Skip to main content

Farewell, Lapwing

On the lawn stands a lapwing,
In the sweet light of the moon.
I saw it in the morning,
It was still there at noon.
The rain has shed his blesing
In the happy time of June.
Silent stands the lapwing,
While a thousand crickets croon.

When winter was freezing
The bird was still around
Now the rain is pouring
Yet on his lawn he is found.
Bright may flash the lightning,
Fearful the thunder sound,
Stubborn is the lapwing
He won’t give up his ground.

When the sun was scorching
In the summer month of May
Unfazed stood the lapwing
The bird was there to stay.
I have learnt this one thing
Come twilight dark or day
To emulate the lapwing,
And persist in my way.

This bird knows but one thing;
The crow is very clever.
Always experimenting,
He flies hither-thither.
But his skills are wanting,
In the face of danger.
Nothing beats a lapwing,
In inclement weather.

Among the crows a lapwing
Hope forever to be!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

She's complicated

She's complicated. She'll charm you with charts, statistics and that corporate smile. But look into those eyes, they're fiercely bohemian. She's complicated. Her chatterings seem to resonate with happy sounds, but listen with the other ear, to an unhidden lament. She's complicated. Her silences agonise, her voice echoes in her absence. And yet there is a mild dread as her name flashes on the ringing phone. She's complicated. Sometimes she's a poetess, shallow, romantic, trying to hide a sardonic, world-weary wit. She's complicated. She could be a spiteful Fury, wrath unabated, but that's just to hide the lamb-hugging girl within. She's complicated. She's an enchantress, a fool, a tyrant, a nurse, an imp, a priestess, but she's generally a good friend. She's complicated. Published in Making Waves - A Poetry Anthology , ed. Pam & Bill Swyers; Swyers Publishing 2011. ISBN: 978-0-9843113-6-1.

Dusk & Dawn

Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn. For was the day a mere eclipse, careening into the blackness of unending night? ...Or is night but an eye-blink, waiting for the light to come, first in trickles, and then in torrents? Sometimes it is hard to know, which is dusk and which is dawn.

Fit

 What we are is a jigsaw pieces that come together searching for edges that match some we know will never sit: a sideways glance, a crush, a lifelong regret; some we think will last, but no we stick around a while and then we know we are meant for other things, other people, other places but mostly just being othered some of us are corner pieces who know where we are and who will come to find us eventually I can only wish I was that and some of us are that piece that doesn't fit neither color nor shape nor corner we force it sometimes, set it aside for some later unfulfillable hope until it is too late to realise we were left over from another puzzle, with only the longing to fit, to belong, to be included