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Bird Father Poems | Bird Poems About Father

These Bird Father poems are examples of Bird poems about Father. These are the best examples of Bird Father poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Light Poetry | |

Do you like Pigeons Dad

‘Do you like Pigeons Dad’

“Oh No”

‘But Why?’

“They’re scummy things
They’re Rats with wings
They’re vermin of the sky”

‘That can’t be right Dad’

“It is”

‘How So?’

“They pilfer seed
They breed at speed
And harbour disease you know”

‘Are you sure dad’

“Oh Yes”

‘Since when?’

“Since the Rock Pigeon flew
And ended up in a stew
Since their domestication by men”

‘But I like Pigeons Dad’

“I know
You do”

‘I like how they sing
I like the shape of their wing
So you should like them too’

“But I don’t like Pigeons Son.
Not now.
Not ever.
Their walk is bizarre,
They crap on my car
And they’re really not that clever”

'But Daaaad…

...they wake me in the morning,
With their delightful coo,
Their plumage is wonderful - an iridescent blue.
They look good in the garden Dad
They don’t make such a mess
Do you like Pigeons Dad?’


[This poem was the result of being asked this question many, many, many times by my son. My son is on the autistic spectrum - he has Asperger's Syndrome to give the official diagnosis. He is a lovely human being & I love him dearly. But one of his most irritating traits, is the fact that he asks the same questions continuously all day every day. No matter how you respond, the same question will be posed minutes later. Currently and for at least the last 2 to 3 years: 'Do you like pigeons daddy?' is his favourite/most frequently asked question. Now that you know that, perhaps you can really feel the exasperation in that final ..."Yes"]

Copyright © David Sollis

Details | Lyric | |



                             The Apple PASTURE

Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture.
Were once was and all well meet.
A pure and dear site.
Where silver reflection cover the still waters that holds the golden
grains of morality and the grazing souls lie young amounce no stars.
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture
Were winds smell of melon and the trees whisper spring corals in the mellow dark and best of light and time creeps into no tomorrow.


Copyright © JAY JOHNSON

Details | Verse | |

Election Day

This autumn morning with the birds waking up
and the leaves changing is Election Day. I meet
Jane Trichter on the downtown subway and discuss
Henry's upset. Her skin is soft especially her cheeks
and she is intelligent and sensitive. The subway riders
do not recognize their representative.

All day, at the office. I accomplish nothing substantive
but I keep the aides and interns working
and cheerful. On Tuesdays there is always a wave
of constituent complaints, by telephone. One woman's
Volkswagon is towed and the police break in
to get it out of gear. Do they have that right,
can they tow even though no sign said Tow Away Zone?

It is an interesting question but I try to avoid
answering it. The woman persists and succeeds
in committing me.

The people at the office want to bomb Iran. A few Americans
held hostage and therefore many innocent women and children
pay the postage. It may be good classical logic to hold responsible
the whole society for the acts of a few, however, then
I must begin to expect the bomb and the white cloud that waits.
Apocalyptic visions are popular again
but we are more likely to thrash the earth to within an inch of its life
than scorch it to charred rock.

Corner of Church and Chambers,
German tourist's language, accent repels me
although I wasn't alive 45 years ago
and many sweet, great Germans opposed the crazy Nazis
but lately I've read Primo Levi's If Not Now, When?,
seen William Holden in "The Counterfeit Traitor",
have followed the argument started by revisionists
who say the Nazi atrocities never happened.

War brought many shopkeepers, bookkeepers close to their earth,
weather, seasons, death.
I see daily life as low-intensity warfare
as my father, the World War II vet, did.
Off to work we go. What is war?
Population control, mother of invention, diversion
from the work of making life permanent.

Today is Election Day and because it's a day off
for most municipal employees, the City Hall area
has been quiet and easy to work in. Henry and Jane
hold a press conference on teenage alcoholism.
Leslie, the other aide, who I'd like to draw
the stockings and clothes off of and feel her whole body
with mine, goes home with her mother, leaving me
standing by my desk with my briefcase at the end
of Election Day.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Rhyme | |

Nature's Single Dads - The Australian Emu

Nature’s Single Dad:
The Australian Emu :
The first 55 days

Emund is busy
preparing his
dance-floor for
partners who’ll put
him to the test. 
His pedigree line
has proven with time

that it is now his
turn, to be best.
He hears them emerge
from the bush as
they gather in
answer to nature’s
They dance, and then
go away, they know
they cannot stay; 
there is not enough
food for them all. 

They dip and they
weave as they mingle
together knowing
that each has a
With his reputation,
there is no
he is ready to join
in the dance.
‘Bonk! Bonk,’ comes
the sound of another
arrival, ‘It’s
Emulena!’ he says
with a grin. 
Others move to the
side as he leaves
them mid-stride 
to greet this dancer
as she flounces in.

With sensuous,
rhythmic movement of
hips she fluffs up
her boa, it bounces
in time. 
He matches her mood.
His movements are
as they twist and
twirl in their
dancing mime.
He does not fuss
about who takes the
lead, he follows and
their dance now is
With steps that are
light he glides to
the right, 	
he meets her, bows
deeply, head
Emulena says,
“Sorry, we cannot
stay longer, we all
must find paddocks
It matters not
whether we all stay
we trust you to know
what to do.”
As she speaks, they
deposit their gifts,
and he hears, as in
chorus they say,
“We know you’ll do
magically, what you
do naturally 
to deliver these in
your own way.”

After completing her
task, Emulena stands
tall and she fluffs
up her feathers once
They follow her lead
in twos, and in
and promenade across
the dance floor.
Left all alone, he
goes back to his
duties and looks
closely at each pale
green shell.
He checks all for
defects. He sees
they are perfect, 
so with care he
covers every one

He sticks to his
task for fifty-five
days in sunshine,
strong winds and
some showers.
He values each
treasure and tends
them with pleasure 
as he, turns each
egg every three
Through his long
lashes he sees
danger coming. He
drops his neck down
like a log.
Feathers flying on
high and red fur
prowls near-by; 
he needs to fool
both bird and dog.

The shells have now
turned a dark bluey
green, there’s an
infertile egg in the
This egg will be
food for his hungry
but he won’t eat or
drink, ‘til they
Each day he looks
up, and turns his
head to the sun as
it rises each
He’ll sit day and
night until the
time’s right.
He knows, that time
comes without

to be continued...

Copyright © J Eliza JAMES

Details | Free verse | |

A Free Bird Rising

I remember you                                                                                                                          Like a free bird rising on golden wings                                                                                                     Glowing with the radiance of youth                                                                                                    Not yet ready for womanhood                                                                                                             But taking the leap anyway                                                                                                          As if you knew what lay ahead                                                                                                         And couldn't wait to go                                                                                                                        I remember You                                                                                                                                 Blossoming all at once like Springtime                                                                                                   Tossing your hair over one shoulder                                                                                              Defiant as love against the odds                                                                                                Even now these many years later after college and Vet Nam                                                         After marriage and fatherhood                                                                                                    After all my pride and prejudice                                                                                                          MY agonies and ecstasy's                                                                                                                                             I remember you

Copyright © Michael Ainsley

Details | Rhyme | |


My father made a fan of pheasant feathers for me when I was young.
I danced around the living room while playing a guitar, he sung.

The feathers cooled me at night when the breeze no longer blew.
The smoothness of the make shift toy, a treasure only I knew.
We would walk the woods watching each footfall we would take.
Looking for more escaped feathers, more fans we would make.
All I have are memories now, one last moment, no real goodbye.
I'll find enough feathers, I'm going to make wings, to him, I'll fly.

For Contest: Leaf,
feather, shell or
Sponsor: Andrea
Date: 08-04-2014

Copyright © Casarah Nance

Details | Verse | |

Caterpillar fur

Spring and spring.
Clouds of maple.
Skies of pine.

Red in green.
Serviceberry understory.
Spring and spring.

Skunk cabbage spathe.
Black birch sap.
Poplar flowers.

Opossum tires.
Spring and spring.
Blackbird wing.

Wasps won't sting.
My father died.
Town meeting Monday.

Spring and spring.
Sing **** you!
There's no down side.

Infinite willow.
Leaning oak.
Spring and spring.

Budding flame.
Budding thumb.
Cat claw.

Bird yolk.
Spring and spring.

Shoots. Arrowhead
Roots. Waterproof
Boots. Old bed young.

Spring and spring.
Rang and wrong.
Thank and thought.

Seed and sawn.
Wait and walk.
Spring and spring.

Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Verse | |

Pressing On

She watched the mountain intently
Like a bird who’s nestling of dwelling, complains
Yet, neither will move --
Reality blooms;
A surge of genius
Strikes the hollowed core ~
Worrisome thoughts she shan’t abide…

A mother’s love still strives,
Strong willed fledgling must now -- fly
Search to build, its -- own nest
-- Mother bird soars above the mountain -- mind at rest 

An elder once said teach them well in the ways they must go… Like a hawk one must keep a 
watchful eye for they are still your prizes; you never know when they may come home to 
roost again... Or at least visit…
However, if they can't respect the home then its time 
For them to fly on their own...

Copyright © Adell Foster

Details | Sonnet | |

My Heart, 'tis a Caged Bird

Love, what shalt I speak for what thou dost see

Through most offensive blackened iron bars

Where sky is sick and hides away the stars

Because my heart pounds ardently for thee.

My Lord's old mind was poisoned with debris

By vile council to banish thee afar

For if we came and called an infant ours

Their worth would thus be scorned, ruled by part flea.

Thou mustn’t think mine soul belongs to gold

Lest be that gold which flows from out thy head,

Then ye'd be right, and know I could not bear

A breath away from ev'ry rounded fold.

As thou dost read, I draw nigh to thy bed

To set thee free and stir the midnight air.

Copyright © Eric Specian

Details | Quatrain | |

Lament of The Old Man

No sooner was the old man dead
did the crows gather round his bed,
and no sooner had he shut his eyes
did those vultures revel his demise;

As soon as all the birds were fed,
the candles out, the taste of dread
was spread on wings across the skies
as his soul flew and my soul sighed.

Copyright © Paul Allen

Details | Free verse | |

the birds with soulless eyes

old man feeding the birds
he stands slightly bent as he casts
down the bits of bread
that the birds milling around his feet
devour with soulless eyes
he casts each piece like a sacrament
like an uttered prayer
his large brown coat soiled by winter
now hangs on his springtime frame

old man with his bag in hand
walks slowly along the fence line
the rubber of his shoe squeaking like a
small animal
he is amused by the thought
he feeds the birds once again
after all that is what old men do
they die slowly and they feed birds
they walk in silence like a tomb
casting bread upon the waters
like a prayer

old man feeding the birds
what old man dose not dream of younger women
what old man dose not wish he was young again
so the birds feed upon his dying wish
with soulless eyes
watch him walk into the city of night
with nothing but his loaf of bread
and a newspaper full of yesterdays stories
walking the fence line between heaven and hell
on his way to feed the birds

Copyright © mark junor