National Poetry Writing Month
A Herald from the Tundra :
The muddy field,
Once covered in the spring-summer prospects of
Farmers and tulip growers,
Now seems to cultivate a strange
Canadian organism from the north:
An undulating sea of geese,
White as the snow of their namesake,
Seeming to sway to a rhythm
Independent from the intense wind
And pelting rain.
A lake of white, occasionally
Breaking formation to let some trickle away,
Others to join,
Merely drops in this ocean of life,
Transplanting a bit of Canadian tundra
To this brown, gray, brown region
Of the Pacific Northwest.
A lone eagle suddenly interjects,
Its singular figure rising from the ground,
And the field erupts,
A coterie of organized chaos
In mesmerizing patterns,
Panicked honks and screams
Permeating the air, seemingly more a
Physical wall than an auditory one.
And slowly the whole group rises,
Bringing their slice
Of tundra to another place on this
Northern Washington island.
An Odd Hunter
Northeast forests revisited
8th Owl revisited (haiku)
rockets across the ground, but
comes to a dead stop
The clouds sit heavy
above the bay, trees, and pebbles.
The wooden platform holding dozens of separate humans,
tapping with booted, shoed, feet,
rocking slightly in the undulating waves of the earth.
The light stays low, dreary, moody in the low clouds.
The birds flit between trees against the gray-white clouds.
And the sun, hidden behind water vapor,
shines down on a white paradise, hiding
a wetter, greener, bluer one.
Circling the azure blue skies,
dotting it with dark browns and blacks
of long feathers, scaly legs,
fleshy bald heads.
Uncommon in the northwestern skies,
found only in the desert east,
making news among those circles fortunate enough
to witness their broad wings in the skies,
majestic as if they were the wind itself.
And yet here, in the skies above the northeast,
they become as common as the next,
single individuals as common as road markers
as we travel west to east, south to north,
or groups of four above an equestrian camp,
we can only begin to think:
"how awfully commonplace you are"
Bringing in the daylight
the new sun sits behind the clouds,
a muted day once more in the Pacific Northwest.
Yet another cloudy day.
The day before brought out the sun, a deep blue
emblazoned across the sky,
embedded into the retinas
of tired eyes.
A flaming crest of deep red,
black and white stripes lining
a triangular head atop
a stocky body.
Its feathered body braced vertically
against a hollowed, rotting tree,
the wood breaking away as if styrofoam.
The soft drilling noises bounce through the forest.
And reach the ears of one watcher,
intently viewing through the bent glass of a
large matte black camera.
The morning sun is still a ways off.
the moon would be out
and a screen glows blue and white
as the student makes final additions to an unfinished paper.
Perhaps working diligently, perhaps not
but toiling into the unholy hours,
lit by the low LCDs of a small monitor,
surely there are better ways
to spend a Sunday morning.
Perhaps a bit of a meaningless term,
something that happens every perceivable moment
and even more common, disposable
when a few clicks and button depressions
may create the next Big Thing,
the one to shake the world.
Or perhaps, sit, unnoticed in the annals of the largest repository ever devised,
seen only by the eyes of one.
Salton Sea Trip
We sit in an air-conditioned car,
stark white paint with the light brown of the desert
streaking across its tires, sides.
The desert remains, peaceful, surrounded
by low, sloping mountains covered in beige shrubbery and
populated by the denizens that
refuse to come out
with the sun hanging high in the air,
beaming down with oppressive glee
in the airy blue, whispy-clouded
The oven-air, pressing down with
hangs throughout the air.
Once at its zenith, the sun
starts its onerous descent.
Light streaks through the checkered sky,
bright sun creating pockets of saturated blues,
separated by thick bundles of rain pouring down
with unrepentant excitement as they scatter
the long-fingered hands of the sun,
blanketing the green-coated,
wrinkled landscape of Kaua'i
in long bows of multicolored rain.
A box of wood sits
unremarkable in a shallow ravine.
assembled in a factory,
modified with cardboard, screws, and care,
it sits, just too late in the season,
waiting a tardy tenant.
The Boat Seen During A Bird Collision Survey
mother of the environment movement,
who sacrificed so to indict the pesticide industry,
so intent on ruining the woman
who sought to bring their poisons
to justice, to
save lives humans and avian alike.
In bird-loving Seattle,
her legacy sits in the minds of two passer-bys,
pointing and gawking at a docked yacht.
Bird Box Has Been Installed After A Year of Delay
The bird box, screwed on
to a tree, unattended.
fur covers the floor.
I sit in front of my computer,
hands hovering above the keyboard,
an oval-shaped spot polished to a sheen
on the space key, from incessant clicking,
textured letter keys smoothed
to a uniform plastic,
unsure what to write, again.
What new idea to jot down,
Thanks for reading
I watch the map,
gray on gray,
a humble reminder of the tiny space
I take on the largest information center
And yet, with my tiny audience
all drawn in over a few weeks,
fifteen random users from across the world
(Mumbai, Seattle, Montreal, Albion)
all gathered to click on this link
to the ramblings of one anonymous teenager