Super-sized Series

 Owls

 

At an Owls’ Nest by Wilda Morris

Mother owl lost two hungry babies
in the feeding frenzy when Father 
brought only one small mouse 
after two nights with nothing.
Now for four nights,
he has not come to the home.
Maybe he is wounded
or dead. Maybe he no longer
can hear rodents scurry
through the woods.

Mother Owl leaves 
her remaining young,
finds only one vole. 
She pushes the growing 
white balls of velvety feathers 
back farther into the nest 
as if to say, If you eat it all 
now there will be none later. 
A good mother, she whispers
and scolds, hoping to save them.

Great Horned Owls Mid-Winter by Sarah Russell

On our evening walk we hear them
in a stand of oak and pine—the female’s
breathy notes; the male’s answer, deeper,
like tones blown across a stoneware jug.
Before their sortie over snowy fields
they whisper greetings to their mates—
an alliance voiced in shadow. Our breath
clouds in the twilight.

First published in Red Eft Review
 
 
Joan Leotta holding her winning poem, Untitled, from Moving Words, Arlington County VA. It was one of six poems to be posted on Arlington County Virginia buses all summer.

Three poems by Joan Leotta

Untitled 

An owl continually
questions my identity
as I watch the stars

Laughing Owl

In the purple dark of
pre-dawn 
an owl hoots
his hunting song. 

With that final song,
a hoot sounding like
laughter, owl
bids farewell 

to darkness, 
to hunting
to his wakefulness
with one last wide-winged

swoop and sweep 
of all the fields
before he sleeps,
awaits the next sunset

and the dark when
all sky and earth
will be his again
to hunt, to rule.

His laugh also reminds
warns, the tasty things
who escaped this night, 
that he will return.


Spotting an Owl in Daytime 

Perched in the midst of snow-covered 
fir branches, peering out onto the road 
this cream-colored owl, spotted brown 
feathers puffed, plumped for warmth,  
peered down upon the busy road 
as a monarch watching his subjects 
file along in steel, rubber wheeled carriages. 
tolling by at fifty miles per hour. 
 
I wondered what the owl observed. 
Then he blinked.  
My eyes locked on to him 
as I saw his great 
eyes move, his wings shift  
forward as if he were blessing me 
or perhaps readying to fly. 
 
I decided on blessing-- 
After all, how  
often in a city setting 
is one able to 
commune with an owl,  
especially in daytime.
 
First published in Lothlorien


If the owl comes again by Judith Waller Carroll

After John Haines

I will perch on the limb beside her 
as we look down at the stillness, 
our swiveling eyes growing keener
with each twitch of grass, rattle of leaf. 
And as the dawn slowly brightens to day 
she will fly back into the dark woods, 
but I will linger, memorizing each shingle 
and nail, the uneven plank on the porch, 
the cat in the window, myself
in the chair by the bed, 
gazing out at the trees.

Damselfly Press

 

The Owl Taps on the Window by Sharon Waller Knutson

Flaps its wings and hoots
waking us from a sound sleep.
We rush to the kitchen window

where the owl holds court
in the light of a full moon
like a judge delivering a verdict.

The owl is a messenger
from the spirit world, our son
said two months before his death

as he read my future in tarot cards.
He said he left his Ouija board
back in Virginia with his cat Meow.

I suspect he has sent the owl.
But we have so many in the afterlife.
I stare into the owl’s orange eyes

and whisper: Who is sending the message?
He echoes Whooo in a deep soft voice
and we repeat the same scenario.

Our two-year-old grandson jumps
on the window seat and appears
to be having a serious conversation

with the owl as they huddle
and whisper through the glass
like an attorney and client.

Then the owl flies away and the toddler
asks for ice cream. First, I say, tell
me what he said. He replies, hooo.

We all eat a bowl of chocolate
ice cream and the owl never
returns. It’s just an owl,

my husband says as we go
back to bed. But I lie awake
wondering what our son wanted.

 

COURTING by Lorraine Caputo
 
The past-midnight wind
has quieted. Quick lightning
dances across hazed
stars. & the full moon nears its
setting horizon.
 
Two twittering owls
swoop over tejas roofs, through
palm trees, their large wings
casting dim shadows below,
upon this courtyard.

published in: ANU – A New Ulster


OWL HOUR by Barbara Crooker

I don’t know why I get so cold at ten o’clock, but that’s when I’m drawn,
like some sort of nightbird, to our nest upstairs in the flannel sheets,
once the color of pinot noir, now duller, patinaed by the silver
of our skins.  I need to pile on the blue blanket, the heavy woolen 
one from Ireland, the Broken Star quilt, before I stop
shivering.  Sometimes the house itself quivers in the wind.  
Then you come up, and we arrange ourselves like a nest 
of measuring cups.  Some of our friends now sleep alone, half 
the set missing.  I’ve told you you’re not allowed to die first;
I don’t do numbers—checkbook, taxes, bills.  My breasts 
press into your back; my hand with the numb fingers stretches
over your heart.  How lucky we are to have found each other;
what if I hadn’t gone to the party that night?  The second time
for both of us; we know how it can all go wrong.  Even 
when I can’t sleep, I listen to the hoots and calls 
of your breathing, which both keeps me awake 
and will be the first thing I’ll miss when all the nights
are silent. We know there’ll be an afterwards;
we’re not that young anymore.   I turn, and turn again,
the way a dog circles before he lies down.  And though 
we can’t see them, the stars twirl overhead, each one nested
in the place in space it’s supposed to call home.

From Gold

 

Two poems by Laurie Byro

Lark and Owl 

Sullen morning, singsong burst of chatter, owl
sulks that his love is not around to criticize.
When he wants her, for a lark she disappears
into sunrise to attend to her own daily bread.

He has eyes in the back of his head. She haunts
his forest. He collects branches that pile
one on top of another like grievances.
He chases cunning ideas that squeal to him

in the dark.  They cannot reconcile dawn
from dreams. A new day isn’t the right time
for endings. They look for clues for why it didn’t

work. He leaves her bloodied snouts, a sinewy rat’s
tail.  He tries to read her scratches in the snow.
Her last hieroglyphics, her concluding hello.


The Owl and the Pussycat File for Divorce

London—On July 30, 2001, from her
estate in Whitehall, the Puss issued
the following announcement:  “It is
with sadness that Owlie and I have
decided to separate after a union of
more than 150 years, as we wish
to pursue other interests.”  When
asked for more specific reasons for
this  disappointing split, she explained it
this way:

“Imagine if you will, having to hear the same
lyrics over and over every day for your
entire married life.  Finally I told Owl, “Bob
Dylan, you ain’t.  Can’t you come up with
  a new song? ”Humph! He created a disgusting
  rap number with the most vulgar expressions.
  Let me say on record, in the end I DO prefer to
be referred to as O Beautiful Pussy.  He
was a strange old bird—no longer elegant.”

The owl declined comment from his estate
in Mayfair, but a close family friend of the
  couple, a Mr. Lear, issued this statement:

“They were an unlikely couple. We hoped
they could  resolve their differences, but as
there are  no children involved, no harm done…”

And as for their joint estate valued at a
million smiles….

He’ll keep the guitar
and she’ll keep the pea green boat.

 

The Eyes Of The Storm by Lynn White

What does the owl see
when the lightning
flashes
light up the night sky
with sheets
of light
horizontal flashes
with vertical 
floor to ceiling
punctuation
from heaven to earth.
What does the owl see
when lightning strikes
through the hail and snow,
the wind and the rain.
What did the owl see
when awestruck
by lightning

First published in Alien Buddha Zine

Three poems by Joe Cottonwood

Tiny home

Owls they say
are wise,
live in bowels
of trees,
tight quarters
yet seem happy
and so are we, 
you and me 
with a tiny home 
on wheels wherein
to hang our towels
like owls.


My son calls owls to his window

My son used to pad down the hallway 
in footie pajamas to cuddle in our bed
sometimes without waking us.
Morning surprise. 

Now between mandolin and hockey stick 
he leans out his window 
fluent in the languages of coyote 
who speak but never show,
of owls who glide on silent wing 
closer tree to tree to buckeye limb,
fluent in the language of teen.

Nighttime surprise.
Awaking in bed we hear
Ow! Ow ow ow!
Who? Who be you?


Owl

Owl can hear 
heartbeat of mouse
beneath bed of snow.

Owl swallows teeth, eyes, all;
regurgitates a furry ball.

Owl never doubts
what to do,
unlike you.