2024 NaPM 28 April

[RiverNotch]

Rules: Write a poem for national poetry month on the topic or form described. Each poem should appear as a separate reply to this thread. The goal is to, at the end of the month have written 30 poems for National Poetry Month.

Write from the perspective of a bird.

[Mark A Becker]

Bird's Eye View of Rabbits

not knowing how to fly
they must feel useless

they cannot reach the sky
not knowing how to fly

they don't ever even try
and so they’re really harmless

not knowing how to fly
they must feel useless

[dukealien]

The Imperial Business


They call me Emperor.
And so I am, lord of all
I can survey, though
as it tends to be this time of year
distinctly dark.

But I do not need to see:
my court stands all around me,
tail-coated in slick black
and glistening white
our golden mustachios
a bit eclipsed from lack of light
but warm, there’s that in numbers–
not “huddled,” we prefer
to say “close-order.”

True, my Empress is off fishing
flying rapturously in dark waters
others would call “frigid” but
relative to my present situation
hot enough to brew tea...
belly-tobogganing for joy.
Getting her figure back
that is, her darling plumpness.

As for me, I’ve great advantages
over human Emperors:
for one thing all my regal brothers
stand within squawking distance–
no disastrous telegraph games
or diplomatic notes
to mislead and miscarry.
And unlike poor Franz-Josef
I’ve no worries
of heirs going mad
or getting shot by lunatics:
I have my little Grand Duke
or Grand Duchess
safely incubating right here on my foot
while the Southern Lights
weave silent fireworks.

[TranquillityBase]

What did the last dodo see?
Probably a hungry sailor
with a kind smile on his face.

[RiverNotch]

St. John of Shanghai


He thought me clever for coming to him first
but even saints can be disappointed:
I was not descended from those doves
that whispered into St. Basil's ear
whenever he presided over a service.

Instead, he had to play the teacher again
and I, the dutiful student, learned to perch
quietly on the corner of every seat
or feed from his hand without pricking his skin
or even circle overhead

during the feast of the Theophany
to astonish the crowd, to impress upon them
how palpable the Mystery was.

The children would say, perhaps impiously,
that because of the water he sprinkled on me
I was a baptized bird.

The adults would observe, upon his repose,
my frantic fluttering of the wings
which he had repaired, on our first meeting,
as if I were in mourning,

but I tell you: I was too clever,
too much his good student, to feel such pain.
I knew where he had truly gone.
I knew only joy when my own heart stopped.

[Quixilated]

Song of the Goldfinch

I am the lord of creation.
My voice calls forth the morning sun
out from the night-void and into
the great mother’s wing above.
At my command it rises—
red as worm-skin, and as bright
as my lady’s eye. The beauty
and the power of my song
brings light to all beastkind.

I am the king of all the beasts.
I weave intricate nests for my love
and for our little roundlings.
More complex than a spider’s web
and more solid and secure.
With my powerful wings I can soar
higher and faster than the lumbering
beasts of the ground. What good
are all those legs other than
to weigh them down?

I am the loveliest of creatures
with soft feathers in rainbow hues—
as bright as any flower, downy as any cub. 
Who can compare to my magnificence?
Even the humans watch me sail
on the wind—effortless and free—
and long deep in their hearts
for a set of wings to call their own.
I am the final destination,
the most perfect and most envied,
most lovely and most admired.
I am the bringer of the dawn.

[Wjames]

Breeze lifts wings abreast the v
pointing warm, seed and worm
and song of day
nesting eggs and feathers.