Some of my poems which mention trees, flowers, birds: Adele Koehnke

Back Yard

Adele Koehnke


Apples, peaches, pears and plums

Tell me when your birthday comes.


An apple, a peach, a pear and a plum,

my back yard hosted four trees.


Pal Penny shimmied the apple

Hurricane Hazel rent the peach

Squirrels rushed the paltry pear.

I climbed the plum.

The bark had treads.

It hurt.



He Could Sell


House Sparrows

Adele Koehnke


It is early morning

It is already hot

I am tired of waiting.

For the bus

At the Islington platform.


Eleven pigeons stalk the platform

They hunt for bread.


Comes one tiny sparrow

Surveys the pigeons from a crack in the pavement


Finds the one piece of bread

On the Islington platform


Flies away with his prize

In front of all the big boys.


Reminds me of that guy in sales

From Minden, I remember

Just a kid

Brash, acne rash, not much dash

But man could he sell.

Beat out all the big boys.

Monterez Inn Resort – Ottawa area

Adele Koehnke


Seeing a river through my window

in the morning

meant so much.


Corrugated ripples,

strong and peaceful.


Sure autumn colours

fringing the river.


I never get to rise in the mornings to a river.

In Toronto.


It was nice.

It was nice.


God’s morning handshake.


Are Pigeons Colorblind?


Rock Pigeon

Adele Koehnke


The traffic light turns red.


Pigeons plop up and fly

Across Lawrence Avenue.


I can’t cross on a red.


Are pigeons colourblind?

Or do they just not care?



This Poem is For the Birds


Canada Goose

Adele Koehnke


I am zapped by life from time to time

That is when I write a rhyme.


Driving along,

I recently saw

About fifty small birds flying west

And one lone Canada goose flying east.


And then the fifty whatever type birds

Did a gala U-turn in the sky

And followed the one lone Canada goose.


Whoever can know why?


Maybe they thought he was the guy in the know.


Waiting for Eatonville Library to Open on a Summer Morning


New England Aster, Panicled Aster and Canada Goldenrod

Adele Koehnke

It is ten to ten on a summer morning.

The library opens at ten.

I sit alone on a concrete bench.

I rest and I gaze.


The library garden is at high tide.

Monet smiles from somewhere.

Golden and purple flowers spread, spiral, cascade, fan and spray.


At ten o’clock the librarian opens the door

I go in.

The garden remains outside.

Gardens do not read.



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