First geese

The old man said
watch the sky
for the spring will come
on wings.

Today they came
the first geese battalion
joy in their basso profondo
flying so low
the setting sun in the delicate colours
of their feathered fuselage.

Godspeed, I shouted
waved
exulting
in their gentle majesty.

In the air

Photo ©Beverly Orozco

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No darker than the last night,
no colder beneath the same stars
and flood-lit moon,

but the leaves have lost their voices
once fallen, and the drifts crisped dry again
beneath a tardy sun

await the wind that comes from the north,
carrying unflinching skeins of geese,
and sweeps with relentless strokes
before the sill of winter.

He hands her a rose

A minute poem ( I seem to be thinking in minute poetry at the moment) for the Secret Keeper’s writing prompt. The words she has chosen are:

YOUNG | RAIN | LAUGH | ROSE | HAND

The image is one I used yesterday, but it seems equally appropriate for this poem.

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You laugh and hand me a red rose,

The west wind blows,

Rain in the air,

Gems in your hair.

 

Forever mine, forever yourn,

Young love is born,

A heady scent,

And then you went.

 

The garden lies forlorn and bare,

Your spangled hair,

No more I’ll kiss,

Your touch I’ll miss.

 

Winter comes, white petals falling,

Wild geese calling,

Though not to me,

To the wild sea.

Sea and birds

A sequence of twitter-inspired poems.

Photo ©Pdpics

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No sail upon the horizon,

no bird to show the way,

no path to show where you’ve gone,

no hope in the salt sea spray.

 

Gull dips and soars

with diamonds in its wings,

spray scattered,

sunlight caught,

so much unconscious wealth,

spirit untrammelled

and free.

 

Ploughing north

on grey-white wings,

wind-filled,

star-guided,

tireless navigators.

Geese.

 

Wave breaks,

green glass shattered,

scattered foam,

flecked with salt,

and in the mist of boiling sea,

the sleek-plumed masters of the sky

weave and plunge.

Fishers,

scavengers,

joyous clowns,

lead me home

and find the smooth strand

far from the storm,

kelp-wracked and turbulent,

pebble-piled and thundering

with the song of the deeps.

 

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Wave upon wave

Three short poems

Photo ©Jerzystrzelecki

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Wave upon wave

strikes the shore,

your boat beaten back

by a strange wind from the land,

sweet voices call you,

soft hands pull you,

away into the deeps.

out of reach of my hand.

 

I shield my eyes against the sun,

The speck that was the last goose homing,

Lost from sight in the sky’s blue ocean,

Into the night, the lost stars roaming.

 

Had I wings I would follow

the feather soft path,

risk the wild winds,

the blue waves of the sky,

but no wings have I,

just the tears of my eyes,

your trace lost in glitter,

where the last geese fly.

 

Winter

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Beneath the trees, where the vixen burrows,

Kicking rime from cold-crisped leaves,

Blackbird scratches tiny furrows,

Patterns in the earth, he weaves.

Feathers ruffled by northwind sighing,

He digs for scarce, elusive grubs,

Cocks his head at the old year’s dying,

Ignores the tumbling roistering cubs.

Scratching, hunting, seasons turning,

Snowclouds billow where the grey geese fly,

In the sky a black sun burning,

Snowflakes drift where spring seeds lie.

And far away, where the northwind mutters,

Where white bears stalk the fat-sleek seal,

The ocean rolls, the white gull flutters,

Round and round the eternal wheel.

In a verdigris sky

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In a verdigris sky,

Hangs a rusted, copper sun,

Waiting for the rain,

To wash the tarnished silver stars,

Cascading leaden moons,

Into the great abyss,

Where the antiquated bodies go.

Celestial space,

Green, blue, black

Holds its breath,

Its rain shafts driving,

Between the pinions of grey geese flying,

And the twilit sky,

Fuschia and gold and flaming red,

Glitters with the silver-winged, loud brass voices,

Garlanding the empty wastes,

Singing to the falling stars,

Bearing the icy north

To a sweet nest in the sun,

Painting the corroded sky

With soft feather grey.

November

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No sense in this shirt-sleeved November,

Stringing strands of summer among the turning leaves.

Sun-sweated, burnished beads of bronze,

Beneath a blazing sun,

Drip hot and heavy, slow as cooling lead.

Red flame, bird-breasted, berried boughs,

Hang still, while water willow, wind wafting,

Weary of this sky of unrelenting blue, bends.

Beneath the scarlet vines we linger, languid,

Wine-dappled tablecloth,

Red and gold with wine glass glitter,

Winking in the sun.

And above our heads, the wintering geese,

South wind soughing soft among grey plumes,

Cry their noisy joy to the glorious sky,

For the fine grand day that is in it.