Christmas night

great horned christmas caroling owl
crooning to a nearly full cold moon—

aromatic firewood smoke dancing
with chill desert air and winter stars—

people holidaying with indoor trees
oblivious to nature’s nighttime party

Terri Guillemets

Poetry of spring

Springtime is a poet —
the blue sky its blank page
so vibrant green in rhyme
a different metre for every clime
birds chirping to keep the time
wildflowers yellow, red, purple divine
words dancing on tall blades of grasses
sparkling in the morning dews
no commas the flow keeps buzzing
vernal dashes & blossoming branches
on newly greening verdant trees
refrains whispering in each breeze
butterflies — floating apostrophes
ladybugs dot floral question marks
blissful bees stray stanza to stanza
seeds disperse from verse to verse
continuing a poem that’s never ended
and into summer’s colors is blended

Terri Guillemets

Jovial vernal verse

Spring is the green
      is the peace
      is the breeze
      and the blossoms
      and the blues
      past the buds
      to the pinks
      on the brink
      and the warmth
      and the warbles
      and the weeds
      all the yellows
      and the bees
      and the buzzing
      living branches
      and the grasses
      and the gardens
      and the growing
      and the blowing
      of the pollens
      oh! the purples
      and the chirples
      of the birds
      and the beauty
      and the butterflies
      in the skies
      and the sun—
Springtime’s fun!

Terri Guillemets

All-nighter

Mockingbird lives in a tree just outside our door —
and every spring he tells songful bedtime stories
about his ardent quest to find a mockingmaiden —
his lovely talented tales start with once upon a time
then it’s nonstop plot and plagiarism all night long
with the happy ending note sometime near dawn!

Terri Guillemets

The Prisoner

If you have not a bird inside you,
      You have no reason to sing.
But if a pent bird chide you,
      A beak and a bleeding wing,
      Then you have reason to sing.

If merely you are clever
      With thoughts and rhymes and words,
Then always your poems sever
      The veins of our singing-birds,
      With blades of glinting words.

Yet if a Song, without ending,
      Inside you choke for breath,
And a beak, devouring, rending,
      Tear through your lungs for breath,
      Sing—or you bleed to death.

—Louis Golding (1895–1958), “The Prisoner,” Sorrow of War, 1919

Death lights heavy

Hummingbird mama
abandons her nonviable eggs —
but keeps checking back
a few more times, just to be sure.

An arm falls from a sickly saguaro
and breaks open on the ground
like a prickly green eggshell —
after decades of desert still-life
a few seconds of death-motion.

But the night breeze is so beautiful
those breezes are — so beautiful
it’s hard not to get swept away.

Terri Guillemets