Poets

I am always amazed by those
     who can play words like a piano
          or limn the very thoughts of my heart on paper
               enchanting my senses to rise
                    like a wave that crests and slowly curls and then

               crashes to the shore
            spreading beautiful shells 

         along the sands of my memory,
      glimpses of the power and mystery

   of the world around me.

True Greatness

Sometimes greatness is overlooked because it whispers and does not seek an audience, but oh how they flock to the crashing cymbal and flashy display.   One shell is empty. The other contains a pearl that seldom is seen by our star struck eyes.

This is why I listen

First I hear the "tap, tap, tap, tap" in rapid succession,
followed by the shrill, parrot-like call.
I stand perfectly still, eyes darting back and forth,
hoping to catch a glimpse of my friend at work.
Long moments of waiting are rewarded
by a flash of red vanishing around the tree trunk.
I remain still, hoping he will reappear, and
sure enough he returns to my side of the tree,
upside down and clinging straight-backed to the slender branch,
 his chisel-like beak working swiftly.
Something startles him and off he goes,
all black and white flashes on his roller coaster flight.
This is why I listen.

Senses

Sometimes I can taste with my nose or
  see with my ears or
hear with my eyes or
smell with my touch.
My senses blend together, like teammates on the pitch,  
ebbing and flowing and overlapping down the field
Yet each one stands alone, uniquely gifted for its purpose.

Music everywhere

This morning I hear music all around me

like sections in a symphony, nature’s rhapsody.  
The dove’s pianissimo, accompanied by crows, and

sparrows and warblers like woodwinds in flight.

Dig the woodpecker’s staccato beat, the

timpani voice of the valley oak and

the arboretum's coronet forte, radiant with color, freshening the air.

The sun rising in majesty, and the moon taking a bow,

and me biking down the path singing the mockingbird’s solo.

Birdsong

Consider the birds.
All day long they're singing.
I wonder if they ever have a bad day?
Are they ever disappointed?  Discouraged?
Do they ever grow weary of their toil?        
Surely their life is not without hardship and pain,
Yet still I hear them singing their cheerful song.
Maybe they know something that I don't know.
Perhaps there's something to learn from the birds.