Iowa Bird of Mouth Project

I just submitted a robin poem to this cool project, Iowa Bird of Mouth. IBOM is an online crowd-sourced poem honoring twelve Iowa birds between September 2016-August 2017. They seek the words and stories of bird lovers, bird watchers, writers, artists, musicians, teachers, students, scientists, non-profits, federal and state orgs, environmental stewards, and nature lovers from around the world—regardless of age, education, publication history, location or writing style. Text in the poems is open source and available to visual artists, musicians, other writers, orgs, etc. for use in creative projects.

I just happened to have a robin paradelle hanging around (though the site couldn’t accommodate my lineation, but whatevs). Maybe you have a robin verse too, or something to suit the remaining three birds of the project: Eastern Bluebird (June), Eastern Meadowlark (July), or Great Blue Heron (August)? Here’s mine:

PARADELLE FOR THE ROBINS

Surely, the robin is the sacred bird of spring.
Surely, the robin is the sacred bird of spring.
Abundant bellied, a little red stove of life.
Abundant bellied, a little red stove of life.
A stove of spring, the little bellied-of-red bird.
Abundant life, surely, is the sacred robin.

Awkwardly hopping across half-melted lawns.
Awkwardly hopping across half-melted lawns.
The way we hobble forth from winter, almost broken.
The way we hobble forth from winter, almost broken.
Hobble awkwardly across the broken, hopping lawns.
Half way forth from winter, we almost melted.

Taking, as we do, to the humble ground, stock-still sentries.
Taking, as we do, to the humble ground, stock-still sentries.
Foraging small selves into the empty, cold spaces of morning.
Foraging small selves into the empty, cold spaces of morning.
Taking stock of selves as empty, we do humble foraging
into the cold. Small ground sentries to the still, morning spaces.

Still-bellied, is the cold stove of life,
broken spring taking of the small bird sentries.
Surely, little hopping robin, we do hobble awkwardly,
as humble, half-of selves, across the empty winter ground
to melted spaces. We stock almost abundant lawns,
foraging a way forth from the red, into the sacred morning.