At the bottom of its slice of flight, was the chook yard fence.
in corners the hens flap their birdbrains
The chicken hawk lies like a crumpled rag but, apart from the minor inconvenience of being dead, looks absolutely perfect, every feather in place, the spread of the wing, the tail, the overlapping geometry of charcoal and ochre. Its feet, its talons, such wiry power in them, such strength, the weapons of a hunting machine. Its head lolls in my hand, broken necked, the blades of its beak slightly ajar.
through the wire the hens’ curiosity sharp eyes
But looking into the falcon’s eyes, for the world, they look alive, so bright and alert. Gazing into them: a whirlpool of intelligence, of awareness. Deep, deep space down there and on the surface, my reflected fear.
In Australia in April we are deepening into autumn. In Adelaide it is still warm weather. The quinces are ripening on the trees, the shops full of the harvest of summer fruits. Autumn foliage is beginning to appear on the exotic European trees we have planted along our streets. Shops are filling with warm clothes for winter. The car race and the Fringe and Adelaide Festivals have finished bringing to an end the rush of Mad March. The blocked traffic is now flowing freely once more, interstate and international visitors have flown away. In Japan the cherry blossom season should have reached Kyoto. Challenge: customs of autumn or flowers of spring. Senryu, haiku, tanka. Please use your imagination.
Any Japanese poetry genre: haiku, senryu, tanka etc. 1. I nspiration through nature, looking forward to spring, and witnessing the early signs of spring 2. Sport (plenty of inspiration with the Olympic games on at the moment)
There will only be two challenges for February. A multiple range of topics is given in this challenge. home, origin, history, memories of past times, our lifestyle, our lives now, our lives in the future. Work in any Japanese genre poetry is acceptable.
bell birds
ReplyDeleteI hear the music
of early matins
autumn rain
kookaburra laughs
a clear day
green feather
rolling over and over
the growl of traffic
white cockatoo
strung along the line
wash day
fairy wren
ReplyDeleteat the birdbath
her leg black and blue
Chicken Hawk
ReplyDelete(Australian Little Falcon)
At the bottom of its slice of flight, was the chook yard fence.
in corners
the hens flap
their birdbrains
The chicken hawk lies like a crumpled rag but, apart from the minor inconvenience of being dead, looks absolutely perfect, every feather in place, the spread of the wing, the tail, the overlapping geometry of charcoal and ochre. Its feet, its talons, such wiry power in them, such strength, the weapons of a hunting machine. Its head lolls in my hand, broken necked, the blades of its beak slightly ajar.
through the wire
the hens’ curiosity
sharp eyes
But looking into the falcon’s eyes, for the world, they look alive, so bright and alert. Gazing into them: a whirlpool of intelligence, of awareness. Deep, deep space down there and on the surface, my reflected fear.
among bones and stones
one hen
pecks another
on tiptoes
ReplyDeletethe long bare legs
in a miniskirt
'nice sunglasses'
says my father
stealing
ReplyDeletefrom the thief
at the bird's bower
shells, pegs, bottle caps
and her diamond ring
picking
the shell from the chick
a child's hands