Poetry Here (Mostly)

Posts tagged ‘Bird’

Christmastime in New York

Lumberjacks trolling Oneonta 
chose a mighty Norwegian spruce,
serrated, metal teeth sheared
trunk from its aged earthy roots.

Despite the horrendous buzz
and thrum of tottering vibration, 
a timid, tiny owl stayed hidden
inside needled ramification.

Scared, secluded bird, a saw-whet,
swaying like a silver feathered bell
through Timber thundered crash
and transport in conifer that fell.

She and tree traveled together 
to Rockefeller Center; one got
decorated, other, discovered;
both were soon photographed a lot. 

Media posted “Rocky” staring,
pupils ringed by narrow iris gold. 
Cute little owl in turtle-neck wrap,
inspired ornament now being sold.  

Dehydrated, hungry and afraid, 
arrived unfit and unable to try.
In rehab, owl recuperated,
set loose, she decided to fly.

At dusk, caregivers let bird go, 
saw her take off from Saugerties,
200 miles from owl’s old home,
and Manhattan’s famous tree.

Will the owl head to Oneonta, 
I wonder if mate or mother care;
is it possible they miss and seek
her in a tree no longer there?

Pigeon Poetry

Hmm, if Poe had written a smidgen
on an extraordinary pigeon,
and described its tapping on his pane
with intent to drive that man insane,
would his poem still be so well known
if a pigeon had stopped by Poe’s home?

There’s praise enough for the white-winged dove,
thought holy and a symbol of love.
What about pigeon kin in cities,
flocking to their downtown committees?
With gray pant legs cuffed above pink feet,
birds look lowly and far from elite.

Urban pigeons are working class slobs,
just getting the most out of their jobs.
When they flirt, bobbing heads and cooing,
on sidewalks where they do their wooing,
fast food bosoms plump with carbo fat,
quite alluring to a passing cat.

Together, pigeons fly and then preen,
occupied while traffic light is green.
Unblinking and alert for the red,
when their whooshing wings swoop down for bread.
What if Hitchcock wanted “The Birds” scenes
portrayed by pigeons, fearsome and mean?

They act romantic in St. Mark’s Square
where they play Venetian love birds there.
Pigeons oblige for photo taking,
like movie stars they get rich faking,
fed by tourists who branch arms like trees
and act enamoured by bird feces.

“Rats with wings,” Woody Allen remarked,
he must have seen them in Central Park.
I’ve said all I can and wish to say,
cannot pigeon hole them another way,
for crazy I might possibly go
like that ravened Edgar Allen Poe.

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