RTWBC - Poetry Corner

*Author*	*Title*
Andrews, Helen	Good Advice
Collings, Michael R.	Crow Cotillion Nuthatch
Kuftack, Frank	The Field Sparrow
Manson, Helen	Solitude
Mills, Janet C.	Great Blue
Neill, Owen	Goose Send-off
Spaeth, Edmond	Three November An Awakening Floridian Nights The Prize Rest, O'Weary Robin Spring Morning When Your Backyard is a'Humming Winter Walk
Wheat, Jr., Maxwell Corydon	And Heaven and Nature Sing The Animals Fiesta They Are Following Their Star 11/23/05

They Are Following Their Star

by Maxwell C. Wheat, Jr.

On a March night
when you hear Canada Geese from Hatteras
from the Chesapeake, migrating to Hudson Bay
they are following their star

In May
when you hear warbler calls from the rain forest
Black-throated Greens, Blues, Blackburnians
they are following their star

In August
when you see Golden Plover probing the salt marshes
hear them that night flying for the pampas of Argentina
they are following their star

At Winter Solstice
when you remember Three Wise Men journeying
over desert, mountains, plains for Bethlehem
they are following their star

Wings Over Dutchess, November 2005
from Following their Star, Poems of Christmas and Nature
by Maxwell Corydon Wheat, Jr.

Goose Send-off

by Owen Neill

BACKGROUND: Canadian poet Owen Neill wrote this poem as a gift for his friend Bill Lishman, co-founder of Operation Migration--the Canadian non-profit organization that conducts the ultralight-led whooping crane migrations featured in Journey North. Mr. Neill wrote "Goose Send-off" to celebrate Operation Migration's first migratory crossing of Lake Ontario with Canada Geese in 1993, when leading endangered whooping cranes on a long-lost migration route by ultralight was still a dream. (This Lake Ontario crossing was the migration experiment featured in the motion picture Fly Away Home.) Mr. Neill couldn't be at the send-off to celebrate with his friend Bill Lishman, so he wrote the poem and gave it to Bill as a gift to mark the historic event.

The voice of ancient gossamer
rises still its ancient way
in the quiet thunder of eager wings
trying what the north winds say.

What do winds whisper in clever ears
that makes the time to go just right?
The wonder is the message comes
to all at once like second sight.

Preparation, patient, strong
born from the egg with what they need
each bird follows its primal plan
ten thousand years could not impede.

We came, once with reckless sway
and cut across the natural flow.
But now repentance pricks us on
as we repair the status quo.

We set the wild geese wild once more.
We hatch, imprint and train the flock.
We run, then fly, again, again
until we share the same bloodstock.

Man and bird are strangely one
yet each cannot know the other.
Along the route soon remembered well
the wild and tame are somehow brother.

The goal is fixed in the mind as one.
All eyes peel the horizon away.
It's time to soar where long ago
all nature held its solemn sway.

Motion liquid below autumn clouds
a man-bird combination flies.
Like an ancient myth we integrate
and put sweet mystery in our eyes.

A wrong is righted heroically.
A beauty we have never known
gives hope our world at least in part
will reap the harvest we have modestly sown.

The voice of ancient gossamer
rises again its ancient way
in the quiet mystery of new born winds.
They know again what the north winds say.

Wings Over Dutchess, October 2005

Fiesta

by Maxwell C. Wheat, Jr.

comes with warblers,
waves of warblers
moving up the continents.

Yellows, Bay-breasteds.
Black-throated Greens and Blues.
Myrtles and Magnolias
flourishing wing-tail skirts of white and yellow.

Redstarts flashing flamenco fans of orange and red.
Chestnut-sideds with headdresses of the sun.

Then, Blackburnians
flown from orange flames of Aztec fires.
The Prothonotary emblazoned with Inca gold.

Wings Over Dutchess, May 2005
from A Gift of Birds.....in poetry

Winter Walk

by Ed Spaeth
17 February 2005

On a mild winter eve
With cabin fever to dispel
Fishermen gather
To toss their lines
Where waters rush and swell.
Yet, I choose to take a scenic trail
(And others do as well.)
As we walk the wooded lane
I watch the sun set and sky colors change.
Behind a cloud the sun does sink
Lining it with hues
Of purple and pink.
Oh, for a better view
Unhampered by the silhouetted trees
With budding tips, but no leaves,
For these colors will not keep.
I take a gamble,
And I ramble.
Walking toward a muddy seep.
I watch my footing,
But not my feet.
Suddenly!
Startled!
I divert my gaze
And am amazed
As a lifeless leafy-looking thing
Springs forth
In a flurry of whistling wings.
Taking flight to find shelter
In another hidden glade.
A woodcock I have seen.
A first!
My day is made!

Wings Over Dutchess, March 2005

Crow Cotillion

by Michael R. Collings

Two-by-two -- I saw -- they hopped
A wobbled line along the walk;
Black toenails clicked, black feathers flopped,
As they performed before the flock.

Two led the way, heads ducked and bobbed;
Two followed, mimicking the dance;
Two trailed behind, with shadows daubed;
A sextet preened to primp and prance.

Surprised that they did not take flight,
I hid behind the stone pavilion --
Self-conscious witness to the sight,
Sole guest allowed at the Crows’ Cotillion.

Wings Over Dutchess, March 2005

The Field Sparrow

by Frank Kuftack

Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
	Comes a simple hearted trill
Caroling incessantly
	For inattentive ear to fill.

Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
	Stills familiar songs long dear
Flowing wherefrom none can hear,
	Bidding the heart be sincere.

Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
	Streams the urgent poignant cheer,
Pleading for the sky to free
	As plain a breast to dry a tear.

Can you hear me? Can you hear me?
	Speeds the step of stumbling spring,
Rippling a timeless verity
	Unifying everything.

Yes, I hear you. Yes, I hear you
	Little sparrow of the field,
Plainly dressed in earthen hue
	Like a fluff of loam congealed.

By whispering meadows blown
	To a bush of budding shade,
There to ask in tinkling tone
	If I can hear the spring he made.

Wings Over Dutchess, February 2005

And Heaven and Nature Sing

by Maxwell Corydon Wheat, Jr.

Returning to our farm after midnight service
Grandmother points to the bright star in clear black
“ Listen,” she whispers
as if we might hear the angelic chorus
Then, over snow on the hay field
from the woods in back
intoning of the Great Horned Owl

Wings Over Dutchess, November 2004

Nuthatch

by Michael R. Collings
c. 1/96

I had thought the Nuthatch alien, exotic,
flitting page to page in Petersons,
washed by Audubons,
pinion-probed in Funk & Wagnalls;
unable to

Rise, it had seemed exotic, alien
until that summer afternoon.
Below, wash of water
over marsh-greened stones.
Above, ranked

Reaches of Sierra granite crest to crest
pine to pine;
but near to me
a single lodgepole mythically straight.
Scrub jays

squawked its invisible crown,
ground squirrels dithered
currant bushes
obscuring its base. But
down, around,

weaving lines of shade and light,
intent on infinitesimal grubs
the nuthatch,
neither alien nor exotic,
wound

silences around the trunk. I watched,
perhaps breathed, as this common
comical bird
continued its eternal rounds oblivious
to all.

Wings Over Dutchess, October 2004

Great Blue

This was written at Milton, Florida in 1968 as I watched the morning mist rise up from the waters of the somnolent Blackwater River which eventually empties into Pensacola Bay. A peaceful, quiet beauty, but then those unveiled mists reveal the truth. Indirectly, another connection with the news of the day, those same river waters pass a small weather beaten town (back then) just south of Milton, named Baghdad. The townspeople may very well have changed the name by now.