Poetry

Worth the Risk

Named after the famous Percy Shelley, Shelley Evans has written poetry since childhood. She published The Life of Ahpun in 2020; other poems in anthologies and blogs; participates in open-mics; legal secretary; member of WOK and Parkside Church. She’s been married to Gary for 44 years; they have 3 daughters.

Today, I mourn the loss of a baby bird; it was just an embryo, in the egg. It cannot be considered stillborn because the poor, innocent conceptus had a horrific death. It fell about 7 feet from the nest when its parents flew out, and it cracked open on the cement outside the backdoor. Then Ruby lapped it up.

I watched the Mother return to their nest, scurrying frantically, shaking her head side to side, searching for her precious hatchling. She dropped down to examine the area below the nest, and her mate darted over to join the hunt for their one and only. Could they smell the essence of remaining embryonic fluid the dog may have missed?

How SAD ~ my heart hurts. Will these parents ever know what occurred this morning? Will they ever stop looking for their baby? As a mom, I cringe at the thought were it a child of mine.

I had noticed these doves building their home last week and took photos and videoed the activity. As much as I enjoyed viewing their show beyond the sliding glass door, I couldn’t help but wonder why they would choose to place their nest and potential offspring on such a precarious ledge, knowing that every time the door opened the birds would probably fly away, creating danger for a tiny, helpless squab-to-be.

Could this be the same pair of doves that has lived here in the past? I believe it is possible and quite likely they’ve returned “home,” considering themselves to be Evans. I guess birds don’t remember the past, but I do. Since I would prefer not to witness another avian death by way of falling, I’m visualizing a sign: NO NESTING HERE! Of course, birds cannot read printed words! My sign could be a piece of wood angled from the light fixture up against the house, completely preventing entrance.

Next year, hopefully, the Evans Dove Family will move to a safer area and raise some young’uns to add to their bevy.

Bless you, little “Squeaker” who never had a chance. I pray that your dove-angel swooped down to catch you as you fell and transferred you into the Hands of the One Who created you, Who loved you, Who loves you now ~ rest in peace, Dove Evans.

Named after the famous Percy Shelley, Shelley Evans has written poetry since childhood. She published The Life of Ahpun in 2020; other poems in anthologies and blogs; participates in open-mics; legal secretary; member of WOK and Parkside Church. She’s been married to Gary for 44 years; they have 3 daughters.

What kind of thoughts now, do you carry
   In your travels day by day
Are they bright and lofty visions, 
   Or neglected, gone astray?

Matters not how great in fancy, 
    Or what deeds of skill you’ve wrought; 
Man, though high may be his station, 
    Is no better than his thoughts. 

Catch your thoughts and hold them tightly, 
   Let each one an honor be; 
Purge them, scourge them, burnish brightly, 
   Then in love set each one free. 

Myra Viola Wilds was born in Kentucky. She authored the poetry collection Thoughts of Idle Hours (National Baptist Publishing Board, 1915), in her own hand after losing her eyesight due to overwork as a dressmaker. 

(in the style of Dr. Seuss)

I need to think.
Think, think, think!
I think sometimes,
My thinks, they stink!

When from Truth
My thinks, they shrink,
When from Goodness,
My thinks, they sink,
Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

When from straight paths
My thinks, they kink,
When from God
I lose my link,

Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

When my thinks worry sends
Round and round the rink,
When at sin
my eyes they wink,
Then my thinks, they stink, they stink!

But when renewed
Have been my thinks,
From my eyes
Blinders go – Kerplink!
My glasses change from black to pink,
My thinks, my thinks no longer stink!

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages

Raindrops are kisses from God
Lightning the sparkle in his eyes
Thunder his whispers

Julie Bonderov is a voracious reader who enjoys children, animals, music and color. She is an RN who has worked in local hospitals in pediatrics and as a school nurse. She enjoys encountering other cultures, languages and cuisine. Julie collects how to say, “Don’t cry.” in other languages