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Bird History Poems | Bird Poems About History

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

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Details | Rhyme | |

Outlaws' Spirits in Tombstone

Each day in Tombstone as tourists watch
The OK Corral gunfight plays out
Reenactments staged by the locals
The Earps always prevail in this bout

Saunter down to the Bird Cage Theater
Now a museum in this Old West town
Actors aren’t needed to play roles
The original cast is still around

Sixteen gunfights caused 26 deaths
Poker players who were dealt bad hands
Tourists still hear the shuffling of cards
And music from the piano man

Gunshots, images captured on tape
Dancehall girls still perform on the stage
Scents of old ale cling to dusty walls
And card game losers express their rage

Doc Holliday and Clanton Brothers
Look on as Wyatt holds all the cards
Virgil, Morgan glare at the McLaurys
Lawmen and outlaws send their regards

Spirits may rise from nearby Boot Hill
To visit the Bird Cage for a while
Delighting modern-day visitors
With a taste of history, Tombstone-style


To learn more about the Bird Cage Theater hauntings and see photos, visit http://www.ghost-
trackers.org/birdcage.htm

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Dramatic monologue | |

Woman of Indiscretion

Proclaim thee a Lady? 
Oh, they of ignorant mind
Neither good or bad, but human, this man
Vexed of own passion, o' cunning love
Keep'st eyes blinded of all thy own wisdom and trust
Lest eyes well-seeing thy lady's foul faults shall find
Thy woman of past indiscretion, hath scarlet ribboned veins
Unknowing from whence cameth thou, she
Fancy fleeting bird be now belied
Wilt he never see her feathered locks,  promiscuity?... 
How  boldly foolish is his name!
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits
What haste and wile steals thy seasoned eye?
Yea, who tamed the sea, yet drowns in thee?
While wed to one, yet flys away
Against tongued wrath, society
Against cruel slander of thy fame
Against the wind, self dignity
Fancy fleeting bird wilt you, fly on scalded wings
With scandal your offerings 
Till own death near, to die in shame 'tis worth the game?
To shun the heaven that leads a man to hell?
_____________________________________________

"Old English Scandal"  Lady Hamilton

Copyright © Carrie Richards

Details | Verse | |

The priest who wants to rest

Whoever dwells now in that nest?
Nightingales?
Or the priest who wants to rest?

Wherever is my cousin, the pest?
With Ted?
Or the priest who wants to rest?

This morning a minor sin I confessed.
To whom?
To the priest who wants to rest.

Look! He is getting undressed!
Who?
The priest who wants to rest.

Hush! Quiet or he'll be distressed!
Who?
The priest who wants to rest.

You speak Manx? He'll be impressed!
Who?
The priest who wants to rest.

I need ants! Who can help in my quest?
You?
Or the priest who wants to rest?

TV shan't get your brain blessed.
Who said so?
The priest who wants to rest.

He claims to have climbed the Everest.
Yikers!
The priest who wants to rest?

Dinner is ready but we're missing a guest!
Which one?
The priest who wants to rest.

Toilet's occupied! I can't hold it! I protest!
Who's in there?
The priest who wants to rest!!!

He's done with his nap. Yes, you guessed.
Bingo!
The infamous priest that you detest.

April 29 2014

---

Contest: Any Poem # 29
Place # 3.
Sponsored by: Poet Destroyer A

Copyright © Ivo Cosentino

Details | Verse | |

Uncertainty

There cannot be two identical things in the world. Two
hydrogen atoms
offer infinite locations within their shells for electrons.
Thus, nothing can be definitely eventually known.
All to the good
because golf and chess and basketball, as well as
mathematics, language and genetic recombination
are systems
for discovering the possible (which is more attractive than
the probable)
in what we thought we thought about the sun and clouds.

In Borges' The Parable of the Palace, the poet's attempt
to replicate
the world in a word results in what, surprisingly, is
his termination
personal obliteration a piece of anti-matter that
occupies no known shell in this or any other instantiation.
Got the plot?
We are "moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
where history
has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped
      in only
as contraband."

Actually, the recombinations
which make prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless and each
      individual
an experiment
gone well or wrong, are represented by equations of such complexity
they differ
not at all from the very stars and neurons whose interactions we wish
to count.
The world keeps up or ahead of the collective attention span by offering
inexorable expansion
or otherwise rapidly contracting universes, big bang by big crunch.

I like that, I like that I can't know what I'm doing (until it's done).
      Therefore,
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum motion, a lovely
      early
Spring morning
a thunderstorm, a terrifying and (for someone) final tornado or volcano.
Oh well.
From his earliest published work, Ronnow displays a fascination with
      death,
the world without the self, a ridiculous consideration considering time's
geological pace
6.5 x 1010 sunsets and sunrises over mountains and deserts (for every
merchant, traveler)
themselves rising and setting via magmas, oceans, tectonics, meteors,
      forever.

Do your homework I said to Zach. Why bother was his attitude.
I explained
time is an illusion, an invention man made, there is only change. Birds
know this.
But the calendar and colors, genus and species, bacteria and galaxies,
are the innumerable wonders about which Sophocles said man's
most wonderful
why because we identify or classify birds by the complexity or beauty
of their songs.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Verse | |

Birding by Ear

The poem requires a mind
that finds meaning, even divination, 
in language. Non-fiction, 
up to academic standards, demands
evidence. Nothing less will do.
Most of us read fiction and this
needs a taste for action, motivation.

Lately, as have you, I have
thought about our war and its purpose, 
motivation. But I have also closely
listened to the wood thrush, analyzed
its song like a tune by T.S. Monk
or J.S. Bach concerto. One belongs
to the loved ones who ostracize us, too.

The robin, on the other hand, is never calm.
It is the flute-like tones, yes, but mostly
the patient, meditative clarity
of the thrush that enchants. One wants
to be that bird. How will we attain
calm clarity for the species Homo sapiens? 
Through the discipline of asking questions.

A terrorist bombs, a dog barks, 
we do not know their motivations.
Can I be content to be silent
while the evidence is sifted by the many
to a single answer. The World Trade Center
could have been a sacrifice, queen's sacrifice, 
ending history for global governance.

Too much doing is the commonest of mortals' sins.
Peace has many faces, 
the wood thrush in the canopy is one.
A word of praise here, an encouraging word there.
A wraith, a ghost against a busy man, 
verbose, sure of the path, always hungry.
Nothing satisfies like the thrush's song.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Verse | |

Miniature Juniper

Although I hardly gave it a thought
I didn't really doubt
our miniature juniper, a bonsai,
would survive our desert vacation.
                                                  It likes the dry
air of our home, needs water
once a week at most and seems
meditative and active, both. While away
I rediscovered my love of agaves -
                                                 sotol and century
plant - met Mortonia and became
reacquainted with squawbush, its citrus
drupe which makes traveling the long horizon
of the desert uplands endurable.
                                                 Live oaks - emory,
wavyleaf - dominant and regally spaced
giving ground to mesquite only on the sere
sand flats. I counted and drew inflorescenses,
spikelets, florets, awns but grasses
                                                 remain a mystery
their microscopic parts. This year
I'll study, give them serious thought before
our Spring starts. The cactus wren was the one
bird I could be certain about. Sunsets
                                                 made me sorry
the desert is not my home. But the ocotilloes
flowered before we left and that made up
for the vicious attack of a hedgehog cactus.
Impressive, ponderosa pine and Arizona cypress
                                                 the canyon canopy
watered with snowmelt and along the high cliffs
limestone formations predating our arrival by
ten million years of weather. Newspapers
kept us aware humanity had not accomplished yet
                                                 the end of history
and that was fair. The planes were full of citizens
who no longer applaud upon landing. Snow flew,
not a pinyon pine or manzanita within two moons
walking. On the dining room sideboard, waiting,
                                                 our miniature juniper.





Copyright © Robert Ronnow

Details | Free verse | |

I heard a song today

I heard a song today
That bird song so sweetly
But whatever did it say
It seems to use an ancient tongue
From a far antiquity
A civilization from a prison sprung
A long forgotten melody

I heard a song today
A score sheet of my pain
My identity in a jar of clay
My history in an unknown refrain
What bird is this
From where now does it come
What ancient shore today
Post bail and give it freedom

I heard a song today
Words from a better dictionary
And yet still strange, strange, I say
This phantom archeology
This flower of a voice
Amidst the scrunching city's noise
Fades on a cold anxiety
But the bird won't go away 

Copyright © L'nass Shango