A Night In Late Autumn
The sky is dark the countryside is quiet
But the spur winged plovers cry out in the night
Above their territory they call and fly
Perhaps the hunting fox is prowling by.
The possums hiss on gum tree in the park
And in a yard nearby a terrier bark
At wailing tom cats fighting on the street
For the right to mate with a female in heat.
The night is calm there's scarce a puff of breeze
And boobook owl hunting for small birds in the cypress trees
Repeat the same call over and again
And frogs are croaking in the pond and drain.
The countryside may seem quiet after dark
But in the sky above the nearby park
The spur winged plovers cry out in the night
Perhaps a fox has driven them to flight
poem by Francis Duggan
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A September Night In The Countryside
Out there in the quiet countryside in the still of the night
The unmistakeable cry of a hunting fox in the moonlight
And perhaps at the threat of a predator to their ground nest nearby
The wary spur wing plovers are calling as they fly
Like the fox the predatory night birds have young to feed this time of year
And the loud screech of a barn owl not a pleasant sound to hear
And to the boobook calls of mopoke on the nearby trees
The brooding small bird in her nest does listen with a sense of unease
On the quiet rural roadway few cars pass up and down
On a September night in the countryside miles from the nearest town
And the calls of the male ringtail possum one never could mistake
He will be back in his leafy nest before sunrise at daybreak
The predatory birds and animals who hide from the lamp of day
In the still of a September night are out hunting for prey.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Breeding Season Of The Spur Winged Plovers
The spur winged plovers breed in depths of Winter
And in the night you often hear them cry
Perhaps they scream at fox who is out hunting
As in the darkness he goes prowling by?
To where their eggs are far too close for comfort
Their alarm calls re-echo in the sky
And their shrill voices can be heard for some distance
As above their territory they scream and fly.
They do not waste their energy on nest building
And on the ground their green blotched eggs they lay
And in the breeding season they are wary
You hear them every night and every day.
When their chicks are young the plovers are quite fearless
And from their borders chase others away
They mob the currawongs and kites and kookaburras
And other birds who on their young might prey.
It is the breeding season of the spur winged plovers
And in the night their shrill voices you hear
Perhaps at fox out hunting they are screaming
As to where their eggs are he is prowling near.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On A Moonlit Night In July
A full moon does silently creep it's way across the starlit sky
And the flute of the magpie I hear on this cool Winter night in July
He does not sing for the love of song he sings to defend territory
Whilst most others birds are asleep he pipes high on a wattle tree
With a wife and a nest to defend in his nesting time of the year
He pipes a warning to males of his kind that to us sounds melodious and clear,
The spur wing plovers in the park above their nesting grounds do fly
They scream at the dog, fox or cat who to their ground nest is prowling nearby
In the calm of a Winter night of such beauty a Nature Poet would write
A poem that lovers of Nature poetry would read and to others feel glad to recite
On a gum tree a brush tail possum calls for a mate his hoarse voice one cannot mistake
He will be in the dark ceiling of a nearby house before the sun rise at daybreak
And the boobook owl calls out mopoke a night predator of human kind shy
The nocturnal creatures out and about on a moonlit night in July.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Into The Last Month Of Winter
Into the last month of Winter and the wattles cloaked in yellow flowers in bloom
And pink flowers on the camellias and yellow flowers on the broom
And all through the night the white backed magpies sing
On the third week of August coming up to the Spring
On the third week of August in the Southern Hemisphere
One does have a sense that Spring is quite near
The paddocks and parklands are looking quite green
And fragile pink flowers on the fruit trees are seen
Into the third week of August and birds sing in the rain
And all through the night frogs sing in pond and drain
And in the calm of the night in the parkland nearby
The breeding spur wing plovers in their territory cry
And all through the night on the moonlit gum trees
The songs of the magpies carry in the breeze.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Mopoke Mopoke Is All It Has To Say
In the still of night I hear the boobook cry
Mopoke mopoke in the parkland nearby
Mopoke mopoke is all it has to say
The bird that hides from the bright lamp of day
A voice quite unmelodiuos though clear
That in the night time one does often hear
An owl that the small songbirds greatly fear
They fly from their roosting perch when boobook's near
Small enough for to kill and delicious for to eat
To boobook's taste buds quite a tasty treat
With killer claws and a deadly hooked bill
The boobook owl is out hunting for to kill
Mopoke mopoke echoes in the night sky
The boobook owl hunts in the park nearby.
poem by Francis Duggan
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He Does Not Sleep That Well At Night
He does not sleep that well at night though his troubles are small
The possums walking on his roof the rats squeak in the wall,
The boobook owl is crying mopoke on the trees across the way
He used to sleep without once waking till after break of day.
He does not sleep that well at night his wife beside him snore
He lay beside her wide awake for three hours sometimes more
The moon shines through the window pane he hear the plover cry
And the hunting fox is barking in the old paddock nearby.
He does not sleep that well at night he lay in bed awake
And the voices of the nocturnal creatures he cannot mistake
The frogs are singing in the ponds to tell that rain is near
And occasionally the barking of the neighbourhood dogs he hear.
He goes to bed at ten o clock but he doesn't get to sleep till around two
Although he must get up to go to work at seven still his worries seem so few
Compared to some who do sleep well with him it used not to be this way
He often slept for ten hours straight till after break of day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On The Fourth Day Of March
The pleasant aroma of the peppercorn trees
That come wafting to me in the evening breeze
And on the nearby pond the shy moorhen call
On the fourth day of March and the southern Fall.
A white backed magpie pipes on a nearby gum tree
A bird one so often does hear and does see
And though early Autumn the deciduous trees in the park of the town
Their leaves still quite green and not showing any brown.
The weather quite cool compared to yesterday
But the temperatures perfect for me anyway
Today a cool high of twenty two degrees
From the recent warm weather we do need some ease.
The brown and bare paddocks could do with some rain
And the farmers are feeling the financial strain
Of months of dry weather they feel burdened by care
And their financial cross for them heavy to bear.
There is not one rain cloud in the clear blue sky
And the thistledown flying in the breeze through the sky
And the dark moorhen call in the brown pond nearby
And the paddocks are looking so bare, brown and dry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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A Copying Cat
A day / A night
A pet / A sight
Paws / Thy Claws
Fur white / Hellkite
Small teeth / Thy Jaws
Red, brown? White, grey? Born stark?
At night all cats are dark
Bear crown? Without way? No marque?
In the dark all cats' labels are park
All cats are cat, at night,
No doubts about their power, their might,
Let none question the fear they incite,
'Cause for advantage they have cat's spite,
And night is quite the cat's best site,
For proven the fact, which strangeness is quite,
That is at the dark where cat's do their flight,
And none's is worst than a very cat's bite
For none can be a cat's copycat,
And no cat can avoid copying cats
poem by by unknown author
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In Fancy I Hear
In fancy i hear the male snipe in his courtship display
O'er the rushy fields on a calm night in May
With his tail as he flies he makes a goat like bleating sound
That echoes in the sky above his breeding ground,
Above his breeding ground perhaps 'tis his territory he advertise
That the more sound he make the bigger his size
He sends out a warning across the night sky
To neighbouring snipes who are listening nearby
In the rank grass by the drain her blotched eggs warm neath her breast
His secretive brown wife she sits on her nest
Whilst her mate in the dark sky he flies to and fro
Making goat like bleating sounds to leave other snipes know
That this is his territory and all through the night
He sends out a warning in the dim moonlight.
----------- ---------
poem by Francis Duggan
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Stranger On A Quiet Street
When all the thrills have been forgotten
The chill of night can call them home
And all the dreams that you left stranded
Will slowly start to come along
I felt it as she slipped away, slipped away
I didnt have the words to say
When I saw the stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
You can go straight as an arrow
You can go straight as you dare
Walkin the old straight and narrow
Dont always get you there
The sun was shining when I saw it all
She was moving to a different beat
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
It came to me out of the blue, out of the blue
There came the moment that I really knew
When I met a stranger
A stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street, on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
Stranger on a quiet street
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Forest Greeting
GOOD hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the forests call;
But ever a heart beats hot with fear,
And what of the birds that fall?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
Wherever the north winds blow;
But what of the stag that calls for his mate?
And what of the wounded doe?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And ah! we are bold and strong;
But our triumph call through the forest hall
Is a brother's funeral song.
For we are brothers ever,
Panther and bird and bear;
Man and the weakest that fear his face,
Born to the nest or lair.
Yes, brothers, and who shall judge us?
Hunters and game are we;
But who gave the right for me to smite?
Who boasts when he smiteth me?
Good hunting! — aye, good hunting,
And dim is the forest track;
But the sportsman Death comes striding on:
Brothers, the way is black.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Dinosaurs In The Suburbs
Go to Crystal Palace Park in the dead of night,
And you are sure to be given a very big fright.
The dinosaurs, which you see there in the Park,
Suddenly all spring to life when it grows dark.
They stand stock still as statues during the day,
But, at night, they all chorus ‘Hip-hip- hooray! '
Around the Palace Park, the dinosaurs roam:
Looking for food, every inch they will comb.
They have resided at the Park for many a year;
Faint hearted folk will not dare venture near.
Some of the local neighbours, who live nearby
Have reported hearing the odd frightened cry.
The statues seem to cause a slight feeling of unease;
On seeing them, some folk simply stop and freeze.
During the day, the dinosaurs will do you no harm;
Some people think they even behold a slight charm.
As soon as the daylight begins to fail,
Frightened little children begin to wail.
They know that the dinosaurs will come alive,
So, through the Park gates, they quickly dive.
When the Keeper locks up the gates at night,
He makes sure that they are locked really tight:
He doesn't want the dinosaurs running around,
Scaring the neighbours and terrorizing the town.
Of course, the dinosaurs could easily break out,
But, their cover would be blown, without a doubt.
So they stay well within the Park's perimeter fence,
Shrouded by the vegetation, which grows so dense.
To humans, hungry dinosaurs can be a big threat,
But, luckily, no one has ever been eaten as yet.
So, if you're ever nearby, and you hear a loud roar,
Chances are it will be one of the local dinosaurs!
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Where The Wannon Waters Flow
To the flat and old brown Countryside the Seasons come and go
But she lives far so very far from where the Wannon waters flow
Through places to her familiar on it's journey to the sea
Through a Land that was even old in the Dreamtime of an ancient history.
Through the busy streets of London cars and trucks buzz up and down
And she now lives far so very far north of Hamilton Town
She left the Southern Grampians Shire some seven years ago
And her journeys have taken her far from where the Wannon waters flow.
Now in her twenty seventh year one can say in her life's prime
And seven years go quickly when one looks back in time
But to her parents home near Hamilton she will return next Spring
When the magpie flutes his finest and the grey shrike thrush does sing
On the gum trees by her old home at the dawning of the day
In the far southern Countryside from London far away
When the wild bush flowers are blooming and in the moonlit sky
The breeding spur wing plovers utter their territorial cry.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Aura
The air was dark
The moon was dark
The night was dark
The cloud was dark
The heat was dark
The stars were black
The birds were black
The eyes were black
The shadows were black
The planes were black
A sound of night
The hearts of night
A chase at night
A fall at night
No help at night
The night is night
Where is my sight
I have no sight
Your light was sight
No light no sight
No one in sight
The dark in sight
Don't call my name
What's my name
They call my name
That's not my name
Who said its my name
I have no name
You took my same
It was our same
She was our same
She's now your same
Its all the same
I'm not the same
Judas and my hand
You took my hand
'I do' my hand
You kissed my hand
You broke my hand
You fell my hand
A tear in sand
A heart in sand
A body in sand
Alone in sand
A dust in sand
At home in sand.
poem by Jenim Dibie
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Red BMX Bicycle
There was a small boy
In the countryside
Who had a small red BMX bicycle
Kept in the store besides the herbicides
Every evening like a cycle
He would ride down the dusty road
The sun a yellow ball
on the west side
Glittering under the sun`s rays
Was that small
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
Who had nothing…
Totally nothing
He was a friend to the small boy
Every evening like a cycle
He would wait by the dusty road
To have a chance
On the small red BMX bicycle
His face would be all smiles
Even after falling off that
RED BMX BICYCLE
One day at dusk
The smaller boy
Stood next to the small boy
And asked
“When you grow up, would you give me this bike? ”
The small boy without thinking
Said YES..
There was a smaller boy
In the countryside
One night
He had a bad stomach ache
His mum wiping the tiny streams of tears
That fell from his small face
That was pale…
Due to dust from the dusty road
As he played with his the small boy
And rode on that
RED BMX BICYCLE
There was a small boy
In the countryside…
Now HE is all grown
And in the university
Far away in the city
That RED BMX BICYCLE
Now long gone
Given to some relative, I guess
If I could go back
To those days…
Those days with beautiful sunsets
Back in the countryside
Waiting for my chance
On my red BMX bicycle
Watching that smaller boy fall off
I would give him…
I would hand him that bicycle
And never expect it back
And watch him ride
Towards the beautiful sunset
On my red BMX bicycle
But if I can go back
All will be in vain
Because on that night…in the dark
He struggled with pain
His small heart couldn`t keep on
Outside there was rain
The gods possibly wanted to cleanse
All the evil that night
That took him away
Now I reminisce
As I keep moving on
About that smaller boy
And our small
RED BMX BICYCLE…
poem by Paul Oguda
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The 'Poem A Day' Project ~ Day 257
I’m a happy dog at the park
I yelp and woof and bark
Along with the sound
Us dogs run around
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
You may think me off the mark
But I’m not by mistake
In the mud by the lake
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I hunt like a big hairy shark
When the bunnies trail
Puts a spring in my tail
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m glad that some bright spark
Brought a ball to throw
Now off I go
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’ll be wagging well into the dark
Enjoy fresh air and fun
Is my tip everyone
I’m a happy dog at the park
poem by Flying Lemming
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy Dog 3
I’m a happy dog at the park
I yelp and woof and bark
Along with the sound
Us dogs run around
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
You may think me off the mark
But I’m not by mistake
In the mud by the lake
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I hunt like a big hairy shark
When the bunnies trail
Puts a spring in my tail
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m glad that some bright spark
Brought a ball to throw
Now off I go
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’m a happy dog at the park
I’ll be wagging well into the dark
Enjoy fresh air and fun
Is my tip everyone
I’m a happy dog at the park
poem by Flying Lemming
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ancient Gaelic Melody
I.
Birds of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream -
All night long he heard you scream.
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,
There to wink and mop, for, hark!
In the mid air sings the lark.
II.
Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wily fox, -
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view,
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe.
Couch your trains, and speed your flight,
Safety parts with parting night;
And on distant echo borne,
Comes the hunter's early horn.
III.
The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams,
Ghost-like she fades in morning beams;
Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay
That scarce the pilgrim on his way, -
Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen,
Thy torch, that cheats benighted men;
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done,
For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.
IV.
Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep,
O'erpower the passive mind in sleep,
Pass from the slumberer's soul away,
Like night-mists from the brow of day:
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,
Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone!
Thou darest not face the godlike sun.
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Star Park
There are no secrets in star park
(well) rendezvous to a peacocks call
I said Id meet you after dark
For a night well trip, but never fall
(chorus:)
So bring your old umbrella
And some hair conditioner too, yeah
So bring your old umbrella
A swell time will be had by me and you
Yeah yeah yeah
In star park, maybe, after darkness
There are no secrets in the trees
They tell them out so constantly
I only sing and dance to please
A foreigner from no country
(chorus)
There are no secrets in star park
I said Id be by you after night
So take your [ginger? ], catch a spark
We wont get left if it runs not right
(chorus)
song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ambushed In The Night
You are hunting me down to take my life but,
What have i done to you?
In this life, from the eveil doers come evil deeds;
So try to be like a spectrum of vivid shades and speckles,
With glittering crystals of golden pyrite.
My love is towards you but,
You are hunting me with hatred;
And i will always live a quiet and a calm life around you.
Do not hastly think that all is well with you,
Do not hastly think that of is well with me,
And do not think that all that you hear is true;
But take a time to speak to me than hunting me down.
I am ambushed in the night because of you,
And i have nowhere to rest my head on this issue;
But my faith will surely lead me to overcome your traps.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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