The Owl

Vignette with an Owl on a Perch From Baron O.H. von Gemmingen (translator), Milton's Allegro und Penseroso (Mannheim: Schwanischen Buchhandlung, 1782) Ferdinand Kobell, German, 1740 - 1799

Credit: Philadelphia Museum of Art The Muriel and Philip Berman Gift, acquired from the John S. Phillips bequest of 1876 to the Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts, with funds contributed by Muriel and Philip Berman, gifts (by exchange) of Lisa Norris Elkins, Bryant W. Langston, Samuel S. White 3rd and Vera White, with additional funds contributed by John Howard McFadden, Jr., Thomas Skelton Harrison, and the Philip H. and A.S.W. Rosenbach Foundation, 1985

 

She glides,

elegant, her

wings whisper feathered hopes,

listen. . .she hoots a warning call,

beware

 

fierce claws

grasping rabbit–

stunning, horrid nature!

Predator and prey in moonlit

death dance.

 

A Crapsey cinquain sequence for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday. using synonyms for pretty and ugly.

 

 

 

 

Skeleton Trees: Tanka Tuesday

This is for Colleen’s Tanka Tuesday Poetry Challenge. We were supposed to use synonyms for stark and trap. We’ve had several unseasonable warm days, but now it’s getting colder, and the wind is howling.

 

Skeleton trees loom

against skies of violet

owl whistles secrets

caught in winter’s gloomy night

I will seek them in spring’s blooms

 

Georges_Daubner-Paysage_d'hiver_(1921)

Georges Daubner, “Paysage d’hiver,”  via Wikimedia Commons

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Day in the Forest: Yeats Challenge

I didn’t get my Yeats Challenge post up yesterday, so here’s Day Sixteen. I’m also linking it to Dverse’s Open Link Night.  

Jane chose this quotation for Day Sixteen:

“Do you not hear me calling, white deer with no horns?”—W.B. Yeats

 

At dawn the robin sings to greet the coming of the day,

the sun rises then in golden glow to brightly light the way,

across the sky, excited geese soar high in V formation

honking directions and chattering in winged conversations.

 

Young lovers meander in noontime explorations,

declaring their love in breathless exclamations,

taking breaks from work or school for this, a secret tryst,

holding hands, then coming closer, sharing their first kiss.

 

Later, the young white deer gambols in the gloaming

still young without his horns, carefree in his roaming,

but never too far does he wander from his mother’s side

bleating to her when he is scared, listening for her replies.

 

The owl spreads her wings, takes flight in the blackness of the night

she hoots from a branch to tell her mate that everything is right,

nocturnal creatures flit and scurry under the humming moon,

and in an upstairs room, we sleep, dreaming to the tune.

 

Franz_Marc_-_Deer_in_the_Forest_I_-_Google_Art_Project

Franz Marc, “Deer in the Forest,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The Owl: Haibun

It is my birthday. Now in the middle of December, it is cold outside, and darkness descends earlier each day. But the house is filled with light, warm and scented with the aroma of holiday baking. My husband, our two young daughters, and I are to meet my father at a restaurant north of us, in the Philadelphia suburbs to celebrate. It will be a highway trip through rush hour traffic, but the reward will be an excellent meal and the company of my family. I turn to a living room window to pull down the shade—and stop. A white owl with black and brown markings sits in the tree directly in front of me. I stare at her, and she stares at me, both unblinking. I am transfixed, knowing that this is a special moment, not knowing I will remember it in twenty years, still uncertain about its meaning.

 

The Owl dispenses

winter wisdom from oak trees–

time paused in passing

 

Caspar_David_Friedrich_Eule_auf_schmucklosem_Baum_1834

Caspar David Friedrich, Owl on a Tree,” [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

This is a Haibun for dVerse, where we asked to write about owls. I’ve combined it with this week’s prompt from Colleen Chesebro , using synonyms for the words, smell and cozy.

 

 

 

Under the Moon: NaPoWriMo

 

 

Under the moon, I sat bereft,

we’d talked of life and love together,

you took my hand before you left,

gave to me a downy feather,

it once lay close to a beating heart,

I touched it softly, that snowy white,

flexible, but strong, sharp like a dart,

I wonder if the owl once loved–before he took flight—

does his mate cry for him now, in the loneliness of night?

 

Embed from Getty Images

 

This is for Day 9 of NaPoWriMo. The prompt was to write some sort of nine verse poem. This is my attempt at a Spenserian Stanza.