Immortal bird
mouth gone down
towards the owl
she makes us see our passing
is common as ash
fine hands over the night
sing of what we serve
the stuff and flutter of living
more than others
Poemas sobre el tema: owl
Poemas sobre el tema «owl» en Poets.by.
Owls and rabbits
owls of six o’clock doubt
carry me home
whither come my rabbits
good fire good charcoal good night
Owl
Into an ear of owl
night fell,
ecclesiastical,
with great pain and love
for his supper.
After arguing
In the evening we came to agreement
as a barn owl to a barn.
Nocturnal
I dine with owls
and in hot weather drink
great drafts of moon.
Blood moon
A field in which
the king ate an owl—
old, amber.
Night bled,
no better lodging.
Proverbial (4)
Knock on a clock, owe an owl.
A sage and an owl meet where a light is out.
Never was a house pleased with the arms that hang there.
We die in fear, not for mirth’s sake.
Exclusion
The mind is a crowded altar.
I hear the music
of an owl in the garden
mourning the loss of all the notes.
Owl
an owl calling
in the garden
I go out and vomit
The Remains of the Night
the moon falling into a well
and not coming out
an 18-wheeler on an exit ramp
gargling with compressed air
the owl’s open eye
the owl’s closed eye
the hypothetical fact of a fox
a rumor of a coyote
the skillet under two eggs
sunny side up
familiar recorded music
the bits that still surprise
my heel where i landed hard
on a sharp stone yesterday
snag of a hemlock
its roots becoming tunnels
Insomnia
dead again
the skull fills with soil
a small busy mammal
briefly inhabits it
leaves an acorn behind
in the brain case
which awakens
and can’t go back
feelers root
for the teeming light
mycelia for neurons
no eye but an owl
Lonesome Water Revisited
All the while i sat watching the rocks, a spider was right behind me mending her web, knowing i offered protection from the birds. You’re never as alone as you think. I hear water trickling underground, remember that fateful drink and grin. It’s not so lonesome i could cry. And when i do, it’s just to talk back to coyotes, or that family of barred owls who hoot like chimpanzees. When the sun goes down, the hollow turns strange. Jumping mice dance in the moonlight. A whippoorwill clears his throat three times before he launches into his diatribe. Corpses of trees glow with foxfire and flying squirrels whistle high and thin like ghosts—whose ghosts, one can never be sure. Once i found a green stone that had been worked, given an edge that could still scrape a hide. It fit so easily into my hand. It took all my willpower to put it back into its hole. The original owner might not be done with it yet.