“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”—Psalm 34:18 New International Version (NIV)
Little sparrow, what troubles thee;
is it the stigma you face?
Little sparrow, what pierces thee;
is it the shame of disgrace?
Is it the brokenness in your heart,
or the sorrows you can't outlive?
Is it the anguish that sets you apart,
or the hurt that holds you captive?
What befalls you
is neither unfelt nor unknown;
God cares and calls you
when you're cast out and all alone.
God will never forsake you
in your time of need;
God will never permit you
to suffer or bleed.
02/19/2014; for "TO HEAL A HEART" Contest
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014
Soaring above the bushfire's flames,
astounded crows, blacker than charred
tree trunks, flap spectral wings.
Numb with loss, no caws drone out.
Wind rushes in updrafts from
the smoky heat: to rise as a vengeful spirit,
to hammer at fleeing pinions,
to witness aimless circles above coal black trees,
now absent of rough stick nests.
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2013
Oh sea of love!
How bitter the mem'ries I have!
This place reminisce the pain
Of not seeing my love again.
Your birds up high
Remind me of his goodbye.
Your water so deep
Makes me yearn and weep.
So let your breeze blow,
And dry the tears that flow.
Let your waves take away
The griefs and sorrows that stay.
Oh sea of love!
Erase the mem'ries I have!
Wash them out of the blue,
Take them away with you.
Copyright © Flora Mae Gudez | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
Little bird, what troubles thee
is it the worm in your belly
little bird, what pains thee
is it the worm of misery
is it the bitterness in your heart,
or the offense you can't forgive
is it the anguish that sets you apart,
or the hurt that holds you captive
is it the cancer of bitter love,
or the loss of deserved affection
is it the cruel withdrawal of
his tenderness and compassion
life is much too brief
and youthful love's even briefer still,
your forestalled relief
keeps you from seeing His eternal will
what befalls you
is neither unshared nor a mystery
God sheds His tears for you
in the midst of your painful agony
little bird, what troubles thee
is it the worm in your belly
little bird, what pains thee
is it the bane of misery
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2013
Poor Thomas Turkey,
Alone in his pen.
Sits solemn and scared,
For they 'did in' his hen.
They took her off Sunday,
Then snuffed out her life.
And now he's alone,
Cause they've eaten his wife.
Thanksgiving now over,
He preens with relief.
He can muster a gobble,
Along with his grief.
He pecks round his pen,
For some 'scratch' sprinkled there.
Grows quite happy again,
Not remotely aware . .
That Christmas is coming
For family and friend,
And for Christmas, at dinner;
They'll eat turkey again.
© 2015 Diane Lefebvre
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
Oh how I wish I was a humble sparrow
So cheerful and so free
Flying high through the sky
Instead of living in hell in constant fear
In a barbedwire cage
Waiting to die.
''Let us not forget not only the Jews, but the Gypsy's,Jehovah's witnesses, political opponents, homosexuals, Russians, disabled, the elderly,children, and sick, anti Nazi's and more. To forget all or any of these groups of people, would be a crime in it'self, and undervalues their suffering and existence. Let the truth be told, we must never forget.''
Peter Dome. Copyright.2015.June.
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2015
Hummingbird soar with your tiny might
Great red fuchsias are at bloom again
Red purity so beguiling a call so bright
Brings you forth to carry your aim
To help propagate new life next spring
Nature's awakening call will always 'ring'
Diane M Quinlan
Artist & Poet
Copyright © Diane M Quinlan | Year Posted 2015
I do not know?
The bird wanted to fly
But the wind wanted to blow
“Rest now bird”, said the wind
“You now take it down slow,
And let me flow.”
The bird accepted thinking it was a request,
And ignored the proud in his words,
She sat down on the branch to rest,
Keeping down her guards,
Unaware of what is next.
An hour passed,
But still the wind didn’t stop,
Now the pace became fast,
Now the wind gone, in place was the storm.
Unable to stand against it,
The bird felt helpless.
The emergence of automatic persuasion,
Left the bird in stress.
Her home is not the ground,
She lives in the sky,
Feeling gloomy and bound,
She doesn’t even try to fly.
She stays where she was,
And starts envying the wind,
The kind of power he has,
That brought down even the born free.
Flying is what she loves,
And the feeling of spreading the wings,
Something that cannot be expressed in words,
The beauty can only be felt within,
But when the storm persists on blowing,
The persuasion reminded the bird of a cage.
The feeling of being trapped,
Even turned down the sage,
Within the bird and now a panic engulfed,
Because everything was happening against her will,
And the storm and his manic laugh,
Harassing and shrill,
Dominating over the world with his power.
Now there is water added,
Pouring everywhere from the sky,
So hard that the vision blurry and fade,
The bird now wants to hide.
And so she trusts the woods,
Under the leaves she takes shelter,
Hoping the safe place could,
Understand and help the helpless her.
But today even the trees are of no help,
The rain is too heavy,
No matter where she hides,
Towards her somehow it will glide.
A day passed but still the storm wasn’t satisfied,
He kept on blowing,
Kept dominating the little with pride,
But the bird was now over sorrowing,
So, she decided to challenge the flowing.
And it seemed like years had passed,
Since the bird took a flight,
Into the blue and those effects that lasted,
Of serenity, luxury and rights.
Now the tolerance was coming to an end,
Her loud chirping of frustration speaks,
And so she comes out of the safe place and,
Into the grey she leaps.
It’s like, she dares the storm,
Even though she knows it’s futile,
The proud in him confirms,
That the end could be brutal.
But the little now doesn’t care,
She just wants to fly.
The storm does see the bird’s hindrance,
But would not understand the heart,
He will do what he wants,
That is what he is doing from the start.
He will choose when to come,
His wish no one can predict,
When his fun will become,
A thing getting vapid,
He’ll spare the imploring planet.
The rain can be the reason of someone’s laughter,
It can also make one morose.
The torrent of pouring water,
Is also something he does.
If his will says,
It’ll be a shower of delight.
If he wants it to be the other way,
It can become an element of fright.
Now after going a mile,
The bird is in terror,
Still the storm being hostile,
And the bird being the bearer.
Though she is tired,
But hasn’t lost all hopes,
And so with eyes like angel she desired,
The thoughts of good and optimism.
But when she looked up with faith,
And saw the grey sky,
She fatigue and her pale breath,
But still she flies.
“Stubborn she is no less”,
Thinks the storm, and now he the outrageous,
Losing his charge on the rage,
The sky shines a red that’s vicious.
Then from somewhere a lightning bolt,
Suddenly strikes before the bird,
While she runs from the jolt,
Several others in her surround appeared.
She moves carefully,
But the storm is furious,
And he would not stop,
Until he becomes victorious.
Then a surprising tremor ripples,
Through her and little’s every part stops,
Down the bird with rush tumbles,
With eyes full of teardrops,
And her vision turns grey,
But did she lose the fray?
As the bird, hit the soil,
She remembered a life,
A life that never once gave her the turmoil,
But always love in rife.
Also a light that the bird saw,
When she first opened her eyes,
Now got vacuumed,
Leaving behind the blackness of demise.
The storm witnessed the whole saga,
But still he won’t remorse,
A beautiful little lay dead down,
Sometime else, again a creature would morose,
Because the nefarious never bows.
Copyright © Tuisha Sircar | Year Posted 2013
It burns and it stings.
More than drowning beneath
More than remaining in a
She hits and I no longer cry.
Why mother, why?
It burned and it stung.
The markings remained,
returned, and were relived
Looking, loving, and little
known loathing were the known
ways of living.
Never was their pity for the
child that cried
Never was their relief for the
child that tried
You were that lovely bird that
understood the complications of
Nothing looked the same in
those dewy browns of yours.
My everbeating would cry tears
The others-they were yet to
Caring Mother, o' so fair
You were that beautiful bird
filled with care.
The others came and were not
alone. Their two suitors sat on
Rampage and rage why did you
I began to wither and wither
slumping along. So very soon I-
the child of fines- became a
The droops of the Lily of the
Valley became the slumping of
My lovely bird the enemy had
taken you and the person you
were is far from near.
For that divine nature left its
intricate self and you became
irretrievable my big bird.
All of your fairness died.
With that went my pride.
Mother, Mother what moved
Your intense spirt vanished only
to supplement a monster.
Mother, Monster and your tar
How did I kill that liver that was
so, so strong?
The lesson of pain was one you
came to learn.
My darling bird why did you
My lovely bird and your big
I'll tell you once, but never
Pain is only a flower for it
blooms and dies
And a mistake can be killed as
quickly as lice.
You dear bird hurt me well.
Though, haven't you heard?
Weakness is a souls greatest
You brought me up, then you
brought me down.
You haved helped, hurt, and
hindered my blazing spirit.
A hero in my heart-I left you
down in your deep black
Escaping those terrible nights
To go for the town of delights.
Copyright © Layla Elkoulily | Year Posted 2013
Alone On Limb, So Scared
Lost The Skill To Fly
& Will To Live or Try
(Watch The Raindrops Cry)
O' Have You Not Heard?
The Wind's Song Sung For You? ...
Across The Sky It Blew
(Lifting Higher Hopes Anew)
ONE, Calling You Has Cared
Keeps You Safe From Harm
Caressed & Sheltered From The Storms
(Your Broken-Heart-Wing Form)
Be Not Dismal Nor Deterred
If On Harsh Land, You're Grounded
JAH Will Float You On Faith Well-Founded
(in Aerial-Miracles Heaven's Son Surmounted)
Beauty-Vision Be Not Blurred
If Confined To Empty-Nests
Take Twigs of Time To Conquer Tests
(and Let Broken-Heart-Wing Rest)
... Gain Strength, Wisdom & Wit
Eagle-Span, Horizon's Width
Let Beating In Breast Be Stirred
Get Better, Broken-Heart-Wing Bird
(GOD's Tree of Life For You Is Shared)
Stretch Your Feathers To The Sun
"Trust" Is A Light-Flight, Bidding "Come!"
and Love Is The Soaring, Wonder-Word
That Heals All Broken-Heart-Wing Birds
(Even From Death's Cages - We're Set Free & Spurred)
So Find Those Behind Dark Bars & Buried
Tell Aviaries Everywhere How You Were Carried!
Upon The Path - Straight & Narrow
Thru Your Single, Sorrow-Arrow
(as A Broken-Heart-Wing Sparrow) ...
'Til The Broken-Heart-Wing Bird
Could Soar Again - Superb! ...
Written & Copyrighted ©: 10/08/2012
by: MoonBee Canady
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2013
For the first time ever,
a Cardinal's nest lay cleverly hidden
in a juncture of two branches
of the red rose climber
on the south wall of our garage.
Over the years, we'd watched with pleasure
as House Finches, Eastern Phoebe,
Bluebirds, and Wrens nested in flowerpots,
birdhouses, spruce trees, and on porch walls.
Purple Martins snootily passed us by
in spite of elaborate housing provided.
Once, a Rufous-sided Towhee deposited
her eggs on the ground, underneath
a large cedar tree near the driveway.
We mowed around them, shooed turtles
toward distant woods, and watched
eggs hatch, babies fly into the future.
Cardinal babes were a new and welcome
experience. Almost daily, we peeked.
But grief came quickly with eagle eye,
hooked talon, and razor-edged beak.
A Cooper's Hawk left a shattered nest,
a mother's heart ripped apart, and us,
feeling her pain to the marrow of our bones.
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
Mr. Visage of the manor, was often regarded in the highest esteem.
He lived in direct centre of the valley
Lauded his walls with fine antiques and trinkets;
Gold plated vases of crushed ice
Refilled by the hour.
Travelling in thick cloud, like a rich fog of delight
Or marvel atleast.
His walls were only thin bamboo,
And he visited the villagers regularly.
Ofcourse, they privately grumbled of his accommodation
And obsessive nature to present, even perform at times.
Yet he was quite the life amongst them
They would none but laugh and smile in his presence.
Only laugh and smile.
Mr. Visage was a tapestry of pride
A great man in many respects.
Maybe he enjoyed his success too much,
But in person still,
He was a good man amongst the valley.
“This Family is a secret dysfunction;
Alone in all but volume.
Pray for the beauty of the elegant bird.
These wonders I have homed
From a tropic desolation,
Here to see and be seen
In the total view of the prominent.
Perfection of Asia, Africa, bizarre and prize
Drawn together by infinite work:
Pray for the beauty of the elegant bird.
Uneclipsed, I dive
Capsuling grace in a midnight charm
With a stare so ready to flicker
And dissolve the empty rooms.
What will happen to my attraction
Once I depart?”
The Mr. Visage wept
For the bird that flew
And Mr. Visage would never depart.
If there's anyone that's actually been reading all these parts, this one is by far the most obscure, probably looks pretty poor without it making sense but it does, particularly when in comparison with part 2 and 3
Copyright © Aiden Asoll | Year Posted 2013
have you ever heard a song
sung pitifully by a tongue-less nightingale
vomiting blood on a treetop bathed in the moonlight
the soft sound softer than the moonlight
the clear sound clearer than the early morning dew;
even constantly chattering water pauses for a moment
to listen her enchanting song more attractive than the sirens’
she was once roaming around the sky above Leibethra at night,
she sang a requiem with her flawless clear voice
calling and gathering to comfort the soul
that was torn to pieces and dumped in a river,
now she is trying to tell her bitter and resentful story,
and how her tongue was cut off but with her hoarse voice;
it’s unintelligible like Cassandra’s prophesy, an entangled skein of thread never able to undo, it sounds hollow like an echo from mouth of a cave that can never be understood
the nightingale’s low moan of despair
is the scar that never goes away, and when this scar
becomes a terrible pain. unbearable, the nightingale,
as if moonlight covering a passing cloud, flies away
abandoning the branch
Note. Nightingale: Philomela
Copyright © Su Ben | Year Posted 2015
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
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 | Year Posted 2015
Two birds flying high up
In the infinite blue sky
Where are you going?
What is your destination?
We want to go far
In the resignation
Away from the world of man
Leads to a bad destiny
We wish we are not infected
With the inhuman traits
That human being
We want to live in the world
Of love and affection
All truthful sensation
Away from the envy, hatred,
Cunningness and temptation
If constant dropping
Wears the stone away
How can we save our
Soft loving hearts
From hellish decay
In the world
Where everyone knows
His interest best
Our feelings cannot rest
We will enjoy our being
Where there is no trace
Of a human being
Copyright © V P Mahur | Year Posted 2014
friends don't stop asking why i don't
when for the words the will is lost
when the price they give, don't cost
but, pain and energy to the utmost
and then they ask whether i would
when for the rhyme i need a mood
while here in the town life is crude
no one knows, to live more if i could
i need to give my pen a breath
and on a paper ,i spit my wrath
i need a feeling soft not math
when you lost the blood it's death
i need the moutain to be strong
i need the fountain, oh , how i long !
i need to hear the twitter of bird
in the deep woods, there, is my world
the words don't come easy as before
they hurt the head and the heart's sore
they need a bird to twitter the rhyme
and a soft breeze to tune a time
if you have Spring here i don't sing
if you have butterflies, here no wing
if you have roses, i have thorns
if yours sings, here my bird mourns
it's not fair when fate is wrong
and the pit with worms throng
and the days for others are nights
and the nights for them are darks
to the world i say this word
you don't have to be poet with word
you have to be human with a feel
if you don't have that, yourself* Kill*
To my friends with my regards to *Silent One* maiinly.
Copyright © True Feeling | Year Posted 2016
When a sparrow falls
Do the other birds notice?
Do they search for you in vain
As they wonder at your fate?
Do your feathered brethren mourn
As I do inside when I discover
Your tiny, spent, lifeless form
Discarded there in the gutter
Of an oblivious and uncaring city?
The otherness of you, oh sparrow,
Is but a charade, an illusion;
All are One, beneath our skins.
In grieving for you, perhaps
I also take pity on myself
Or, more properly, on my own
Slowly fading physical form.
But then again,
Perhaps my sadness arises
From a wish to follow you there
Into a freer, happier world.
Though our mortal forms must perish
Our truest selves shall always persist.
Even as Time weeps for Its departed
Eternity rejoices in their return.
Copyright © Roderick Molasar | Year Posted 2015
Lights in dark,
a turning plough,
tube of tin and roar
with faces in a
box, high above
cold woods, streams and fields
and real life.Sinews below
rest and frim,
eyes turn to heaven
to the prison of
bad air, mocked angel,
And should they
fall from the sky;
there is a kinship in distress.
Copyright © Leslie Philibert | Year Posted 2015
A week old hatchling
The mother lark feeds with love
White clouds come above
Sudden tempest ruins all
Solar eclipse in lark town
May 25, 2016
For Traditional Tanka - Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Charlotte Jade Puddifoot
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016
What malodorous substance do you use,
to cover the lies you tell?
Do you not even notice now,
the way it gives off a smell?
It corrupts everything you touch,
it poisons the very air.
Wilts away all the new life,
til only the old is there.
Friends once caught in conversation,
can now only hear burnt words.
Only falsely spoken cries from
fallen dying birds.
I want so badly to believe again,
that the words you say are true,
in this apocalyptic wasteland, though,
the most distorted thing is you.
Copyright © Jeanette Woods | Year Posted 2016
That wound left on my porch,
that red that made me shiver
was the baby robin which fell
from the nest in the corner.
Stared at the ball of flesh with horror
Unable to discern or stir, I stood—
Rooted to the cement,
with stumps made of oak wood.
Those beads of eyes permanently shut,
the lines of claws, the buds of nascent wings
which could not catch any wind
the hint of a beak never held a twig.
The tiny pink blob, to Earth I returned,
but left the red for the sky to stare
hoping that the angels wept
to bring the clouds to rain,
and wash the sinned stain.
Copyright © Sara Chansarkar | Year Posted 2016