Wren - Richard Fleming

See
the wren,
resplendent:
her clever eye,
her sweet essence. Deep, let her sleep be deep;
there, let the green hedge be her perfect bed;
the rye, the reed,
be her screen;
shelter
her.

Richard Fleming

Image : Pixabay - Nature-Pix

The Raven - Ian Duquemin

The Raven
Drenched in darkness
Eyes observing everything
Life... Death... Perversion
Unable to separate
As all is one
Life... The beginning of all ends
Death... The end of all beginnings
Perversion... All that lies between
There is no escape on these fragile wings
As only sorrow is truth
From a baby's cry to the final breath
The Raven observes you all

Ian Duquemin


Image : Pixabay - blackrabbitkdj

Blackbird - Richard Fleming

With catapult, once school was finished,
I went to hunt in woodland, high
above Belfast, in summer light
and heard, among leafed branches spread,
a blackbird, singing like a bell.
I took aim, shot; the missile flew
unerringly, my aim was true.
with awful suddenness it fell,
all broken. Exultation fled,
to be replaced by sickly fright.
I knelt to watch it slowly die.
Within me somewhere, light diminished.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Jetiveri

Owl - Richard Fleming

In a green lane in St Peter’s
near midnight, under a full moon,
a pale owl flew across my path, silently,
then low
over dark fields to the tree-line, hunting.
 
I turned
to watch his tireless sweep
over dumb ground, mist spreading like a shroud,
till I lost sight of him,
and coldness, creeping,
turned my leaden footsteps home.
 
In bed, near daybreak,
I jerk awake, heart pounding,
mindful of accelerating time, moments eaten up,
of golden, soundless wings,
that questing eye;
sharp talons reaching for my heart.

Richard Fleming


Image : Pixabay - Comfreak

My Kestrel At Port Soif - Tony Bradley

Have you noticed ever,
how unbelievably clever
the beautiful kestrels are?
with its amazing sight
in almost black night
even without a moon, or star.

Dropping from ninety to ten feet
in blustery rain or sleet
without the slightest sound
and hover, two feet away,
an unsuspecting prey
that's been long-targeted on the ground.

Circling, hovering, above the heath
it spots a urine trail,
fifty feet beneath
and  glides silent,through a rocky gap
then, so fast it swoops, to flail
its beautiful wings and tail
forming a deadly trap.

Tony Bradley

Image : Pixabay - adege

Two For Joy - Tony Gardner

One for sorrow, two for joy,
But any number cheers this boy.
Always checking land or sky
Hoping hard to spot a 'Pie'
Magpies are the smartest birds
Some even echoing our words
Smart of coat and smart of brain
Playful, sometimes raising Cain.
Years ago I found a chick
Fallen from it's nest on high
Took it home, handfed and reared
That fledgling to an adult bird.
At six months old, I let her go
She lingered, but at last she flew
And I swear she always knew
Where she could find a scrap or two
Maggies always were around
Our bird table or on the ground
Her name was 'Peggy', that is why
From all the birds that I see fly
My favourite is the Maggie Pie.

Tony Gardner

Flamingos - Oscar Milde

Thank you Lord, Flamingos cry,
surveying, with disdainful stare,
all manner of ignoble beasts
of crooked horn or matted hair.

Thank you, Dear Lord, they intone
their prayers of gratitude to Him,
for making Others ugly
while making Us so chic and slim.

Oscar Milde

Walter, The Pigeon Man - Tony Bradley

Most mornings, he’s there, round about ten
if he’d had a bad night, a little later, then
But Church on Sundays, the birds seem to know
almost as if, he’d told them so.

But then, one day, . . Walter came no more
the birds were searching the pier, the shore.
another dawn rises, and the pigeons hover
hoping for food, . . . but will anyone bother ?

Tony Bradley

The Ancient Mariner (A Sequel) - Richard Fleming

The Mariner from days of yore
(you may have read the tragic tale)
spent his pathetic days ashore
and, to all passers-by, he’d wail

about a curse, and have them check the albatross slung round his neck.
A grim and sad yarn, poor old goat: but that’s what Mr Coleridge wrote.

There is an update, I must tell:
a sequel, to be more precise,
a story that does not end well,
that really isn’t very nice.

By some fluke chance, the albatross, thought dead, woke up, and it was cross.
It started on a pecking spree: it pecked his arm, it pecked his knee,

it pecked him all about the head,
until the ancient sailor cried:
"Get off vile brute, I thought you dead!"
He fought it off but, though he tried,

no strategy was efficacious: the albatross was so tenacious.
At last, to gain his liberty, the Mariner fled back to sea.

Richard Fleming

Walter Le Page, L'homme des Pignons - Bryony de Lat

At the Model Yacht Pond, he's feeding the pigeons
never on Sunday, though, he's to church
they climb all over him, pecking the seed
sometimes, even on his head, they perch

Bryony de Lat

A Seagull's Prayer - Fred Brown

Today's poem is a "Golden Oldie" and was originally published here in August 2012

Footsteps fade on the sand runway
Through moon flight control and the tidal phase

Feathers shed from wayward courses
To new heights on the back of white horses

Spiralling round on thermals to heaven
Shores below left for dusk to redden

Crying laughter at the top of my voice
Till the oceans whisper without choice

Sail through me till my soul sings
With sunbeam wind-chimes under my wings

Breathe fluency into each wing flap
Till I soar with you over each mishap

Above dead suns, pink ice-sheets melting
Beyond bloated mountains, rainclouds pelting

To leave no trail of where I have flown
To let parted clouds be re-sewn

To lose trodden seashells to the tide
To live the rest of my life wide-eyed

Footsteps fade on the sand runway
Clear for landing on a brand new day

Fred Brown

Double Dutch Marvels - Bryony de Lat

One morning, on our lawn, after two stormy days
two pigeons were staggering, in a bit of a daze
we thought it best if they rested, in the shed
and made sure they were safe, warm and fed.

We saw from their rings they were racers from Holland
so we'd let them go when they were stronger
We phoned a pigeon fancier, that we knew
he said keep them overnight, or longer.

Because he had more suitable facilities
we drove them 3 miles to him, covered up in a crate
The next morning, we were staggered to see them
back on our lawn, by the gate.

We rang our friend, he wasn't surprised
he said, when he set them free at dawn, /
he thought they'd retrace their flight back home
but, without Sat-Nav, how did they make it back to our lawn?

Bryony de Lat

Wind Runner - Trudie Shannon

Skylark after skylark rising above the fields
Making use of the eternal updraft
As earth attempts unity with the heavens.
I lust for adjectives, much as a sailor
At sea for months, lusts after a woman’s company.
I desire evocative imagery, sensual interpretation,
Sensitive pursuit.
I stand beside the hedgerow and gaze upward
Toward the blue on blue ballroom above my head.
The small speck, as dust in my eye,
Dances with the invisible breeze,
Welcomes small eddies beneath each tiny fibril
On each tiny feather, on each wonderful wing.
Rises exuding ecstasy out into the ether,
Couples with cloud wisps whispering,
Rises to its zenith, heart song singing,
Then falls earthward as if thrown from the heavens like Hephaestus,
Falls, dropping heart notes on the way.
I stand beside the hedgerow and follow,
My eyes feasting on the journey.
The skylark drifts the final metres,
The rhythm of its voice matching the wind
Coiled in the welcoming grass.

The skylark is a small brown bird.

Trudie Shannon

Birdman - Richard Fleming

Something of an institution,
every day he’d play an almsman’s role.
Like penitents, drab pigeons
would flock,
seeking absolution or nutrition;
would peck away
relentlessly like waves.
He’d stand,
an ageing, salt-weathered island
amidst a bobbing sea of grey.

Richard Fleming

Loose Feathers - Fred Williamson

Loose feathers birds in nest,
Mother feeds them she knows best.
A chorus of chicks twitter and tweet,
Young bird song sound so sweet.

With new feathers and learning flight,
Spread and flap wings with all their might.
Young birds almost grown,
From the nest will soon have flown.

To build a nest of twigs and straw,
And raise young ones of their own.
With loose feathers,
To keep them warm.

Fred Williamson