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Archive for the ‘Poetry on Blogfinger’ Category

An osprey nest on a chimney near the Sanibel Island lighthouse. Florida.   Paul Goldfinger photo. Feb. 2020 © Click image to enlarge the bird.

 

Osprey at the Tropicana Coop in Ft. Myers. 2018 © Paul Goldfinger photo.

 

 

Osprey

By George Held.

Osprey, you can see by the dawn’s
Early light

A fish ‘neath the finish of the bay
In your flight

As you circle and soar or you stall
Like a kite,

Ever ready to dive on your prey
When in sight;

Then you drop like a plummet until
You alight

On the brine with your talons outstretched
And they bite

Into scales of that silvery bass, lifting it clear
Of the bight

Of the bay with your ten-horse wings to retake
The sun’s light

And you land on your platform to tend to your nestling’s
End of night

Hunger, tearing the bass with your terrible beak
Into bite-

Sized gobbets for your fledgling to gorge on, its break-
Fast birthright

As your scion, O Osprey, you long-winged king
Of the heights.

 

 

This poem is from George Held’s first collection, Winged (1995.)

 

K.D. LANG

 

“Skylark.”

 

 

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By Paul Goldfinger,  Editor@Blogfinger.net

George Held has published another haiku, this time in the Red Eft  Review  (see their quote in the sentence below.)

“George Held is a prolific writer of haiku and has published them in Red Eft Review, the Aurorean, Blogfinger.net, bear creek haiku, and elsewhere. His latest book is Second Sight (Poets Wear Prada, 2019).”

We thank George for including us in his list of places where his poems roost.  (George loves birds.)

Blogfinger is reproducing that Red Eft Review haiku below.

And speaking of shoes (Poets Wear Prada), here is a Blogfinger link to a very recent post of ours about shoes.

Cobbler’s tool

And now, ladies and germs, we bring you a haiku by George Held…uh, not so fast!  That post will be found if you travel south of here.

Meanwhile, this boy, George, is recognized for what he said, because his words help guide those on journeys:

“Something the Boy Said.”  by Sting from his album   Ten Summoner’s Tales:

When we set out on this journey
There were no doubts in our minds
We set our eyes to the distance
We would find what we would find
We took courage from our numbers
What we sought we did not fear
Sometimes we’d glimpse a shadow falling
The shadow would disappear
But our thoughts kept returning
To something the boy said…

 

 

 

 

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Bob Bowné.  Winter Ocean Grove. 2015. ©

 

SCULPTURE

 

By Charles Pierre

 

In winter, my tongue

and teeth chinker

through cracked lips,

 

each poem a carving

of white breath

without marble’s heft—-

 

the chiseled lines

dying to silence,

shrouded in mist.

 

 

HOLLY CONLAN   “Winter”

 

 

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Osprey pair feeding young on Sanibel Island. Ding Darling Wildlife Refuge. Paul Goldfinger photo.

 

Even on Sanibel

hearing the osprey call—-

I miss Sanibel

 

 

Wild Tones Bird Calls  (Osprey)

 

SMASHING PUMPKINS:  “My Blue Heaven.”

 

 

George Held reading one of his poems.

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Chester, New Jersey. Paul Goldfinger ©.

 

 

Morning shrubs bending

in December wind—-

the full moon sets

 

 

 

Leonard Cohen  “Winter Lady.”

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sunset florida

Bunche Beach. Fort Myers, Florida. Paul Goldfinger ©.

 

Sunset

By Charles Pierre

 

The offshore sky

is undone

as light slips away:

 

When the blues die

in flame,

and the last display

 

of red ends its slide

seaward,

drowning the day.

 

CACHAO.  “Si Me Pudieras Querer”

 

 

 

 

 

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OG Beach—-in March. Paul Goldfinger photo ©

 

By George Held:

 

Even in Ocean Grove—-

Savoring the Atlantic—-

I miss Ocean Grove

 

 

BOB DYLAN:

 

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6-1

Ocean Grove beach. August 2018. Paul Goldfinger © Blogfinger.net  Haiku special to Blogfinger by the author.

 

 

Sunshine and sun warmth —

another sparkling summer

on the Jersey shore

 

STUFFY SCHMITT:

 

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2

Once alive. Paul Goldfinger ©. Ocean Grove.

 

 

Career

 

By Charles Pierre

 

The smashed bodies of clams,

crabs and whelks onshore

show what the world’s about.

Yet from the shadow

of a broken shell,

a small beetle walks freely

into the sun,

its path etched

on the sand’s crust.

 

 

BUCKY PIZZARELLI :

 

 

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Spring Lake

“Here’s That Rainy Day.” Spring Lake, NJ. By Paul Goldfinger ©. Undated.

Spring Pool

By Charles Pierre

In the hollow of my hand, a pool is born
of an April downpour, the sudden flood
filling every crevice of pinkish skin,
the lines of life and heart and mind engulfed,

a breeze etching the surface with ripples
that push against shores of padded flesh
around the palm, some overflowing the bank,
others sliding back toward the deep center,

the wrinkles on the bottom of the pool
brightening, as the rain that fell so fast
passes, and sunlight pierces the water
settling at the end of my outstretched arm.

BOB DYLAN:

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