Passenger Pigeons

Matted and stygian feathers refuse to spread
in a sable surcoat of doom.
Bearing the emblems of ascendancy too soon;
How could our hubris have led
to such a portentous death?

Oracles abound with their looking glasses clear
and offerings on a plate.
But we consign them to the soothsayers of hate;
handicapped by our fear
we blind all of our seers.

Darkness is comforting when it works to cloud
a disruption soon to emerge.
A feigned surprise when the path shall diverge
unto roads unannounced
beneath constructed shrouds.

When steel-tipped wings shall graze the sun,
transient as a cresting wave,
all is consumed with no attention paid
to the damage we have done;
the bullets from our smoking guns.

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Pass The Burning Glove

This baton is made of burning steel,
searing with haste to pass it through
to another spoke upon the wheel.
The hand that holds is ice concealed
with a melting core just out of view.

To whom that bears the orb and scepter
or of the solemn gavel and mantle,
turn away and reject the spectre,
vaunt not the pick nor the prospector
to ensure our world is not dismantled.

For those who fall among the mass
who feel as would a grain of sand,
whatever shall be will come to pass.
Not a soul to think that they’ll be the last
to pass the burning glove to the next frozen hand.

Wildlife In Symphony

I remember exactly where I was when I wrote this. There is a lake on the campus of my university, and I was sitting in a pavilion that overlooks it. I was drawn in by the beauty of that spring day, and how all of the elements of nature seemed to work together to produce this fantastic landscape. Sounds and sight, it all captivated me.

Intermittent croaks from the toad on it’s pad,
humming a foundation for nature’s symphony.
Bobbing beneath a weeping willow’s way,
as the tendrils brush the flowing azure away,

The midday birds trill their sweet soprano,
in a swirling sequence of sunlight’s song.
The heron patrols as lord of the lake,
an occasional alto for the song’s sake.

The reeds and rushes writhe in rhythm,
and rustle in a present percussion.
But when the wind whirls with the leaves,
outshone is the song that reeds weave.

Silent spiders silk spins a sack where I can sleep,
soothed by the sways and sweeps of the symphony.
As I find myself woken to the warmth of the wild,
why does sentience suddenly seem so vile?

On The Path Of Autumn

This is a poem simply about appreciating the sensual experience of opening up to nature and letting it surround you, definitely Autumn nature to. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, feeling it… but perhaps not tasting it! There’s also that other strange, undefinable sense that comes from being somewhere quiet… somewhere serene and organic. It’s a feeling you get, a safe one. Certainly deserving of being some kind of sixth sense.

Cyan dragonflies pierce the air
like flying needles of the forest.
On a shoulder of mine
one pauses to rest a weary wing.
My finger reaches to welcome
but is abandoned by the insect,
unwilling to be batted to blood.

Weaving wind gifts leaves to my feet
and rasping rain dampens my hair.
The green grass embraces my shoes,
following me through it’s home.
I don’t wish to lay on the woods’ floor
so I side-step the liquefying brown.
It wants me to come nose-to-nose,
with my face touching the stone.

Climbing, I am pricked by pine needles.
I would have them simmered to tea,
had I a flask of hot water on hand,
bubbling away their mischievous spirit.
Cone fists fall as I grab for them,
whilst those sharp fingers mock and point.
I shake, and they find themselves
well and truly, beneath me.

My footsteps are percussion,
an undertone to the orchestra.
Inclusive to my wilderness soundtrack,
the woodwind birdsong calls from the nest.
Thunder rumbles to replace the bass,
and rainfall contributes to ambiance.
No chime, no flute, no drum,
can match my symphony of the wild.

I am undirected, mistaken as lost.
I wander without a destination,
but not without a purpose.
And such a purpose?
Free will, simply.

May The River Be My Path

I remember being on the bus when I conceived this. It had been a particularly stressful week, and my mind was simply wavering unto things that I could do to find peace. Although I may not do them, I could write about them, and simply following a river into an ocean of oblivion sounded like the zenith of tranquility to me. So I tried to tune out and imagine the flow of a river being my guide, one that I had complete and unquestionable trust in.

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