Corvid the Crow

Corvid the Crow

The winged bandit of sparkly things

Flies o’er the field of corn,

And he is a wise and ancient bird

Of heart’s desires borne.

Blackest feathers, orange-yellow beak,

He caws to give a warning,

Ever vigilant a guardian he,

Preferring gaiety to mourning.

Psychopomp and watcher he

And executor of law,

Teacher of the ways of life

Sometimes with humor raw.

A creative bird but not held down,

The crow can be relied on;

His mischief and his swarthy ways

Often get him lied on.

Ah, crow, crow, delightful bird

A family bird is here,

Crow will never fly quite straight…

But that’s what makes him dear.

ã2 June 1999, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Brown Betty’s Brew

Brown Betty’s Brew

Where does this slightly astringent

Yet tantalizingly fruity sweet amber

Liquid warmth come from?

Like ambrosia and nectar,

A paradisical flavor

With milk and honey flowing…

Is this an emperor’s brew or

A pirate’s treasure?!

How satisfying to drink

This mug

Of Earl Grey.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Tuscan Red

Tuscan Red

Vined ripeness, Tuscan red

Dripping, oozing into the clay

Fired to an inebriated blush

Of hunger, thirst, desire

For one perfect grape.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

The Dog Sentry

The Dog Sentry

Attentively scouring the horizon of the yard

And the immediate vicinity,

She stands her watch,

Guarding her fort and troops

From rabbits, groundhogs, birds,

And especially cats…

Seeing an encroachment,

She silently stalks the intruder

Until she is in position…

Then pounce and chase,

Faster and faster,

Until the field is cleared once again.

Satisfied, she returns to her post

On the porch.

ã23 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Dandelion Yellow

Dandelion Yellow

A sunny-faced yellow smiling with

Basking, buttery, brilliance,

Dandelion’s daring defiance

Of human efforts to

Devastate

A generous herb.

ã14 April 1998, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

A Late Autumn Afternoon

A Late Autumn Afternoon

Grayish-blue edge with lighter gray,

Whiffs of white,

Shadowed by purples and black,

The snow clouds pile on one another.

The bare, black barked trees silhouetted against the sky

Sway forming intricate, delicate designs in the air.

The brown fallen leaves no longer rustle or dance on the breeze.

All seems peaceful, so quiet,

As if this were the season to be silent.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

A Late November Night

A Late November Night

A clear, sky on a cold late November night is breath taking.

The panorama of stars and moon are splendrous.

The stillness and the bone-chilling coldness

Seem to frame the sacred…

What great mysteries to behold, to cherish.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.

Dawn

Dawn

The lightening rosy-orange against the bluish-purple eastern sky

 

Heralds the sun’s arising again today.

The birds sing to welcome the dawn

As the children of the night quiet down for sleep.

The morning star beckons expectantly just above the horizon

As all the stars except ours disappear from sight.

Then there he is, rolling up into position

For his westwardly daily trip.

Morning with its crisp, clean air,

Fresh and new…

The beauty of life given for one more day.

ã22 November 1993, Daphne Yvonne Bradshaw.