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Portage Lakes Purple Martin Association
Purple Martin Poetry

Poetic Musings by Purple Martineers

A MARTIN MERRY CHRISTMAS

by Larry Hunter*

Twas the night before Christmas in Sao Paulo, Brazil.

The Martins were singing for peace and goodwill.

Their feathers all molted, they look pretty classy.

With warm winds blowing, the males getting sassy.

We dream of their coming, we can hardly wait.

The schedule is set.  What is their fate?

It won't be long now with the days getting longer

The flight plan is made, the flock getting stronger.

From Brazil they will fly, thru Central America they'll go,

Arriving in North America to chase away the snow.

The towns they pass they know by name.

The flight path travelled always the same.

We know they are coming, preparations are made.

Houses are cleaned -- some need first aid.

Spring will arrive without any clatter.

Awaiting the Martins' melodious chatter.

The joy they spread as they fly around

Causes spirits to rise and good tidings abound.

The Martins we love are all in flight

So Merry Christmas to all, and to all a Goodnight!

 

*[It should be noted that Larry is a prize winning poet.]

 

 BALLET OF THE BIRDS
by
Donna Bradley McGlone
August 26, 2009
 
Upon the high wires row on row
 
They take their places for the show
 
Some late arrivals cruising low
 
Above the smooth lake's fiery glow,
 
Before they rise to take their places
 
Between the others even spaces.
 
They're all assembled facing west
 
To watch the red sun go to rest.
 
Now with evening homage paid
 
I view a whirling bird parade!
 
The birds' ballet will not begin ---
 
Black snowflakes driven by the wind!
 
Swirling high and swooping low
 
This way and that the dancers flow.
 
A tornado of intricate motion!
 
A sunami rolling in the ocean!
 
In sunset's orange afterglow
 
It seems they don't know where to go.
 
Then some begin to disapear
 
Into the dark lake very near.
 
One by one their purple heads
 
Sink into their watery beds.
 
The aerial ballet is suddenly done.
 
Ending as quickly as it had begun.
 
Purple martins settle down to sleep
 
'Mongst reeds o'er Nimisila's deep.
 
I sit in darkness filled with awe!
 
Do I hear a waterfall?
 
Or is it the martin's feathery wings
 
As they strum upon their reed harp strings
 
A lullaby to soothe their fright,
 
E'er they rest from daylight's endless flight.
 
**********************************