Tag Archives: poem

Tiny Terror

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digital artwork from a photoHummingbird Unmasked

My beak’s a single fang I sink in artery or vein

And none suspect me of this drink but clinically insane

And paranoid-type fantasists whom no one else believes

When they accuse the pretty bird that flits in flowers and leaves.

Though tiny as a bumblebee, I may grow round and bloated;

The nectar of your heart is how I keep my Ruby-Throated

Good looks and family heritage (and, not the least, my name),

My shapely belly and my speed of flying fast as flame.

It’s not that I’m nefarious, invidious or rude,

But merely that I have a taste for human blood as food,

And do not fear: I’d never kill you outright when I dine—

Far rather sip and savor you as vintage claret wine.digital artwork from a photo

 

Aloft & Alighting

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graphite drawingAngels in the Aviary

Of winged and wondrous beings shall I tell,

Whose incandescence fills the deepest wood,

With brilliance, dazzling, pretty as it’s good,

And singing lays clear as a silver bell–

Take wing, you also, soaring wide abroad,

To sing elated tales of what is seen

From over oceans, forests rich with green

And storied mountains–palisades of God–

Let each take flight, to race the sands of time;

To see along the universe’s rim

All future iterations growing dim,

As at such speeds our eyes glaze up with rime–

Of angels such as these I tell my tale

And bid you join their swiftest ranks to fly

Above the oceans, forest, land and sky

To loveliness beside which all falls pale–

And cry, sweet birds, for happiness that we

Are joined in such angelic company.

Aria

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graphite drawingLa Chanteuse

This melody that lilts, lifts us to light

Like incense rising, or like hope aloft,

Like spring’s sweet perfume and like down-soft

New blooms, the lovely song eclipses night–

Brings sun and starlight and a shining flame

To paint the darkness into blazing day,

To chase all sorrow and all gloom away

Or give them luster as the marks of Fame–

The singing sinuous and smooth as glass,

As stillest water or a spotless sky,

And yet the singer never stops to sigh

Except when breathing lets a moment pass–

Because the music brings such passion, clear

Expressive, infinite and full of grace,

Poured out in rivulets and with a trace

Of magic only those with love can hear–

One aria can change the flow of time

And raise us all from simple to sublimegraphite drawing

Rare Beasts & Royalty

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Sunset over the Serengeti & a Slight Belch from the King of the Beastsgraphite drawing

It happens sometimes on the plains, where Splendid Starlings and the strains

Tok-tokkie knocks create a song that’s just as rhythmic as it’s long,

Where Shongololo rolls and runs ‘tween rise and setting of the suns,

Where the hyenas sing their tunes betwixt midnight and morning’s moons:

It’s there the leopard’s race was lost–surprise–at noon, and at great cost,

To one old lion whose good luck dovetailed with leopards run amok,

To the degree that one loud crunch announced the end of it at lunch.

Sailing the Saline

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Aye, Aieeeee!

When he was young he was swayed by the sea,

and he strayed by the sea and stayed by the sea–

his spirit was formed and was made by the sea–

he was in it up to his neck!photo

He knew he would have to succumb to the sea,

to come to the sea and bring some to the sea–

(of his very best valor–and rum–to the sea)–

he looked forward to it like heck!photo

And when he was older he reigned on the sea;

he was trained on the sea and remained on the sea–

until his affections grew strained on the sea–

that’s when the real Poop hit the Deck!

A Sound Becomes A Light

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photoOnly

In the interstices where

The calm exists, the stillest air,

A whisper falls as sweet as prayer–

A single word, as cool and kind

As falling snow, and intertwined

With light the stars have left behind–

A tender word that none can hear

But has it poured into his ear

By whom he loves most as his dear–

This modest word, spoken so low,

Both stops his heart and makes it go

Apace, swift as a river’s flow–

Such a small sound to mortal men,

He thinks–until his dearest then

Calls him ‘Beloved!’ once againphoto

Gypsies at Heart

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Becoming Gypsies

Freedom’s a romantic notion we imbue with pretty joys,

Dreamed escape from life’s commotion and the race’s worldly noise,

Endless travel, music, dancing, and the heat of thrumming hearts,

But though sweet, the dream’s entrancing magic’s only where it starts–

Gypsy life is what we make it, rich as fantasy can be,

Only when we reach and take it: yes, it’s up to you and me

To create this liberation and its joys for which we long–

Life becomes a celebration when we fully join the songphoto

 

Waiting–for What? For Whom?

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digital artwork from a vintage photo

Her Champion

By the light of the window, pale and solemn, quiet, reticent,

She sat and gazed, the age-old tale of waiting, in this variant

Not for a lover or for change that was supposed to bring her hope–

No, but for something passing strange: a subtly altered isotope

Or subatomic shift of sorts that would reveal to her at last

That she was whole, and all reports that indicated in the past

She’d fallen, lost, or failed, or died were clearly false and incorrect;

That anything she chose or tried was incomplete in that respect–

What she awaited, delicate and silent in her ray of light,

Was just this news she ought to get: already she was fine, was bright,

Was loveable and brave and keen and capable as one could need

Or hope to be; by this I mean just that she was quite great indeed.

If you wait validation too, and sit in patience for the news

To be presented thus to you, get up! There’s not a breath to lose,

For simply knowing that your soul already harbors strength and worth

Is proof enough that you are whole; no greater treasure lives on earth:

Rise from the ashes of your fears, wake up from timid, silent gaze,

And race like a runner, months and years stuffed into the space of weeks, of days

Because your courage speeds and grows–leap forward! No more waiting: run!

And as joyful living overflows, you’ll find you were the awaited one.

You Phony, I Thought You Said You Understood Euphony

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digital artwork from a photographAfter Oktoberfest, Paying the Piper

There was a player of the horn who made it so euphonious

That every creature ever born was drawn to hear him play,

Until one sad, hung-over morn, its noise was deemed felonious

And all his beer-braised friends, forlorn, plugged ears and ran away.

The sweet euphonium was heard no more in that green-wooded land–

The deer and nightingale ne’er stirred, and Prost! rang out no more–

His fellow players, quite deterred, closed up their merry oompah band

Like some cage-covered myna bird, and silent, hid full sore.

What have we learned from this sad tale, so stricken, deleterious

And dark as Death’s bleak lowest vale, wherein musick’s so frowned

Upon the hornist sought a gale of storm and rain delirious

And in the deluge, shaking, pale, turn up his horn and drowned?

The moral, though you might just miss it, e’er so hard ye strive to think:

‘Tis sadder to have died like this than surfeited of hoppy drink.

So, prithee, play all on your trumpets, flutes, euphoniums–be not shy–

But keep them quiet, knaves and strumpets, post-drink mornings, lest ye die.digital artwork from a photograph

Beware the Obsessive Joys of Scientific Exploration

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And don’t ‘Do too much science‘! When it takes hold of you, there may be no escape . . .

digital illustration from an ink & graphite drawing

New Species, Same Old Story

Professor Bob Sponk and his lovely wife Myrtle

discovered a rare omnivorous turtle

and off to the swamp in the jungle’s dim inner-

most sanctum they tracked her, observing her dinner-

time habits, behaviors and preferences; then,

Bob sneezed.

It turns out she eats women and men.digital illustration from an ink & graphite drawing