Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Shook While Blogging (Upon Further Reflection)

reading posts
pondering the stuff of life
i am startled by a bang
a bird hitting the window
for the real sky

i quickly put my glasses back on
to see it fly away
for which i am
that it did not die
it and i
both shaken

knowing that i
too often
am content
to window shop
when i could be
in flight

(upon further

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Food for ugly birds

when the hummingbird finds the feeder dry
when the birds of bright color do not imbibe
does one refuse to continue the feeding
or refill the lorelai?

the hand should not withold that which can satisfy for every creature is precious and should never be denied

suffer not the little ones whether they be grounded or given wings to fly
faithfulness is the portion upon which all can rely

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree


My plant weeps with me;
a drop splashes on my head.
I, like a bird shot from the sky,
lying here in the darkness.

I will never understand the strange,
unfortunate occurrences of everyday life
or why they make me shrivel up inside
like this broken-winged bird which cannot fly.

Crippled wings can mend and wounded birds can fly again,

I, waiting here in the darkness for the wind.

Written 3/19/92

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Tiny Turtle Dying Bird Small One Continua


This morning on the way to work, trying to go slow, mind racing, so much to do,
There in the road something small,
Did I miss . . .?

Hazards on,
Walking back to find
a tiny turtle, head in, then out, trying to get away,

My hand gently moves it to the grass.

Later in the afternoon, one errand down, and then I will do this and this and this, and then,
in the parking lot, a brown blur, wings flapping, squawking bird,
I pick it up,
small heart and breath pounding against my fingers,

Spot of blood on the neck,
eyes wide at me,
I don’t know what to do.
I turn in circles, holding hurting bird.

I place it in the shadows of a bush.

Big world leaves me helpless,
small ones cry for care each day.

I saved the turtle but not the bird.
But they called
and today at least
I heard.


In the evening, a truck sits in the same place I parked,
hazards on,
the turtle I placed in the grass this morning is long gone.

In its place is a car, red and broken, wedged between trees.
An occupant sits on the pavement,
his face, red and broken, wedged between the hands of a man on his knees
who stopped to help.

It is his truck parked where I helped the small one hide.
A woman stumbles from the car.
I hear a child crying inside.

The mountain blocks the cellphone call
So I race home to dial 911.
Above me, pink scars run across the sky.
I see the face of a man who sits where I swerved to miss the small one.

October 3, 2007

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Close Encounters of the Bird Kind

It was the perfect place for a nest, safe and dry.
There had been no rain for weeks and the oregano grew in a flower box on a window sill
beneath the eaves out of the elements.
So feeling blessed, the bird moved right in,
unbeknownst to other certain nearby occupants.

Content, dozing on a warm fall night,
she is suddenly surprised
by a splash of
cold and wet on her safe, dry place.
Out of the nest she flies

Aaah! screams the face,
body stumbling,
watering can tumbling,
vision avian-blurred.

Whir! Fly! Oh! Flutter! Crap! goes the bird.


Two females sheepishly return to their subsequent nests,
hearts still a’flutter.

Later, the face is surprised to find on her coveralls
the crap of the other.

Said encounter occurred at our Homestead cottage at Rolling Ridge in 2007. Originally published here in October 2007

Posted in Photoshop Creations

Bird In Face

Illustration for blog