More Thoughts On Turkey
She still climbs and oversees
Jennies and Jakes spread into
Prairie, gently, intently.
Not all lived --my neighbor,
And dear friend, found
Feathers in his field.
She is alone now and
How her heart roams, as
She surveys the lanes
And homes, is testament--
Proof-- that lingering love
And care include our roof.
She thanks you, without knowing or understanding, your existence as well as her own. She is grateful, as are we all, to be here and alive and fed.ReplyDelete
Dear Joanne, Turkey's remaining kids grew up and still visit her to walk around the property together --but they've taken up residences elsewhere. She watches for them.Delete
What an incredibly tender poem, friend Geo. In fact it made me cry a little. Love, cat.ReplyDelete
Thanks, friend Cat. I hope my poem did not make you sad. Wild turkeys prefer to be free --not penned and fattened for slaughter-- and I have to respect that. Love appreciated, reciprocated.Delete
Thank you, Rick. That means a lot coming from a man of so many songs. All my best to you and Jilda.Delete
Thank you for the beautiful poem. Sensitive, tender and moving.ReplyDelete
Kind Tom. Thanks in return. For me, Nature is a language. I try to consider our fellow nouns or gerunds (turkey or turkeying?) my equals on the evolutionary ladder.Delete
Wild turkeys are faithful to the others. You were lucky to have such a neighbor.ReplyDelete
I am pleased with all my neighbors --except for those across the south creek, whose parties sometimes include mortality rates. My current next-door neighbor, D.W., has been my friend for 60 years. Yes, I am lucky.Delete
Yes, I think you are. And for your empathy with my graceful roof-dweller, even more so.Delete
This is the first non humorous poem to a turkey I've ever seen. It's really sweet.ReplyDelete
Same here, Elizabeth --I never saw a serious turkey poem and thought one should be attempted. They are beautiful things and deserving of more serious thought than they get.Delete
I so appreciate your abilities with poetry. I seem to have only the ability to APPRECIATE poetry. I have attempted to write poetry a variety of times, but I just do not seem to "get" how to do so with any sense of meaning or value. I even checked out of the library at the U, a pair of textbooks about poetry writing.... but reading and searching for the secrets I need to figure it all out.... still allude me.
Best I can figure is, think of what is best and funnest about language --mainly consonance, alliteration, rhyme(in a pinch) and sincerity. Technically, it's always changing. Shakespeare wrote really well in iambic pentameter --then had centuries of Restoration playwrights dancing on his grave. Thank heaven for Oscar Wilde! He fixed comedy and drama for the future. In 1970, I got kicked out of a literature class for airing that opinion. The "meaning and value" is in YOU.Delete
A beautiful poem. It reminds me of the lone female pheasant that came on my back patio while I was going through chemo. She got to tame after a while and she would not fly away when I opened the door to feed her.ReplyDelete
She came every day for a long time then one day, she came no more , like her partner. I suspect she fell prey to a fox and it made me feel so bad. She was such a comfort to me when she visited.
Dear Julia, thank you. Pheasants are so prone to hysteria and panic that I've never had one stay close to me. They are such beautiful creatures, though. I do delight in their use, 100 yards from our back door, of thickets and stumpery Norma provides them.Delete
Your pheasant was indeed remarkable. I consider Nature a language of the boundless Universe. Universe put her in your path for a reason, and perhaps you in hers. Hugs appreciated, needed and reciprocated.