperation in her tune;
    returning to a home where there’s no rest.

    The sound of cooing from that solemn bird
    the sad-eyed, stately way she holds her head
    strikes dead my heart and makes me swallow hard;
    to know her need to bring him back, instead.

    How proud the dove who coos upon that limb;
    still sings for him her everlasting hymn.

  14. Macaw

    It is truly humbling
    when your pet is more beautiful
    than you can ever be,
    when you know he will live longer
    than you can ever dream,
    when he frequently mocks you
    with your own words.

  15. What made me think of a meadowlark?
    How long has it been? There was no house next door:
    a hackberry tree where cows had rested in the shade,
    tall grasses, brown as sugar in the summer sun,
    bending over yellow knots of clover and tiny cedars,
    to love like kittens. And the meadowlarks rising sudden
    from the sedge like grasshoppers, freckled eggs
    in the plaited grass, hidden to be found.

  16. Oh, Marie & Walt — love them both! Backyard birdwatcher that I am, this a a prompt that is near & dear to my heart. 🙂

    Timely, too, because I just penned a small stone that fits the bill (pun intended?) So… for now I’m cheating, and putting out yesterday’s small stone offering here — with a link to the picture. But, I WILL be back to read about all the lovely birdies — and hopefully be able to add a new one of my own for today’s prompt. Taking flight for now. 😉

    Hungry Hawk

    Plenty of vacancies – all perches empty
    at the backyard bird feeders; and
    right about the time we pause
    to consider the cause of the lull,
    we catch sight of him poised on the rail –
    still, silent, watching, waiting.
    He senses the camera click at once,
    turning his head completely around,
    seeking the source of the disruption.
    When I step too close, he deserts his post,
    vexed at having been disturbed.
    Only heartbeats later
    several dozen small birds descend,
    entirely too eager to resume dinner.

    You can see his pic here: http://wanponpopix.blogspot.com/2013/01/hungry-hawk.html

  17. Pingback: Meadowlark | Rough Words

  18. Opus

    “A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer; it sings because it has a song.” ~Lou Holtz

    A songbird perches on my sill.
    I want to sing along with him
    but just for now it’s only whim.
    I do believe I lack the skill.

    The bird then opens up his bill.
    His music fills my ears to brim.
    I want to sing along with him.
    A songbird perches on my sill.

    And suddenly I find the will.
    The song? An unexpected hymn.
    As one, we are two cherubim.
    My answer comes, but not until
    a songbird perches on my sill.

  19. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Lovely subject to write about! Meg, soo sweet; Walt, it’s always good to be Home…

  20. janeshlensky on said:

    I’ve written so many bird poems for years. I love ’em! So glad to have another excuse for writing about my feathered friends.

    Coffee with the Birds

    I take my coffee with the birds.
    Each day we sit together;
    while they eat seed, I sip and read
    circled by wing and feather.

    I count them all who flit and call,
    bedazzled by their hues,
    but bird behavior’s rise and fall,
    helps me a favorite choose.

    He is so neatly dressed—dapper—
    with white shirt and grey tails;
    a black scarf matches his short cap,
    his morning chirping hails

    the sun light’s yawn through every dawn
    and wakes his feathered fellows
    to rise and sing and hurry spring
    with birdsong a cappellas.

    Though small, he’s an adventurer,
    a chickadee Magellan,
    he circumnavigates allure
    with subtle colors dwellin’.

    Through snow and ice, he’s always nice
    to see as he is feeding.
    He chirps each day, as if to say
    he likes what I am reading.

  21. So, Jane–you think they ‘watch’ us too?
    I’m sure of it. It must be true.
    Your poem affirms this truth, this gem–
    The birds watch people watching them.

  22. Ellen Knight on said:

    As the Crow Flies

    As the saying goes,
    that is the route most direct
    from here to there.

    Up so high, they must
    surely see the trail
    unswerving, the path

    unwavering, mapped
    out amongst the clouds.
    But tell me, when

    was the last time you
    saw a crow flying
    in the straightest of lines?

    They hunt, forage,
    (sometimes at bird feeders)
    and mate for life.

    Plus, they’ve garnered
    quite the bad rap.
    A ‘murder of crows’.

    Now geese, on the other hand,
    they know how to stay
    the straight

    and narrow, and go
    so far as to point
    the way for others.

    And they honk just
    to be sure
    you are looking—like

    the roving revival tent,
    set up
    on the outskirts of town.

    But, ‘as the goose flies’
    just doesn’t quite
    have the same ring.

    Maybe because geese
    only raise their ruckus
    twice a year.

    But crows, when don’t
    you see (or hear them)

    Ellen Knight 1.27.13

  23. Ah ha! Ellen, you do know your crows! Loved this. They are amazing birds to me.

  24. The Kingfisher

    The river slides like time away,
    the button-willows’ branches sway.
    My boat slides through a silence vast,
    as gray-sky, whispering, overcast,
    asks if I’d put my oars aside
    and look
    and hear
    and pray
    and glide.

    I do.

    A chattering from the brushy shore
    draws mind and eyes and ears and more–
    yes, draws my heart–to a flash of blue,
    that flies from limb to branch. I view
    a fisherman at the river’s side.
    Blue crest,
    black beak,
    his pride.

    I see.

    I feel his pride, his royal content.
    He’s satisfied. The dives’ intent–
    the minnow that he sought to seek–
    is clasped within his hungry beak.
    I take my rod and reel and fly,
    throw out
    my line
    breathe deep,
    and sigh.

    I fish.

  25. I came a little too close to facing my mortality this week hence theis:

    Phoenix Rising

    The golden plumes
    tired by life
    worn ragged
    by the trials and tribulations
    frazzled by excess

    The glory days long gone
    burnt out
    washed up
    on the shores of desolation
    beached and breathless

    The burning starts within
    echoed by the sun
    flames leap
    consuming all that once was
    now ashes and regret

    Smoke slowly swirling round
    and up as a bird might
    new feathers form
    new wings flex and spread
    life springs anew

    The Phoenix rises screaming
    freedom and life reborn
    the new dawn
    fresh opportunities beckon
    a time to start again


  26. claudsy on said:

    This is my first for today. Call this a memoir review in Haibun.

    Keepers of the Law

    For the First People, Crow guards Creator’s Sacred Law for all, bringing his reminders to those in need at times of crisis. So it was with Jim, Mother’s tame Crow that lived in our midst, laughing at his own jokes, entertaining us with antics of avian kind. Jim’s laughter rang out from roof’s peak, greeting visitors to our home, startling in its volume and staccato delivery. Who would expect such sardonic address to the simple act of opening a car door? Like any child too short to reach the doorknob, he knocked for entrance and waited to come in, ready with a tale from his daily wanderings. Acting as escort on berry-picking trips, he rode Mother’s shoulder, constantly scanning the skies and woods as her security detail, and always ready to act as food tester lest some berry be unsavory on the brambles. For all his hilarity, his adamant regard for tobacco found him destroying Mother’s chosen habit, pulling cigarette after cigarette from her pack, stomping, picking, and shredding until scattered fragments blew away on the breeze. His message, his condemnation, met with disregard. Is that why he chose to tease Dad’s bird dog and have his last laugh?

    Mom missed Jim’s message,
    Paid death’s price for ignoring
    Crow, Sacred Law Keeper.

  27. titmouse

    Whoever named you, little one,
    knew you not at all.
    Why else would they bequeath you
    a name so far beneath you?

    Tiny in appearance, perhaps,
    inconspicuous, unobtrusive,
    but, truly, there are few
    who could be as fierce as you.

    Tenacious, curious, courageous, you
    are smarter than any starling,
    sentinel as a crow may be,
    out-braving any chickadee.

    Wily, dexterous, deceptive, you are
    no doubt a super-hero
    (who’s itty bitty size
    is a most discrete disguise.)

    [You can view his disguise here: http://wanponpopix.blogspot.com/2013/01/titmouse.html%5D 😉

  28. Echoes of Loco

    Twirling, twirling, twirling
    on your perch.

    Singing, singing, singing
    “Old Kentucky Home.”

    Laughing, laughing, laughing
    to show mirth.

    Crying, crying, crying
    catching your breath.

    Talking, talking, talking
    “Hello Loco.”

    Playing, playing, playing
    with a spoon.

    Fluffing, fluffing, fluffing
    your green feathers.

    Dilating, dilating, dilating
    your orange eyes.

    Giving, giving, giving
    us such joy.


    There’s a dot,
    a silhouette unmoving, blurred
    against the purplish cotton wool
    of the sky.

    I twiddle frantically
    the knob on the binoculars,
    until the fuzzy edges
    come into sharp focus.

    My friend the kestrel
    is hovering there,
    searching for prey
    in the pasture below.

    The scene loses clarity
    as the hunter dives;
    a whirr of wings as he swoops,
    to soar again, satisfied.

  30. claudsy on said:

    This is my last contribution for today. Yes, it’s another memoir piece. I can’t seem to get myself out of that mode for some reason. I wonder why.


    Mom’s narrow shoulder
    Supported his tiny talons,
    Kept his shaking body
    Inside jacket’s hood,
    Allowing drying time,
    Without risking sickening.

    Peeper, Mom’s feathered
    Baby with eyes huge, shocked,
    Unknowing of his rescuer,
    Huddled, shook, and warmed
    By gentle human helping hand.

    Fallen owlets fail often
    And Peeper was not fledged,
    But a fluff ball of down
    And moaning peeps of hunger
    Growing louder by the mile.

    Held next to human heart’s beat,
    Fed a raw meatball from bag
    Warmed to temp and fed to
    Gaping beak, he settled and slept,
    Housed snugly in half-peck basket,

    Months moved on with his growth,
    Lessons in Hooting came in time,
    Followed by flight and fight,
    And taking prey from above,
    All things owls needs to survive.

    After release into adulthood
    Peeper returned with mate
    For Mother’s look-see approval,
    Leaving no doubt to his health
    Or continued well-being.

  31. with the setting sun
    a V-formation of geese pass by,

    a game of follow the leader

    creating an arrow without a tail
    in the evening sky

  32. The Visitor
    While she sleeps bathed in moonlight
    and loneliness he hides in evening
    shadows, black capped and silent.
    When early sunbeams break through
    the crevices of leafy boughs, she finds
    him right outside her bedroom window.
    Prepared, she baits him to come closer,
    aims carefully, shoots, then grins.
    A perfect photo of the chickadee.

  33. Henrietta Choplin on said:


    calls me from my

  34. slockard on said:

    So many beautiful bird poems today. Mine is not, but inspired by my morning jog.


    Don’t shake your feathers at me
    I didn’t ruffle them.
    You’re the one blocking my path,
    riddling my road to health.
    You could at least let me pass
    without wondering if you will
    or won’t move.
    I know you hear my breathing
    the thumping of my shoes
    the jingle of my keys.
    But you wait until I’m upon you
    before your flock
    lifts and takes flight,
    leaving me to bob and weave
    through goose poop
    once you disperse.

  35. janeshlensky on said:


    Young turkey gobblers
    preen beneath the oaks, showing
    off their tail-feathers,
    fanned out like a winning hand
    of cards, posturing for hens.

  36. janeshlensky on said:

    This is an older quatern, but I think this bird needs “representation” here 😉

    Among the trees

    A flash of red among the trees
    pulls me from window to window.
    Binoculars in hand, I wait
    in silence, ears leaning, tuned to

    a pileated woodpecker,
    a flash of red among the trees,
    like a pterodactyl reborn
    in black and white, red plume rising

    like flame to crown him as he delves
    deep for insects in dead branches,
    a flash of red among the trees,
    yodeling at work, keen on ants.

    He does not know I wait for him,
    ignoring other feathered friends
    for my uncommon visitor,
    a flash of red among the trees.

    • Henrietta Choplin on said:

      I just adore the woodpecker!!

    • “…red plume rising like flame to crown him”

      So very poetic! There is a pileated in the forest where Keith and I go for a few days at least annually. We’ve never seen him up close. Keith wants so badly to catch him with his camera.

      Thanks for giving him the representation he deserves. 😉

      Marie Elena

      • janeshlensky on said:

        Oh, I hope Keith won’t give up on him, squirrelly bird that he is. I got 3 really bad shots from a window but he was a bit to far away and the image was grainy. He’s a lot clearer in my brain anyway (wiinkwink).

    • Beautiful, Jane! Woodpeckers are amazing birds!

    • Oh yes! Right there with you, Jane! Caught a glimpse of this guy in our yard exactly once. (Couldn’t believe my eyes. Woke my husband up to see him!) Here’s hoping Keith gets a photo (or two or three!), Marie — and posts ’em for us all to see! 🙂

    • claudsy on said:

      Absolutely love this one, Jane. I could follow you as your stalked the elusive one. Great job.

  37. Pingback: Of the Wild | Metaphors and Smiles

  38. Marjory M thompson on said:


    I watch you dip and flow
    over the foaming waves,
    a dancing spector against
    the setting sun

  39. Kildeer

    Particular about where their pinions
    touch ground, kildeer strut
    their long legs back and forth
    in shallow puddles along side
    a golf course, two block maximum.
    We never see them
    on any other streets. They crouch
    down in grasses, like dogs
    on their haunches, legs hidden
    by round bodies. When dogs pass,
    they stand to full height, skittering
    quickly away, only to lie in wait
    at the next mound of grass, knowing
    the dogs will never catch up to them.
    Kildeer, black and white striped
    necks like bird cons, lift, shake
    out their feathers, white underbellies
    mooning frustrated dogs.

  40. They are certain and confident teasers. Love this, Purple.

  41. One more…I drank tea for supper, and it wasn’t decaf….


    A billion?
    A zillion?

    How many have died?

    How many have pecked
    and then clucked,
    and been fried?

    How many ran circles
    in Mawmaw’s back yard,
    their heads in her hands,
    after chops quick and hard?

    Would drumsticks and wings
    be too numerous a sum?

    Through drive-thrus just
    how many nuggets have come?

    And if I knew the answers–
    what questions might come?

    Would I then have to wonder,
    if chickens arise,
    is humanity doomed?
    Will hens be our demise?

    If they all pecked together,
    would we all have a chance?
    Would brave red roosters rule?
    Would chicks take a fowl stance?

    Do they know…
    …that a zillion gazillion have died?

    The barnyard might not be
    the best place to hide.

  42. Lark’s Song

    The sun lifts her fiery head
    Over the horizon;
    Night, old and weary, flees
    Her red splendor in dread.

    And one clear call
    Rings out, a sign
    That morning’s come

    To us


    Times you’ve chased and lapped the sun
    badminton games and solstice queen won
    winding back focus to let birdie fly
    revealed new worlds through swatted eye
    through luminous light birdie flies higher
    while children dance round crackling pyre
    watered down laughter dissolves jubilation
    still birdie soars on wings of elation
    A soft breeze, a nudge, an angel’s hiss
    downward spiral overtakes inertial bliss
    A lobbed sensation of parabolic flight
    spinning smashing style evokes Olympic might

    ~Randy Bell ~

  44. The Grackle

    The grackle is coming,
    that bully in black
    with dangerous rainbows
    adorning his back.

    The grackle is coming,
    there’s no time to waste.
    The sparrows all scatter
    the seed in their haste.

    The grackle is coming.
    He’ll take all he sees,
    commanding the feeder
    as every bird flees.

    The grackle is coming
    but I am on guard.
    There’s no room for hoodlums
    like him in our yard.

    The grackle is coming
    but he will soon learn:
    It’s best to go elsewhere
    and never return!


    With a soft whistle and
    shuffle of wings,
    a little Northern saw-whet owl
    swooped down to perch
    amidst the empty branches of a red maple tree
    on the snow-covered front lawn.

    Eyes wide open,
    this little feathered creature
    just stared down at us
    with wise round eyes–
    mere humans
    thinking we owned the place!

  46. Marie and Walt, love your sparrow and pigeon… but some birds I am not so fond of…

    For the Birds

    Flicker, you really are a handsome bird—
    I give you that.
    I watch you on the garden path, head poised,
    wings furled, tail flat,
    stalking whatever tidbits you might eat.
    Still, you’re a brat,
    greeting the dawn with roof-vent serenade,
    I jolt awake—my house is falling down?!?
    who said you got to be that loud? Not I.
    Scat, flicker, scat!

  47. Dove of the Morning

    I open my window to the morning
    To the sky flushed with dawn
    To you, little wake-up singer, your
    Soft lonely note repeated in my sorrow
    “Coo, coo, coo…”

    My eyes sore and aching
    From lonely night weeping
    Your song is my sadness…
    “Coo, coo, coo…”

    Now I can see you
    Perched on the handle
    Of the old pump he kept
    In the garden to remind us
    Of happy times gone by

    The sunlight has awakened
    The grass bursting with shadows
    You tilt back your head and pour
    Forth your greeting to the world…

    Singing joy to the morning
    A new day is upon us
    Seek the beauty in the moment
    In the notes of my song.

  48. Rionero’s Swallows – the Sky’s Acrobats

    Bladed feathery sky seekers soar above mortals
    Hover high over Hades but still below Heaven
    They trail skeins of surreal snowflakes
    Slice blueness to reveal scents –
    Fill mouths with the flavour of strawberries over-ripe

    Then, like Icarus, they’re on the wing, climbing again
    Taking the sky, ever loftier, blending blindingly
    The beating of thousands of wings, the coliseum’s roar
    Those that soar, might just as easily plummet, but no,
    Observe – they dive, they swoop, yet never collide …


  49. New Names

    Unopened boxes still piled in the dining room,
    two of everything, at least,
    from forty-plus years of marriage,
    from sixty-plus years of living,
    twelve years at the last stop,
    thirteen before that,
    another twelve even earlier,
    now in their Forever House, they laughed,
    because the next one is the Old Folks’ Home.

    Lots of work to do,
    so much to give away,
    find new homes for old favorites,
    find the garbage can for lesser lights.
    Some friends called them hoarders,
    themselves, they thought romantics,
    memories buried in those things of theirs,
    a comfortable history, togetherness stuff.

    The boxes could wait, though.
    So much more important to do.
    Barbers and dentists and grocers to find,
    An honest mechanic, a hairdresser who’d listen.
    A new vet, maybe top of the early list,
    the cats as demanding as ever,
    even with their new window spot, cat tv,
    new birds to track, new names to give.

    In Sedona, they’d had a hummingbird highway,
    Palm Springs provided ducks and geese and egrets,
    making their way south in winter,
    Marin had, of all things, a few eagles, and many hawks.
    What would the southland bring,
    America’s Finest City, the signs said,
    America’s Best Weather, the slogans rang.

    So far, some overweight doves,
    many finches and wrens,
    ironically, an eagle-eyed cooper’s hawk,
    and one mightily bossy and possessive hummingbird,
    all feasting at our feeders,
    all surely named by Max Cat,
    though, so far, he’s keeping it to himself,
    content with his avian cinemascope.

    Wondering, do birds name themselves,
    or one another?
    Something’s going on between them,
    chirping and peeping and singing all day,
    some of it to let us know the feeder’s nearly empty,
    a lot of it some form of tree-to-tree repartee,
    still more a type of alert., that hawk being so near.
    That bossy hummer’s words are clear – Mine! Get out!
    The doves’ coos are less evident – sweet nothings?
    (or are they simply simpletons?)
    The wrens don’t have much to say. They come toeat.

    Whatever the communication,
    there’s some sort of community out there,
    in the trees, on the fence, at the feeders.
    They must be sending messages to other trees and rails,
    new visitors approaching every day.
    Remindful of our distant friends,
    a gentle jab- keep in touch, make that call, write that note.
    New friends to make, of course, new names to learn,
    but old ones to maintain, familiar names to cherish,
    and maintenance it requires, surely worth the effort.

    Unopened boxes still piled in the dining room,
    Some containing photos,
    others with cards and letters, mementos all.
    We move every dozen or so years,
    our history and friends trailing behind.
    We always own, since Barbara always says
    she doesn’t rent, she nests.
    This might be the last stop,
    our feathers thinner and grayer,
    names getting harder to remember.
    This might be the last stop.

  50. janeshlensky on said:

    I think this form is called Triquatrain…does anyone know? The hummers always fuss at me if their feeders get low, but seem more keen on territory than food. Thus, the poem.

    Hummingbird Lessons

    The hummingbirds do not mince words
    around the feeders’ flowers.
    They never lack for sneak attack—
    can fight for hours and hours

    against their kind—no, they’re not blind—
    just territorially mad;
    the nectar’s there, but they don’t care
    and that is very sad.

    I give them food, no need for feud;
    they hardly sit and drink it.
    Instead they battle, squeak, and prattle
    like children over a trinket.

    I love their hues, their greens, reds, blues,
    their aerial acrobatics,
    but zooming fuming warfare grooming
    suggests they’re just fanatics

    with wings and beaks; with zeal they seek
    to take the feeders captive,
    to plant some rag of feathered flag—
    they’re not at all adaptive.

    They so remind me of the kind
    of wars humans engage in;
    when sharing might have served the right
    we manufacture raging.

    In each attack and or fighting back,
    the purpose we defeat,
    destroying gift with foolish rift
    so no one gets to eat.

    Folks like me just love to see
    all creatures small and great,
    but realize we are unwise
    if we only feed our hate.

  51. Bird Brain

    When you’re raised
    With the smell of leather case
    Snap of latch, and cold, hard metal
    Of binoculars
    Dog-eared bird books
    As company in the back seat
    Wonder surrounding all things avian
    Is not questioned, it’s like breathing

    A reflex
    To check a flash of feather
    Pause and peer
    Through light and leaves
    Find that bird shape
    Check markings and
    Mentally file for
    Later identification

    Most are known
    Deposited during decades
    Of watching parents point
    And classify

    Blue jay, Scrub jay, Stellar’s jay
    Mockingbird, Bushtit,
    Yellow rumped warbler,
    Tennessee warbler,
    Red bellied woodpecker,
    Downy Woodpecker,
    Red tailed, Red shouldered,
    Or Cooper’s Hawks

    My feet automatically stop
    To watch any flock
    Fly overhead
    Shifting from shadow
    To white or color

    It’s a love forever
    Nested in my heart

    –Couldn’t pass this one up 🙂 Thanks you two!

  52. Gull-Grey Gales

    They dip then dive –
    I watch full-winged seagulls
    painting the dull grey sky
    with the tip of their wings. But one,
    he is translucent in winter colours
    of clouds, tossed and loose,

    a spirited curl on currents of wind,
    and he calls to me of free earthly
    bounds. A gust of wings whip
    torrents of rain into a spectral
    mirage on tilt feather. This one,
    he’s an acrobat, circus bound –

    plucked from the seashore, tossed
    up and over, further and more
    distantly inland. He soars under
    the big top – a circus runaway
    from his familiar salted sand.
    And he is tossed again on the tip
    of wings, flying on gull-grey gales.

  53. I AM out here. It’s turned into one of those weeks, and it’s only Tuesday. I am loving the work here again (no big surprise here) and don’t look forward to Saturday where I have to choose only one of you to carry the torch. Well, at least my half of it anyway. Will TRY to comment individually if opportunity presents itself.

  54. Henrietta Choplin on said:

    Toucan Weather?

    ~warmth lingers~
    filling me with joy…

  55. Pingback: Mocking | Whimsygizmo's Blog

  56. Mocking

    Bird, it’s shocking
    how much you don’t
    have to say, just
    mumbling away
    on another’s song.
    I suppose there’s
    nothing wrong with
    humming along, but
    has it really been that
    long since you
    knew your own


  57. Sparrows

    Sparrows huddled against the cold,
    Remembering the warmth of spring
    While suffering the bitter sting
    That wintry winds will surely hold.

    Those sparrows are a welcome sight
    To one whose heart is weak and lost,
    The line between two worlds uncrossed
    By birds bathed in angelic light.

    The spirits of loved ones who passed
    Return to keep watch over me
    With loving eyes that still can see
    The shrinking shadow that I cast.

    On feathered wing they venture near,
    Reminding me I have their love,
    Small angels sent from up above,
    Those sparrows holding hearts so dear.

  58. Just had to take another stab at this prompt with a little homage to Alfred Hitchcock (and by extension Daphne du Maurier.)

    Birdsong of Destruction

    Where others see serenity in flight,
    I see demons on the wing,
    An airborne menace girded in razor talons,
    Waiting for the perfect opportunity,
    Screeching caws echoing
    From the depths of Hell
    To signal their wanton attacks.
    Humans are ill-designed
    To defend against
    Predatory aeronautics
    From such indiscriminate foes,
    Beak and claw ready to disembowel
    Perceived invaders to their turf.
    Some say the world will end
    In a hail of fire and brimstone,
    But I know the apocalypse approaches
    With feathers and birdsong.

    • The Birds!!! Well done, Mary! You’ve captured the eery mood brilliantly. Smart and spooky!!

      Marie Elena

      • Thanks! It wasn’t particularly hard for me to channel that sense of terror from the movie, birds frighten me to no end! (except, perhaps, on my plate with a side of potatoes and gravy.)

    • claudsy on said:

      Love it, Mary. I know others who could sympathize with you. Marie’s right; well captured and tamed.

      • Thanks! Sometimes I think it’s the “quite contrary” side of me that likes looking at a prompt from a slightly twisted viewpoint, but in the end I guess it’s all about bringing the poem to life. 🙂

        • claudsy on said:

          That seems to be the bottom line, Mary. Sometimes the poem goes where your mind isn’t tracking, which means Muse has taken control and will darn well take those words wherever she wants. And sometimes, it’s best ti ket go of the reins. At least for me, it is.

  59. Love all these poems about our feathered friends!
    Mine’s about bats-I know, not a bird but it flies!


  60. This is my halting attempt at prose poetry with nods to both Coleridge and C.S. Lewis.


    I used to pretend that I was different, that I wasn’t born with it around my neck, but the smell of death was strong as hell, stinging my eyes like sinking ships. Through a blur of salt and pain, I saw the shadow of another pair of wings stretching east to west (or maybe top to bottom?) across the blackened sky. They reached with hands that knew my name, knew the whitewashed hollow I’d become. He took away the dying things, the cages I had fashioned into shiny things, to plant something beautiful and green inside the ashes.

  61. 47 poems, 455 comments…only one of the reasons I love this place

  62. Winter Birds

    Oh, how to pick just one
    as they sit there in the sun
    eating seed
    and squawking for their spot
    not satisfied with what they got –

    But he darts in quick
    to get his taste
    and back to a branch, with haste
    to eat and savor –

    He never squawks
    nor causes any fuss
    just minds his business
    with his sweet face mugging for us.

    Unlike these fickle winter birds
    he stays all year
    to be heard,
    his little song
    and sweet, sweet face
    always cheers me up
    and brings me to a sunny place.

    He is the Chickadee-dee-dee.

  63. Black-capped Chickadee

    With his hat of black
    and matching cravat,
    he makes quite the dapper fellow,
    bringing style and charm
    (he looks good on anyone’s arm)
    and his voice
    is a happy whimsical song
    (which can right a wrong)
    and puts a smile on your face
    and give you a little grace
    no matter the season or place.

  64. Marjory MT on said:

    Test run to see of I can change my e-mail address when I poat this….

  65. Dove (a Cinquain)

    White dove,
    Lovely symbol
    Of God’s heart, sent down from
    Heaven to grace His beloved
    Son’s head.

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