Poems about loons

№ 1030662

Of loons, lakes, and luck (Helen's husband, 1899-1983)

When he was 84, he rarely recalled
The Great War, though he left a finger somewhere
In French soil, and on deep sleep nights,
Few and far between, it would call him
A spectral image of gas dead faces
Drifting through like sallow clouds
In the charcoal sky

His nephew was the only one left
To fish these green waters, to court the steady
Trout that he too saw in his dreams--all the others,
Even his own sons, marching in the concrete squares
Of the cities, visiting now and then like peddlers
Hawking wares he could not understand...
Soccer games and mutual funds
Gourmet feasts at eateries
With cryptic names

The lake was still the same
The loons chatting, the waves lapping
But without his Helen, the fish he caught
Were usually granted reprieve, saved from
His sharp gutting blade, her sizzling skillet,
And without her beside him under her ancient quilts,
The nights were not longer, for grief, he knew,
Did not stretch time, but only
Made its circle smaller

Was a sun sated Saturday
When the nephew had honey do's as good excuses
And the old man was left alone, sitting by a black rotary phone,
Waiting for one of his old nine digits to dial the new nine and two ones,
It is what they all would have expected, a cry for help, a long mute ambulance ride, them seeing him helpless with hoses and wires, delaying the funeral pyres, as was the custom in this post teen century

Instead, though he felt the anvil on his chest,
And sweat drenched his JC Penney work shirt,
He moved not his feeble fingers to the phone, but his fated feet
To the lake, once only a long a hop from the porch, now a mammoth journey, ten, twelve Sisyphus steps downhill--when he reached the waters edge, the fowl called him casually, their slow song on the currents,
And he sat in the fresh grass, watching the painted blue sky
He saw the fins of those he had set free, hoping
That would count for something
When he curled in fetal repose,
And closed his eyes
By this lonely lake

helen,  husband,  lakes,  loons,  luck.

Author: spysgrandson
Date: 27/10/2019

№ 998074

Cry of the Loons (38w)

When chaos is about
And the world turns dark
Take leave to the midnight lake
Surrounded by the sighing willows
It is there you will find me
Soothing my battered soul
To the mournful cry of the loons

cry,  loons.

Author: ultimatepanicqueen
Date: 27/09/2019

№ 916814

Lunes for the Loons

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 1, 2016)

Pitchforks gather,
Chinese made,
The red embroideries.

Autocrats swagger
Bile hyperboles.

And wicked blather
The soul amputees.


Author: Mary McCray
Date: 16/07/2019

№ 696084

Haiku--the Loons

The last loon glides
Cooing to the warm waters
Colored leaves fall.

Nests heave under
Ice drifts on burdened shore
Loons gone south.

Welcome nests rise up
From pond's melting shore
Loons Home to roust

Loon dives deep
To the water's weeds
To eat trout.

haiku,  loons.

Author: karen hookway
Date: 28/12/2018

№ 208307

Banshee Loons

Summer's almost over,
It's threadbare
As your towel;
The summer sands
Are shifting,
The beach is headed south.

The initialed picnic tables
Are stored for other outings;
The concession windows
Flapped now,
The busker's shouting quelled.

Sails are dropped
Like maple leafs,
The moon's rising
Too soon;
The night lights blaze
Over pitch and field,
Where sunshine
Shone in June.

Geese are wedging daily
To escape the wintery gloom;
I'll reacquaint
With the hinter sounds
Of lake winds
And banshee loons.

banshee,  loons.

Author: Francie Lynch
Date: 11/10/2017