top of page

The Kingfisher

for the mythological magnitude 

of his courage and his yearning;

the bird that thirsts for the fruit of the depths 

is given the moxie to dive into the unknown

The Morphos 

clear of vision & pure of heart; the prism that snatches 

sapphires of pure thought from thin air & offers them 

to the world with an open heart. 

listening to the shape of light without speaking,

she is given the most beautiful color of all.

The Oyster

the mother whose pearls are born of pain;

she is the artist, the poet of the sea

whose patient paintings of liquid nacre soothe

and turn the irritant to a gem

 

The Mockingbird

the bird with no color becomes Everybird,

and with humility, mimicks the canon

the studious little mime- stealing nests, stealing songs! 

our little gray polyglott sings the language of Babylonia

 

The Fox

the light-footed flame, the dapper minx 

whose cunning never verges on the Machiavellian!

he flaunts his fancy tail, like a showgirl twirling her marabou-

then with a wink, points you along your way with his muzzle

 

The Otter

hey, you buoyant little weirdo, 

you squirmy brown clown!

two little eyes sparkle over a furry frown-    then  zingo,

he flips a trick & sends the whole cosmos reeling-

what a guy

The White Ant

the true group soul;

in whose marching minstrel show

sings the body electric-

free of will, the singular white ant 

bows to the queen

 

The Silkworm

o little bombyx mori of the mulberry,

the fruits of your labor so ceaselessly exploited-

yet your commercial viability detracts not one whit 

from the quality of your artistry!

like Annie Lennox you travel the world 

& the 7 seas. & like the sufi, 

you never stop spinning

 

The Mustang

sun-kissed maverick who chases his own destiny

whirling, with the slim gold speed 

of Brancusi’s bird- fly 

on hot-blooded wings!

The Gazelle

the air-fawn

whose light-footed dance transforms 

a desert voyage into a sand-dune ballet; 

a choreography to rival the pirouettes 

of any prima donna of the Mariinsky

 

The Swan

the mute trumpeter 

who knows a love so profound 

as to sublimate song

she, the Sattva Guna that walks

among us in a couture gown

bottom of page