dreaming flamingos

audubon flamingo

I’m New England woman in my mind,
a transcendental eyeball on a hill…
I’m hiking boots pacer in gray wool
sweater under layered against itch

I’m gazer at dewed spider webs,
I’m sheltered…early in a box house
of sunsilvered windblown pine

and…I dream about flamingos
pin Geographic glossies inside
my kitchen cupboard door…where
I store white cups and plates and bowls

and… I think about the hearing of
their raucous squawking in flame pink
beauty pools…and I smile to think
they synchronize direction in a gawky
urgent mating dance…there in Africa,
the Caribbean…in narrow arrow flight,
flower washed rose carnation amaranth

now…I gaze at tropic embers in my hearth
glimmering…resin sputters in gray ash
and I boil live lobsters in a cooking pot
and listen for their tiny scream


Bonnie Marshall

Art by John Audubon
“Flamingo and Roseate Spoonbill”

14 thoughts on “dreaming flamingos

    1. Grateful appreciation, Jana. Hope it’s not snarky, though. I considered including a video clip from Disney’s Fantasia that is brilliantly daffy…delightful…daft. Old Walt truly captured them. Smiles…

      1. Point taken, dear friend…rather makes me think of Violet on Downton Abbey…Maggie Smith has delightful…ruffled feather moments when she resembles an exotic bird. Love that character…shall miss her.

  1. some wonderful diction in the poem. interesting how the first 2 stanzas frame the middle section about the dream of flamingos. vivid contrasts between the New England, ash-gray Emersonian persona who boils live lobsters and the gorgeous tropical colors of these birds as they do their awkward mating dance. i hear the last line (who says that writing and reading poetry is for sissies?).

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