All are welcome to participate in the 5-day Open Write — from one day to all days, depending on your schedule. There are no set rules for the length of a poem, and you are free to modify or reject the prompts as you wish, allowing you to write whatever is on your mind or in your heart. We firmly believe that the best writing instructors are actual writers, and this platform offers a supportive environment for you to nurture your writing journey. Just scroll down to share your poem in the comment section. For more information about the Open Writes click here.
Our Host
Fran Haley is a literacy educator with a lifelong passion for reading, writing, and dogs. She lives in the countryside near Raleigh, North Carolina, where she savors the rustic scenery and timeless spirit of place. She’s a pastor’s wife, mom of two grown sons, and the proud Franna of two granddaughters: Scout, age seven, and Micah, age two. Fran never tires of watching birds and secretly longs to converse with them (what ancient wisdom these creatures possess!). When she’s not working, serving beside her husband, being hands-on Franna, birding, or coddling one utterly spoiled dachshund, she enjoys blogging at Lit Bits and Pieces: Snippets of Learning and Life.
Inspiration
As previously mentioned in this series of Open Writes: Come April, Kim Johnson and I will be honoring National Poetry Month by facilitating discussion of The Hurting Kind, the most recent book by U.S. Poet Laureate Ada Limón (you can join us via Sarah Donovan’s new Healing Kind book club).
In preparation for this event, I came across a May 2022 interview with Angela María Spring of Electric Lit in which Limón speaks of inspiration for her book and the way humans search for community: “It’s the Earth and it’s the animals and it’s the plants and that is our community.”
What a glorious opening for birds today.
Over several summers past, I facilitated a writing institute for teachers. We spent a portion of one session crafting poems about birds, for, truth is, everyone has a bird story of some kind. Just as we went out for lunch, two doves flew into the building to land on the windowsill of our room. How’s that for symbolism?—and awe.
Process
Listen to or read the brief transcript of Episode 674 of The Slowdown, Limón’s podcast. Here she shares a poem by Hai-Dang Phan entitled “My Ornithology (Orange-crowned Warbler)”. Note Limón’s reflection: In observing birds and their world, we learn something true about ourselves. Experience Phan’s warbler up close and personal through every rich detail in the poem.
You might also read Limón’s “The Year of the Goldfinches”.
Now, consider what you’ve learned from birds in some way. Find a kinship. You don’t have to love or even like birds; you could contemplate the Thanksgiving turkeys sacrificed for your holiday table.You might go on a birdwalk or watch awhile through your window for birdspiration.
Explore birds and their lessons for your life in a short form like haiku, senryu, tanka, or a series of stanzas with the same number of lines. Invent a form! Phan uses three lines over and over. Consider how enjambment and varying sentence lengths can create bursts and phrases like birdsong. After all, poetry is about sound.
Play with form today. Let your lines sing.
What truths have birds taught you?.
Fran’s Poem
Harbingers
- That Morning You Drove Me Home From the Medical Procedure
back country byway, winter-brown grass
trees, old gray outbuildings, zipping, zipping past
small pond clearing, wood-strewn ground
bald eagle sitting roadside—too profound—
I thought it was the anesthesia
until you saw it, too,
before it flew.
And I knew.
- On the Morning I Returned to the Hospital After Your Surgery
lanes of heavy traffic, day dawning bright
our son says you had a painful, painful night
dew on the windshield, fog in my brain
all hope of moving past this gridlock, in vain
but for the glory of autumn leaves, a-fire
against cloudless blue where a solitary flier
glides by, white head and tail gleaming in the sun…
I promise, beloved one.
Your healing
has begun.
Your Turn
Now, scroll to the comment section below to write your own poem. (This is a public space, so you may use only your first name or initials depending on your privacy preferences.) Not ready? That’s okay. Read the poems already posted for more inspiration. Ponder your own throughout the day. Return later. And, if the prompt does not work for you, that is fine. All writing is welcome. Just write something. Also, please be sure to respond to at least three writers. Oh, and a note about drafting: Since we are writing in short bursts, we all understand (and even welcome) the typos and partial poems that remind us we are human and that writing is always becoming. If you’d like to invite other teachers to write with us, tell them to subscribe.
Love this site, new to me…and now I will explore. Your discussion and poem, resonated with how often I find poetry through noticing and deeper observation of birds—their beauty, sounds, and behavior. My poem draft captures one of these moments.
A SANDHILL CRANE SEES ITSELF IN A TALL WINDOW AT THE ARBORETUM
I stand in the light of day and there in a glass pane
I see you as I am, long-legged and elegant
devoid of bright color except for the vermilion cap I wear.
You are hazy and so we are twins and yet not, the same but different.
If I could reach over or through this glass…
If I could touch your hazy form…discover you…
If we could find the magic that would break the glass
between us and fly as a pair together across a rainbowed sky.
Carol Coven Grannick, Draft
Carol, so glad you landed here and gave us this gorgeous sandhill crane reflection! I could spend the greater part of my days just watching the birds from my kitchen window. I’ve learned things I’d have never known otherwise. I so relate to the sense of kinship in this poem, as well as the longing to “find the magic that would break the glass” and fly. Simply glorious. Thank you for this!
The bird bird bird
the bird is the word
I see them everywhere
the pink flamingoes
the wind chime hummingbirds
the garden ornaments I run over
accidentally with my lawnmower
and hasten to hide
The billboards and bumper stickers
and boulevard bistros
on my morning commute
urging me to fly
as I crawl towards my paycheck.
If birds manifest flight
manifest freedom
i am Bird End.
My ability to tweet
has been X’d out
Bird End.
My wings clipped
by the weight of
expectations
and responsibilities.
Bird End.
Seeing the world
around me
around us
Nesting in
uncomfortable
realities.
Bird End.
Resting
to find the strength for
a better tomorrow.
Preening the oil from
my filthy feathers
i wish to be
Un Bird End.
Soaring like the
Phoenix
Un Bird End.
Feeding the worm
of possibilities
to my nestlings
Un Bird End.
Taking flight in
hope,
hope is a thing with
feathers,
Un Bird End.
Dave, the imagery and every allusion shine in this poem – they also pierce.
My wings clipped
by the weight of
expectations
and responsibilities…
Nesting in
uncomfortable
realities…
Resting
to find the strength for
a better tomorrow…
I feel all of these things as well as the desire to somehow transcend them, to “preen” the filth away, to lighten the load and rise. It is one of the primary reasons why I write – in the words of Robert Browning: “A man’s reach must exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” I believe Dickinson was right. Watching birds intently as I have over the past couple of years has uncluttered my spirit. There’s nothing random about these creatures. I believe that hope is intentional; here’s to the reaching! Thank you for coming back to offer this amazing poem. Rest and peace to you – have a lovely holiday.
That majestic dove
When I witness its glory
I am put at ease
Andrew, I love the word majestic in a Haiku. Everything that is so powerful and majestic, in its purest form like a dove, is simple and organic. You captured the essence of feeling at ease.
Andrew,
I love the form. This poem feels like an exhalation.
Andrew, you capture what I so often feel, watching birds: I am put at ease. I marvel. In those moments, I am temporarily free of burdens. All summer I watched a pair of doves feeding and flitting in my yard; they had a nest secreted somewhere in my backyard trees. And, of course, your verse brings symbolism to mind – the dove representing peace. That is majestic. That is glory. Yes. Beautiful, beautiful haiku.
Fran! Love your poem and this prompt! As a budding birder, this prompt really spoke to me. I’m missing all of my little friends now that the cold has settled in CNY. I decided to take a cue from Ada Limon’s poem and write about more than just my feathered friends here — I don’t think I love it, but consider it my crappy first draft, to paraphrase Anne Lamott! 🙂
Also, I went with a series of tankas for the form. 🙂
The noise was once, to
me, just that: noise. Background bird-
song, chattering, chip-
ping: the expected order of
things. Lo, and behold, one day
my hand held magic
and, ascending a June hill,
the trees spoke to me.
Recorded warblers, songbirds
popped to life – 24 in one morn –
gay, glorious names:
Gray Catbird, Eastern Kingbird
Bobolink, Peewee:
Mouth-full with discovery,
I was bewitched, enchanted:
How could I have heard
this all my life, and not known?
And as I grew in
one language, I grew in yet
another: family grew far,
and what was once in-
comprehensible became
distinct: cries for help,
lies deft, chittering about
nothing and then everything.
How could I
have listened all my life and
not heard?
Wendy, you might as well be describing my own experience: how could I have been listening all my life and not heard the birds? Or heard them and not known them? I’ve been working on rectifying that. They ARE bewitching, enchanting; the more I learn, the more I want to. The shift from meaningless background noise in your poem’s opening to hearing distinct “voices” in that next-to-last stanza is significant; the appreciation and wonder are palpable. I know it well. Because of it, this verse is pure joy to me. So excited you’re a budding birder! We’re of a feather – yet another one. 🙂
Wendy, I echo what Fran said! Another birder to welcome to the friendly flock of birdwatchers – – of which, of course, is 95% listening and 5% hoping to find and see the birds that match those calls. That last stanza opens the wonder.
Love your description of discovery and wonder…
I’m no ornithologist,
(just an armchair
narratologist),
so I take my cues
from literature:
for instance
Shakespeare
tells me that
the “kind life-rend’ring
pelican” feeds its offspring
with its own blood
(but I think that’s
probably not true)
and I get that it’s a
big deal when a
sparrow dies –
“special providence”
and all that –
but I’m still not quite
sure, to be honest,
what the difference is
between a hawk and a
handsaw (Hamlet was a bit
tight lipped about that one)
and I’m well aware that
Dickinson tells me that
Hope is a thing with feathers,
so there’s that,
and Poe claims that ravens
say nevermore (well, at least
that one does)
and I’ve read that
it’s, like, a sin to kill
a mockingbird,
and seriously unwise
to take the life
of an albatross
(the very idea makes
my mouth parched)
I’ve found, though,
that I’m most drawn
to the wisdom of Mary
Oliver in her meditation
of life and loneliness
of love and despair
and wild geese
when she reminds us that
“you only have to let
the soft animal of your body
love what it loves,”
that we are part of something
bigger than ourselves
and I like that,
this notion that we are a member
of some convocation or gaggle,
some parliament or venue,
a kettle or host,
so go ahead and decide
what flock you’re a feather of,
what confusion or pandemonium,
what murder or flamboyance
will you call your own
because whether you know it or not
or whether you like it or not
you are, indeed,
a part of this
“family of things.”
I’m running out of superlatives for your poems…. I love all your allusions, and I really love your conclusion. (Wait! Did I just write a teeny tiny poetic response to your poem????)
seriously— we are a part of this “family of things”. I do love your poetry…
Scott, your style is uniquely your own, and I am always fascinated and engaged with your work. I like the way you wove the birds of literature into your poem today.
Just imagine how phenomenal this world would be if we would only allow everyone the freedom to
“so go ahead and decide
what flock you’re a feather of,”
and let them be.
This was wonderful, Scott.
Scott, thank you for this fantastic ride through literary allusions, every one a pure delight and perfectly woven into the tapestry of this poem. The first time I read Oliver’s “Wild Geese” I sat without moving for I don’t know how long. Don’t the collective nouns just beg to be in poetry? This ending hits home in every way:
so go ahead and decide
what flock you’re a feather of,
what confusion or pandemonium,
what murder or flamboyance
will you call your own
because whether you know it or not
or whether you like it or not
you are, indeed,
a part of this
“family of things.”
We are, we are… thank you for another extraordinary offering.
Scott, loved this. A ramble though a bird-dotted wood, with an oft-expected drill down into a precision ending. Gold!
Scott,
This is great! The first line calls to mind Charlie Parker and you are definitely ‘birdbound” throughout this whole poem. The allusions really carry the day–so good!–and the resolution that you come to brings a kind of of peace to the poem.
interrupted
who is singing so merrily?
I pause at the tree so still
to listen
a flicker a hop a dash of grey
the little black cap
sweet chickadee?
then a flash, a swoop, loud
noisy blue jay shrieks in
I’m here, move over, gimme
blink
goes the little songbird
so flies their melody
leaving me the bossy jeer
Maureen, the flash, flicker, hop, swoop, shreik, and merry song put me right next to you watching this show of avian friends. Love all the sensory details and movement.
You capture the moment so well, Maureen, that I feel I’ve seen a little reel! The songbirds do sound so searingly pure; like you, I pause to listen whenever I can. Those jays-! But aren’t they gorgeously blue, even if they interrupt the merry song. Such a vivid poem – thank you!
Maureen, love the close attention you’ve paid here to your woodland friends. Beautiful description, and aptly chosen words!
Oh, that blue jay speaks the same language out here in the desert, “I’m here, move over, gimme” I love the “sweet chickadee” interrupted by this bossy blue jay. Such a fun poem.
Wonderful imagery, and I love how you move from the delicate, the “flicker”, “dash”, “sweet” to the noisy, flashy, shrieking jay—often part of my morning walks!
Hi Fran,
I’m in love with the hopeful healing at the end of your poem. I am also grateful for both of you being well. But here’s the thing…I am most grateful that I didn’t lose my enjoyment by worrying about how the birds would show up. In case you hadn’t heard, I have ZERO love for birds and 100% FEAR. 😂😂
I told Kim this morning I would have to see where the prompt would take me while I was at some appointments, and it took me to a beautiful place.
Here is my Golden Shovel from Cleo Wade’s newest collection Remember Love. My strike line is: I remember love, and I remember my wings. I remember I can fly.
Remembering My Wings
When my feet sink into sand, I
release tomorrow and remember
this moment is a love
gift, an offering of hope, and
nothing matters more than the present. I
release worry and behold joy. I remember
how many times I’ve fallen and how my
faith gives me new wings
to soar in the safe warmth of light. I
embrace all of my existence and remember
flight takes place first in the mind. I
sink my feet into sand again because I can
close my eyes, lift my arms and fly.
©Stacey L. Joy, 11/21/23
That is an exquisite Golden Shovel line and I must read the original poem. Thank you for the reference. Your poem is also exquisite. I can almost feel the sand you sink into, and I love the wisdom, the remembering of
Thanks Maureen, I pulled the line from Part One of her book. She has a mix of poetry and prose and the line came from prose. I love Cleo Wade’s work. 💜
Ah, Stacey – I know everyone isn’t a bird fan, just like everyone isn’t a sports fan (gasp!) or a sci-fi fan (bigger gasp?). I was expecting someone to write today about being irritated by birds and the poop they leave on everything, etc. That, amazingly, hasn’t happened, but the day’s not yet over.
Now. This poem. This glorious golden shovel. It brings tears – honest – for the poignant beauty of it: Releasing tomorrow. This moment is a love gift. An offering of hope, and faith giving wings after a fall – oh, and flight takes place first in the mind -yes! That’s called “belief.” Every line is a jewel, unearthed by this golden shovel. Thank you for 1) writing today when birds are not your thing, 2) sharing a glimpse of Wade’s collection, which is clearly a must-read, and 3) soaring so brilliantly in verse and pulling us up with you.
Stacey, I reread this out of the pure joy that came with the reading (and rereading). What a beautiful image! Loved especially:
“ ..I
embrace all of my existence and remember
flight takes place first in the mind…”
A hopeful counterpoint to where I came from today!
Oh, Stacey, you nailed it! I am so glad you stuck with it and found a striking line to write this beauty! Your poem reminds me of Rhiannon Giddens book We Could Fly. Birds don’t get all the flying!
Denise, thank you! And I don’t know if you recall my prompt using The People Could Fly by Virginia Hamilton a while back but that helped me steer clear of my feathered foes. LOL.
Beautiful Golden Shovel and capture of a moment of wonder and flight!
At the end of my life, I found myself in cowboy country
staring into gnarled cattle bodies grazing
a backyard I never dreamed steps from a concrete patio.
Hanging from a tree between me and a calf,
a spring-action racoon-resistant bird-feeder —
a Purple Martin house.
East sider dark, glossy-blue males nesting
chestnut brown females, peer at me.
West siders turn their backs on attraction,
preferring trees to plastic, making woodpecker
holes of swallows snapping up winter insect
remains before Oklahoma winds, blow them south.
It’s a wild west out here in Stillwater.
Sarah,
The last line sorta clicked the rest of the lines for me, the birds and their movement, and flitting around, and maybe the occasional raccoon being hurled like a drunk man from a saloon…I also like the contrast of wild and still water…The “spring-action” also brought to mind a bit of wild western vernacular.
I am not sure who the “I” is in this poem, and I am imagining it written from the perspective of an old animal – a dog, perhaps? Love their cantankerous observation about the ‘West siders” “preferring trees to plastic” – and somehow this surprises them. Made me smile. Yes, let’s all prefer trees to plastic!
Sarah, I am most captivated by the opening, “At the end of my life…” all kinds of questions fluttered up in my mind. A raccoon-resistant feeder – this reminds me of the inverted bowl my father-in-law used to keep squirrels from climbing the bird feeder pole (squirrels will also eat eggs and nestlings). The words cowboy country, gnarled cattle bodies grazing, the various designations of bird habitats and behavior almost make me imagine the sound of hinges on swinging wood doors (saloon-like, as Rex mentioned) and I imagine, off-scene, a tumbleweed rolling in the Oklahoma winds. It is a very real sense of place. Thank you for the scenic birdwalk in the wild west of Stillwater!
Fran, this prompt does not disappoint. You are the queen of bird poems, so I’m glad you brought it to us. I don’t have much time today, but I wrote a quick tanka. I wanted to capture the the coveys of quail running around here with a dozen teenagers!
Quail families grow–
In three weeks precocial chicks
hit the ground running.
Soon, coveys are filled with teens.
How quickly they come of age.
Denise,
Hurray for a tanka. That first line is lovely — the l consonance lingers for me. You really do build a nice scene and then take us for a turn in that final line of reflection “how quickly they come of age.” Sweet.
Sarah
“In three weeks precocial chicks” – that seems so impossible! Yet, my own children’s childhoods seem about that long now, looking back. All too fast. Loved this, Denise.
Hi Denise,
I’m such a fan of tanka and your poem is perfect for the topic. Even though I’m not a fan of birds, you made a beautiful picture come to my mind. 🤗
Denise, thank you for your always-gracious words. I was recently reading about ground birds having to be able to walk and fend for themselves so much faster than helpless, blind, naked songbird nestlings. Your tanka flows with perfect ease – every word, just right. And that last line – it’s a haunting truth for humans, too, in the scheme of things. I would love to see your quail running all around!
Thank you for the prompt Fran. Beautiful poems.
From your first:
“back country byway, winter-brown grass
trees, old gray outbuildings, zipping, zipping past”. The backways are the most scenic ways. Such vivid imagery as I felt like I was riding along. The descriptions of the grass and building are a stark contrast from manmade materials to nature’s inner beauty. Another stark contrast in your second poem, racing traffic, a foggy mind. But these lines:
“but for the glory of autumn leaves, a-fire
against cloudless blue where a solitary flier
glides by, white head and tail gleaming in the sun…
The colors set the tone-dreary, hope, peace….
I have two bird stories. For my first, I was unable to identify the culprit. As for my second, I have proof. I’m no bird identifier so maybe someone could help me out. This little guy (a finch maybe?), pictured below, decided to find a cozy spot in between the walls of my home. He found his way in through a hole near the roof. After days of wondering if it was a large mammal and me getting ready to run, I was relieved it was just a stubborn little bird. A small fee and a nice hole in my son’s room were our consolation. And the satisfaction of no animals being harmed. Here’s my haiku.
An Unwelcomed Visitor
Days of wondering,
A commotion in the room.
Whoops, hey little Guy!
Oh, Jessica.
This is really fun. You add such a fun aha in that last line.
Sarah
Thank you, Sarah. It was comical…after the fact!
Oh, what a surprise! “Days of wondering” – indeed. An absolutely wild surprise. Birds are very clever, finding their way into all sorts of possible new homes. Fun haiku! Glad you are looking back on this situation.
Yes Maureen, it’s quite comical now. But it was a stubborn bird. He gave the rehabber a good workout going back and forth inside and out.
Jessica,
I love the ending!! Glad it wasn’t a mammal, especially one that could’ve done great damage.
Me, too. Thank you Stacey. That would’ve been the day I moved out!
Jessica, I can’t tell for sure but think the “little guy” may be a wren; they have eye markings and thin bills (insect-eaters) whereas finches and sparrows have broader, thicker bills (seed-eaters). I can’t even imagine the commotion and the wondering-!! I’m so thankful the bird wasn’t harmed; sorry you had to pay a fee. We can celebrate, at least, that a life was saved. I loved reading all of this and so appreciate your gracious response to the imagery in my poem.
Fran, thank you and you’re welcome. I’m not the best with nature, so I’m learning to see what it has to offer, especially as I get older. I did try to look it up, but was unsuccessful. I’m just glad it’s a FREE bird! I’m hoping it’s living its best life elsewhere.
Fran, thanks for the inspiring prompt. I love the imagery and emotional appeal of your poem. We love to watch birds at our house. I have been trying to adopt a different approach to haiku after a workshop earlier this month.
scarlet wings sing:
teacher, teacher, teacher~
snow day dance
winter skies:
eagle dives
fish flies
Barb, your haiku sings; the images are so clear, and the assonance/repetition long “i” in the second stanza is just lovely. Snow day dance, indeed, for “teacher, teacher, teacher!” Birds have much to tell us, if we but pay attention… I fear I could waste the better part of my days watching them through my window. The bluebirds watch me back, too, their curiosity quite obvious.Thank you for this lyrical beauty today.
Barb, I am a fan of the short forms and yours says so much in so few words. Stunning imagery! I want to know more about this new Haiku!
Barb, thank you for sharing today. The “teacher, teacher, teacher” chant reminds me of the many students I see who don’t know my name, but want my help. Ha! A “snow day dance” would be a sight to see. Oh the joys of just enjoying the blessings of the Earth.
Oh, Barb.
I’d like to learn more about your workshop. You do offer some neat phrasing in these two haiku with the final line offering an aha or reflection — almost a summary. Such craft in these.
Sarah
Barb, it is a different perspective to see the birds/pupils showing eagerness on a day when the kids are away. As if the birds take on their roles, their enthusiasm.
Fran,
I love the positivity of your bird, soaring and bringing a healing fluidity to your loved one. The crows for me were positive, only in the fact that they arrived with the snow around the same time, and it gave them a special significance.
FLEETING MURDER
In the darkness of early morning
the misting rain shifted to crystals
accumulating quietly off the cement
in a wet uncertainty.
The murder of crows
caw tentatively from the softball field
gathering between the dormant hospital
and the church on the hill,
waiting for the sun.
Splendid in their conspicuous humility
as the daylight uncovers their gathering
the crows in the snow,
the snow round the crows,
flakes still falling at breakfast.
I come back from Sunday service,
an hour out from noon,
and the moment, like most moments
has melted wetly away.
Rex, you’ve captured the scene beautifully. I love the contrasts of black and white and murder and Sunday services. I just love your final two lines.
Rex, to begin with: This title is spectacular! I recall learning some years back to “make the title do more work.” Yours does so many things – it’s a hook with layers of meaning. I adore collective nouns for birds; they’re poetic in their own right. The weather plays a vital role here – cold, wet, shifting from rain to crystals of snow – and I note the sort of “pause” in the whole scene, especially through the carefully-chosen words: quietly, uncertainty, tentatively. How I love this phrase describing the crows (fascinating birds): “Splendid in their conspicuous humility” and the beautiful rhyme-play with crows in in the snow/snow round the crows… and oh, the ache of “the moment, like most moments, has melted wetly away” – a truth that pierces the heart. Thank you so much for this-
Gorgeous poem, Rex. I could visualize the imagery within your poem perfectly. I especially appreciate the sensory appeal of snow, the sound of crows, the snowflakes falling, and then melting away like a peaceful day. I completely understand the “dormant hospital”.
I love this prompt, Fran. Thank you!
Butter butts arrive
Each spring with hope on their wings
Giving me a smile
by Mo Daley 11/21/23
Those yellow-rumped warblers are fun to watch – so entertaining and joyful. I like how the haiku, a tiny form, captures so perfectly this tiny bird
with big spirit!
Awww, Mo – adorable haiku! How I love “with hope on their wings.”
This brought me a smile too! It inspires me to sit and write a bird haiku of my own.
Brown Sparrows flirting
with my chocolate lab’s jaws
all in a day’s work
I love this and am wondering what the heck is going on there!
Your first line is absolutely delightful, Mo! I can feel that warm smile.
Mo, this is a first for me! A haiku with butter butts in it. Such a playful name for a bird, it brings in its own built in happiness. I like how their hope results in your happiness.
I do. Or know what a butter butt looks like, but I love the hope on their wings!!!
Oh, my goodness. I just looked up a butter butt–and they have yellow on their hind end! Sooo cute. Yes, I can see the “hope on their wings” and that they would be “giving [you] a smile” Thanks for the smile from your haiku!
Mo,
I love your poem! Butter butts made my mind jump to baby ducks, but googling butter butt had me learn about a new bird!
Thank you for this prompt. I love birds and need to write more poems about them! The last line of this poem was borrowed from Mary Oliver.
A Bird’s Life
Today I watched you, Golden-crowned Sparrow
Perch on the bare limb of my Amber-Maple
Calling out.
Singing.
Never-mind the horns honking behind you.
The police siren flying by
Could not stop your song.
You began the bird chorus
Now filled with singers
Beak tilted to pink sky
Golden crown heeled heavenward
Singing as if your life depended upon every note.
Just to be alive on a new morning
In this broken world.
Here is another one I wrote this morning from a memory. I was on a sailing voyage with a small crew and we were caught for 3 days of our voyage in a storm when on the third morning we saw the first sign of life- a bird!
Hope
After days of swell endlessly rolling beneath us
Steep and death-like, lifting and throwing
I braved the helm
Wind-tossed and wet
And looked for life, or land.
Surely a dolphin would surface. Or whale.
Early one morning, like hope, you flew a-top our mast
Dear Black-capped Petrel
Your white body dipped on the edges in black.
Down you plummeted to our bow,
Dancing.
As if you were showing us
Telling us
We would be okay.
Both poems are lovely, Emily. I like the theme of hope that I see in both. It’s easy to picture your sparrow, ignoring the human world around him. And I sure hope you write some more about this sailing adventure!
Emily, what a lovely pair of poems, nestled together like paired lovebirds! Your first poem – I have heard Carolina wrens, house finches, and robins sing like this, so gloriously in this often un-glorious world, that it makes the heart swell to bursting for something beyond it – leading right to the second poem entitled “Hope.” How many times, through the ages, has a bird been the messenger of hope? Showing the worst is past and living will go on? Bless these avian messengers, sparrow and petrel! I’m delighted you want to write more poetry about birds – you’re singing my song. 🙂
Emily, your poems “A Bird’s Life” and “Hope” give me hope for the future. Amid this chaos,
“Never-mind the horns honking behind you.
The police siren flying by
Could not stop your song.” we must keep singing. Let our songs bring out our joy and drown out the sorrows of the Earth.
“Down you plummeted to our bow,
Dancing.
As if you were showing us
Telling us
We would be okay.”
As our voices rise to our song, let our dance make the path of peace. Thank you for sharing both of these.
Emily, thank you for writing and sharing these today! I borrowed from Oliver today, too; she is always good for an assist, lol. And your “Hope” poem is wonderful, and quite harrowing!
Emily,
I enjoy Hope. It reminds me of the dove in the story of Noah’s ark to signal everything will be okay.
Fran, Fran. Another poem that I could have written. We are traveling the same path, my friend. This Thanksgiving will truly be one of thanks for both of us. BEautiful poems. Thank you.
Restaurant?
The house sparrows gathered at the bird feeder every morning–
Chuttering old ladies, gossiping merrily as they shifted from conversation to conversation.
Occasionally, a more colorful guest would join them–
A flashy, red-coated cardinal with his drab, reserved wife.
I wondered if she ever resented the attention he got.
She did all the work.
Our restaurant grew in popularity over the winter–
there must be an aviary Facebook (a Beakbook?),
for the crowd grew daily.
Our advertising was extremely effective.
However, with success comes notoriety.
Baser elements of bird society took notice of our spot,
I would see the hawk lurking on the car
across the street, casing the place.
And then, the murders started.
One, then two lifeless former chucklers lay on the lawn.
The funerals grew too frequent.
We closed down the House Sparrow Coffee House last year.
Once the criminal element took over,
It was time to move on.
(In truth, I am currently deciding whether or not to fill the bird feeders this year–the circle of life and all. But I really don’t want to re-open the Raptor Restaurant. Our house sparrows were sitting ducks. I’m so sorry–I had to say it…)
GJ Sands
11/21/23
The postscript is not part of the poem, by the way!
Oh, Gayle. The brutal side of nature. Makes me rethink my idea of putting out mealworms for my bluebirds this winter… but through your words, I can see your bird visitors, the gossipers, the cardinal with his “drab wife” (beautiful in her own right, though). Your naming of Beakbook and House Sparrow Coffee House are so apt and funny, yet they remind us that the avian community is just that. There is much to learn from birds…nothing is as random as it seems. Raptor Restaurant – so chilling!
Fran, thank you for hosting and collaborating with Kim to co-host the book club in the spring. The numbers in your poem add a pause that allows your audience to shift thinking–thank you for sharing.
Chirping Mind
there
gray, drab, food theifs
pecking french fries from your fingertips
sifting sand for particles
gulling along the coast
here
cobalt hues on feathers, sky
seasonal shifts, fluttering
housing themselves on leafless perches
waking us up to life
there
mousy, defecating on windshields
flock the freeway, feeling
strangled, claustrophobic
electric wires sag in spare-rows
here
another blue, hair-on the shoreline
gliding in, shadows, pterodactyl-like
long, glamorous, beauty
a bias or mindset
Stefani, I love the placement of here, there, which guide me to notice the varied perspectives. “pterodactyl-like” made me smile.
Ooooo – Stefani! Love this – title – the pauses – here/there – the imagery – electric wires sag in spare-rows. Thank you!
Stefani, the unfrenchfried fingertips of the gull food thieves is such a pure image – these bold beach picnic “guests” stop at nothing and know no boundaries. You take me straight to the beach!
Stefani, the contrasts work so well, kind of like showing a two-faced coin: the pesky, invasive side and the breathtakingly beautiful side of birds. Do I see a heron at the last? That is the image your words conjure for me: Blue/ pterodactyl-like, long glamorous beauty. Then your conclusion, “a bias or mindset,” in a fascinating turn, shocks the senses with its unexpectedness and makes the reader re-evaluate what beauty is, perhaps. Thank you for this compelling poem and contemplation.
Fran, your poem is spiritual and powerful. I’m a firm believer in signs, and for me, they come in birds. I often say, “Hi, Mom,” when I see a hawk on a wire, and know that whatever was worrying me at the time will be okay. Thank you for this amazing prompt today. I’m thrilled that birds are part of our common interest.
Lesson Learned
It was only fair to each pick a tour
So he picked one, I picked two.
Sled dogs and glaciers: what fun!
But a hovercraft?! He picked a hovercraft.
I willed a smile.
This was his vacation, too.
We fell in love with the dogs,
Laughed at Pumpkin, whose destiny
Was clearly supposed to be different
But oh, how she tried,
Tripping over her own feet,
Tangling the ropes.
“Pumpkin!” the driver yelled
A dozen times at least.
I could tell: she’d rather be
Chasing butterflies.
We held the next generation,
Puppy teeth nipping our ears.
He spied every seal on those icebergs
I photographed them all
We stood in awe as the glacier calved
Heard its thunder, saw its majestic crash
Into the bay, baby rainbows circling
But then came hovercraft day
My forced smile, my fake excitement
Was a Christmas sweater I’d wear once
Then pass along and forget.
We stepped aboard the yellow craft,
Took off like a racecar
Over the waters of Juneau
Then abruptly stopped in deep water.
The tour guide lifted the doors.
Had we broken down?
Were we swimming?
He reached down into a bucket
Pulled out a fish
Threw it high into the air.
From out of nowhere, the talons
of a huge Bald Eagle swooped in and
clutched the fish,
so close its mighty wingspan
made a cheek-brushing breeze.
It called its whole family
Uncles, aunts, cousins once- and twice-removed
“Fish! Over here!” it surely said.
Or perhaps they all knew to watch
For the yellow hovercraft,
Put on a show for the hovercraft wives
To redeem the husbands.
Baby eaglets at the tip top of a tall tree
Were the best “catch” of the day –
We caught a binoculared glimpse, but not a photo
Five hundred shots of eagles, two clear favorites
But most importantly, a lesson learned:
Step aboard, even when the smile is fake
It just might become the truest smile
Of the whole adventure.
He won the tour picking.
(He knew what he was doing).
Kim, I enjoyed your dialogue and the underlying competition of this poem. What a great memory and reminder to always try life as it comes!
OH. MY. GOODNESS. Kim, I was so feeling your pain, although Pumpkin took a little edge off up until the icebergs calved with the thunderous crash and baby rainbows were born. That alone might have been worth the dreaded hovercraft trip but then, then… no words for the breathtaking experience with the eagles. I am awed to the point of telling my husband, Hey, first travel opportunity after you’re well… I long to see this for myself. Your comparison of the forced smile and Christmas sweater to be worn once and given away kills me – perfectly conveys the feeling. Most of all, I love how the eagle show “redeemed the husbands.” INDEED. Your poem-story had me enthralled the whole time – incredibly visual, full of emotion, and oh – that wise husband of yours!
I, too, celebrate our bird bonds and all our others, my poet-writer-kindred-spirit-sister-friend
-Oh, and I saw a red-shouldered hawk perched high on a tree this morning on my way to work. <3
Kim, your poem shows the delight of your Alaskan trip perfectly. I love how many images you capture in this, and how your husband truly provided an awesome experience for you both to enjoy. Pure gold!
Kim,
I loved the commitment and nurturing in a relationship captured by the lines, “My forced smile, my fake excitement was a Christmas sweater I’d wear once
then pass along and forget.” How many of the things that we celebrate are such occasions as this? I like the transition from the fun of Pumpkin to the majestic nature of the eagles, and them being in cahoots with the dudes. As a guy, t’s nice when we don’t know what we are doing and we seem to really know what we are doing…Gonna steal the term, hovercraft wives.
“My forced smile, my fake excitement
Was a Christmas sweater I’d wear once
Then pass along and forget.”
Kim—this is the essence of a marriage, right there. And what a lesson you gave us!
Thank you, Fran. You know how much I love birds. This is a poem I found on scrap of paper in my car
Guardian
Cormorant perched
On a lone lamppost
Drying his feathers
Wings akimbo
In the summer wind
Like a gothic guardian
Of the sea
Dry again
He is free t fly.
Joanne, the wings akimbo gives such imagery to this bird drying his feathers – – I can see it! It’s exactly what they do! Being free to fly is the ultimate way to end the poem, knowing that there is a full sky waiting for the next lamppost.
Joanne, I love that is was already part of your life/car–always in observation of birds. I love the sound and combo of “gothic guardian.” Thank you for sharing today.
Just gorgeous, Joanne – “gothic guardian” fills my soul! I see it there, wings held wide, drying – I’d have stopped and stared as long as I could, in awe.
I’m out of my car and at a desk. Here’s my revision:
Guardian
Cormorant perched
on a lone lamp post
of the expansion bridge.
He stands, a piece of origami,
drying his ebony feathers,
wild wings akimbo
in the summer wind,
like a gothic guardian
of the sea.
Dry again,
he is free to fly
out over the ocean,
circling the sky.
With a small economy of words, your poem creates a clear image in my mind. So beautiful.
Wings akimbo—what a vision!
Joanne, what an image. “wings akimbo” and “like a gothic guardian” Such great images. I love the story your poem tells too.
Everyone has a bird story.
Remember the time we saw the eagle
atop the bridge to Seattle?
A few days later, you read
the eagle died, a car hit it.
Once we saw an eagle while canoeing,
elegantly soaring over our bayou–grand beauty
symbol of strength. Then you recalled
the Seattle eagle. That tragic death
hit us hard. He was “our” eagle.
How can we claim ownership of a wild thing?
Freedom is temporal.
The story remains.
Margaret, I love this considering of temporal freedom of a a wild thing that often represents freedom, lovely!
I’ve felt this before! I love your last lines.
Oh, Margaret – I’d have mourned long over this loss as well. I find, as I grow older, these things strike deeper than they ever used to. Yesterday I came through a crossroads where woods had long grown over an old farm and it’s all being bulldozed for building houses, I presume. I thought of the majestic hawks and “my” eagle and wanted to weep – how far will the birds have to go to find a new home? “How can we claim ownership of a wild thing?” Because the wild thing is connected to us, to our essence, in some deep way; as the wild thing goes, so go we. I cannot help thinking of the eagle in your verse in another way, as our national emblem, especially in these true and haunting lines:”Freedom is temporary. The story remains.”
Wow. The story of that Seattle eagle. And that last truth. Wonderful!
To Answer a Georgia Owl
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you all?”
Down in the holler, hollering from a white oak- tall.
whoo, whoo, ahh, whoo, ahhh! WHOOAHH!
Thunder bird on on midnight clear!
”Who cooks for you? WHO cooks for YOU All?
striking fear!
Mice and frogs scamper about the stream,
skirting to shelter from a predator’s scream!
WHOOOAHHH!! Again,
WHO? WHOOAH?!! Joins his friends!
Big Eyes laughing, controlling the night,
SCHREEEECHING! Taking flight!
Beautiful, as I listen at dawn,
“Who cooks for you?” A daybreak song.
Squirrels and rabbits scamper around,
As the last WHOOAHHH- echo drowns.
A good night, or good morning?
A farewell or a fair warning?
Rest in the sun, praise the living,
for today we celebrate thanksgiving.
A time to ask “ Who cooks for you all?”
Ancestral hoots, grateful in the fading fall!
Bird of night, thank you for lesson,
My wife will cook for us,
Turkey and dressing!
One night when my grandson was staying with us, we heard the call of the owl. I drew attention to it and unfortunately, he is now afraid. I love the shift in your poem from owl to turkey and the blessing of a wife who cooks for you.
Clayton, I see a picture book of Georgia birds forthcoming, illustrated by Sarah. These ancestral hoots pull back the veil to our second day of poetry with Fran, where we thought of our loved ones who are no longer with us. I know this will be a happy Thanksgiving in the household of the dirt road mystic!
Boxer, what a delight of a poem, responding to the owl’s question and tying it to the holiday. The wordplay is so much fun – and the gratitude comes through. As always, your rhyme captivates.
What a fun poem to read! I love the bird sounds. And the rhyming.
Fran, the rhythm of your words, especially in that first stanza, had me keeping beat (much like the beat of wings) as the poem took flight. The eagle both centers itself and remains an aside to the narrative in such a lovely way. Thank you for inspiring us today! Note: I was not able to change the font size for ants – the bullet points have been inserted to give the illusion of letters in font 4.
Birds of a Feather: Flock
while locomoting
long distances
and traveling
en masse,
a gaggle
becomes
a skein
*
descent:
the penchant for
w d
o r
o o
d p
p p
e i
c n
k g
e
r
s
from great heights
to snack on
………………………
Macbethian peasants feared
crows
as witches in disguise
crow crow crow
heathheathheathheath
(three stood upon the heath),
collecting names for the corvids
that sounded just as dastardly:
mob, murder, horde
the beating of ten
thousand wings: the background murmur
of starlings in flight
hums and hums
into a murmuration
*[skein: OFr, a hank of yarn folded back on itself to resemble a “v”]
Apparently, none of the formatting is coming through. Here’s what this should be.
And the second half
What an amazing exhibit of form and shape and word choice!
Jennifer,
The way you structure the poem really creates an ominous feeling—the first part lurking over the 2nd half of the poem. And the Macbeth references carry the power of how we can mythologize birds. The “um” sounds in the last stanza of the starlings in flight bring to mind how they move about in those choreographed patterns like nets in the sky.
Jennifer, your shape poetry of birds is so fitting – – the wings, the formations, the way the words work together to bring the picture of the birds is creative and inspiring.
Jennifer, love this formatting in your images and in the submission:)
Jennifer, I’m enthralled by the mood in this poem, the mysticism, the darkness (crows are really so brilliant), and above all – this form! The shapes tell the story – what craftsmanship. My poem formatting didn’t come through quite right either, alas, but I so appreciate your taking the time to attach the photos. Oh, I hear the beating of those thousand wings (I can see how it would spawn deep fear) and I see the synchronized murmuration, one of the great wonders of the natural word. Your poem is, in a word (and all around): Stunning!
I loved the words even before I saw the formatting. I am so impressed with this! (And I love murmuration…)
Wow, Jennifer. You did some magic today with these birdly views. Your version above looks like it melted a bit from the poem in the photos, so I’m glad you added them there. So many wonderful sounds.
Oh, this is very cool, Jennifer! Thank you for attaching the images so I could fully appreciate your work of art today! This was a lot of fun to read and see!
Each spring,
we keep watch
from our living room
window,
waiting for the cardinals
A flash of red
along the fence
still painted
with snow
Flittering among the forsythia
a fluttering palette
of ink and flight,
the pairs of them
in flow
couples dancing in air
spreading the news
of joyful change
for which we’re already
in the know:
Winter’s fading, slow
Audio: https://sodaphonic.com/audio/6vKQz9SWp8AJFtNYVUom
Yes! Same here…you’ve written our experience. Love it…and am always happy to see winter’s fading.
Kevin, there’s hardly a winter image more striking that the fiery-red flash of a cardinals against the snow. Love this, especially: “A fluttering palette/ of ink and flight” – poetry in motion.
Kevin, so much depends upon the red cardinals along the snow-white fence (your imagery is exacting!)
We are blessed to have cardinals year round. “a fluttering palette of ink and flight” is a nice line to say. I’ve witnessed the male feeding the female, such a sweet moment.
Kevin, once again, your reading of the poem is a gift and blessing. There is something sacred about the voice of the one whose hands penned the words and thoughts from the mind – something magical! As a birdwatcher, I do feel so blessed to have redbirds year round, especially as they often mean a departed loved one is nearby. Your artistic words here in describing these birds is gorgeous, especially the dancing in the air that the pairs do. That flash of red is eye-catching for sure!
There is such a beautiful rhythm to this poem! And I love the alliteration.
Amazing! As someone who lives on Southern California, this beautiful description really brings to life an image I hope to experience in real life one day.
Love those last two lines, Kevin. Then I realized the synchronicity with the other stanzas, subtler with the way the lines are broken up. It is a whole new layer to appreciate.
Gliding Over Oceans
Does it hurt your eyes?
Sun’s glare,
Ocean’s water
Do you shut your eyes?
Rely on faith
To guide you forward
Or are you wide eyes open?
Quietly claiming to all of us
I’m fearless
“I’m fearless” is an awesome way to answer the questions without it being definitive. Beautiful.
Emily, I can see this poem form (a series of questions) becoming very effective with students – in an ask/respond sort of way. Those last two lines are wonderful!
Emily, your question poem has me envisioning a huge seabird, perhaps an albatross, sailing over the sea. I also find it a metaphor for a person – a captain, perhaps – guiding others with confidence and self-assurance. Either way, I see the bright glare, and even sense the salt. Thank you for these poetic wonderings today!
Emily, the wondering here in three short stanzas about eyes – closed or open – is deep and moving. I love the last two words. Being fearless and being faith-led are both beautiful sentiments in considering how birds fly. And how we, too, fly.
Emily, I’m with everyone here, I really enjoy the end of this: “Quietly claiming to all of us / I’m fearless.” Love that!
oooh! Such a wonderful inspiration today, Fran. Thank you so much. Your guidance this week has been perfect. I’d love to sit in on one of your workshops someday.
I must apologize to my fellow writers. Yesterday, I got home from school, and between being late, catching up with family, and coming down with a head cold, I did not get back to comment on at least three additional writers. I’ll do that today with a little help from my friend, Dayquil!
I’m sharing a snippet of my journal writing. I think it will turn into a poem…but if not…it got me into the writing. There is more to that story and at least I’ve got it started. Thanks, Fran!
I don’t want to write a bird poem. Birds are not part of my life in a way that I pay
attention to. Yes, everyone has a bird story…but a kinship?
I could write about the big, black crows and how they flew with me…alongside me
at driver seat level that day I left something at home I needed for work. I drove
around the block to get back home and as I made the third turn, I was with a flock
of low-flying crows. They were just above the mailboxes as we ascended the crest of
the hill.
prose poem? It works for me, particularly the part where you “could write about the big, black crows and how they flew with me.”
Kevin
Linda, there’s poetry in them thar hills – you found the gear just as you made the third turn and I soared right alongside you (and the crows). Beautiful!
Linda, I appreciate your words and honesty about not wanting to write a bird poem as much as I do the flock of crows flying alongside your car on your return trip home in this snippet that IS a poem of its own, after all. Talk about a symbolic bird! Not to mention one of the most intelligent. I’m currently reading Bird Brains: The Intelligence of Crows, Ravens, Magpies, and Jays – just fascinating. I remember your OLW once being “Ox” and that I was completely captivated by all you did with that… are you quite sure a future OLW might not be Crow, since you “flew” with a flock? I love that ending image of them above the mailboxes…my brain wants to play with that symbolism. Thank you for this writing – I have savored it.
As others have said, there is a poem in this. Perhaps a haibun? Those crows mean something. My daughter had a flock of them at her back door. Scared her to death!
Linda, I sure hope you feel better. Colds are an inconvenience any time of year, but especially at holidays. Heal quickly! You may not have intended your writing to be so good, but it is. To be circling back to retrieve a forgotten item and suddenly find yourself with a flock of low-flying crows is mysterious and quite possibly magical, especially when surrounded by these birds of such high intelligence and clever wit. That ending leaves such questions about what is going to happen next that it keeps me coming back…..what next, what next? and I love when a writer gets my mind imagining like this!