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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-

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire

Details | Couplet | |


"Franklin, why do you want such a fat, ugly bird?
Are you getting senile, or just being absurd?"

"Clearly, Mr. Adams, you are not being a friend.
My dove, not the turkey, will win in the end.

Though Franklin's turkey may be our most native bird,
your eagle, as well, will not be the final word.

A sign of Peace is what we need,
to show other nations of what we heed."

"Are you nuts, Thomas, for saying such?
Only my turkey can represent what we need so much!"

"Have both of you gone so daft in the head, 
not to see that my eagle should be the one instead?

It has power and majesty that our nation new,
can be ascribed to the birds advocated by you.

We want Peace, but must remember this war,
so how can we petition a dove to complete this chore?

As for the turkey, I know the pride it shows,
but I just can't get over that thing on its nose.

So my Eagle is the one without a ruse,
and the best bird for the Congress to choose.

It can show our intent for Peace with an olive branch,
is native as the turkey, with a prideful stance.

Freedom will come and be represented by
my Eagle's unlimited flight in the sky.

Ever watchful for both Peace and War,
and without the turkey's nasal sore."

"We both know, Thomas, that Adams is correct.
His bird is beyond the circumspect."

"Yes, Franklin, I have always known
that my dove and your turkey would not have flown."

"Then are we agreed, gentlemen, that we three as one,
my Eagle is the bird that has hatched and won?"

Just thinking about this conversation made me weak,
especially when I had to give it a tweak.

But the Eagle has represented us well,
both in Peace and War, as history will tell.

I have obviously voted with Adams on his choice,
It has given our country a singular voice.

It is strong, majestic, and watchful to be sure,
and stood the test of time with great enure.

One more thing I'll say about the symbol we branded,
What would we have thought if Armstrong had said, " The Turkey has landed"?

Copyright © Dan Cwiak

Details | Verse | |

The priest who wants to rest

Whoever dwells now in that nest?
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!
The priest who wants to rest.

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

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

I need ants! Who can help in my quest?
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.
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.
The infamous priest that you detest.

April 29 2014


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

Copyright © Ivo Cosentino

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 | |


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
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).
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum motion, a lovely
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
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,

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 | Rhyme | |

The Eagle, the Dove or the Turkey - Which Bird

The Eagle, the Dove or the Turkey: Which Bird?

In January 1784 Benjamin Franklin said,
That “The bald eagle…[was] of bad moral character”; 
Called him poor, lousy and a thief, validated the turkey,
Which, he said, was “a true original native of America."

Although the turkey’s eaten at Thanksgiving, 
And every American should appreciate their life,
It’s beginning to be enjoyed at Christmas time,
About which some religions don't give a hoot, and are not acting.

The dove traditionally signs for peace,
And forever will, all things being said,
And although America is a superpower,
It is not to me, and never will be, the world’s head.

Even though Russia just now is playing with power,
And America may be valid as interacting with it,
The United Nations for me is the force,
To call the shots for how governments should sit.

To me, America, stands for all people,
Any person can emigrate and find a life,
Because its weak and vulnerable are nurtured,
To get a challenge out of strife.

The bald eagle for me, with its wide and large nest,
Should be the symbol of America, with its Great Seal approval,
Because it says to me just anyone has stance,
By that pure white head which its brown body does enhance.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan

Details | Rhyme | |

The American Eagle

The American eagle, called bald ‘cos of its pure white head, 
Is named Haliaeetus leucocephalus, from the Greek;
Hali means  "sea", aietos means “eagle", leuco "white", 
And cephalos simply means the “head" with the streak. 

The bald eagle lives near the sea, a river or any such reservoir, 
Any water based freeway as it devours fish, salmon and carp; 
It rests in large, mature stands of conifer trees, 
To feed its young whatever it hunts and occasionally sees. 

America is a nation of the head, and not a land the heart, 
With an independence declaration of a human kind, 
Which points to god only when the universal is pertinent, 
That unifies by raising strength and concern of mind. 

What’s most apparent to me from its wording, 
Is that it seeks to mechanise the human good, 
What’s moral, right, true and honest, 
Such that the outcast can produce and be understood. 

The pure, white head of the American bald eagle, 
Seems to connotate this loud, bold and clear,
And its dark brown body seems to speak, 
For all Americans who aspire from something mere. 

The size of their nests can be twenty metres wide, 
And this can represent the typical American home, 
Which to me, a Scots girl aware of semi-detached abodes, 
Are like football pitches where you can jump and roam. 

The bald eagle was becoming extinct, 
From the 1960s right up until the late 90s,
And as this bird is now proliferous and thriving,
It reminds us that the American Dream is all-including.

It was the symbol of the Great Seal in 1782,
And J F Kennedy referred to its appropriation,
As it symbolised the strength and freedom, forged and died for,
Of the mighty, magnificent independent American nation.

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan

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

Details | Prose | |

America's Bird

America’s Bird

In all honesty, the extent of my turkey knowledge begins and ends with their unique sound and their great taste.
Come Thanksgiving and Christmas, turkey fragrance fills the house and nothing goes to waste.

I know that the dove has symbolic meaning, one being that of the Holy Spirit.
I also understand that the dove must be a gentle one, spoken of as being harmless.
No one takes kindness to being called a turkey; and a dove-like defense is rather limited.

But the eagle is really my kind of bird, and he would certainly be my first choice.
The eagle has the eye to target and lay hold of his prey, and quickly return to the heights.
The eagle knows how to repair and rebuild himself, renewing his strength for longevity.
He knows the ways of the wind and becomes its partner, as he mounts up his wings to sour.

No, I think that turkeys are birds of choice for smokers, ovens, and tables of holiday feasts.
I wish our world could be as harmless as doves, and fly about feeding its hungry and caring for its young.
But our world chooses not to be at peace, and we fall short at feeding, loving, and caring for the needy.

Yes, give me the eagle who reaches for the high places;
Who observes and listens, communicating with the winds.
He's hi-tech, working not hard, but smart, by spreading his wings
He does not seek to change, but he works 'with the wind' and soars.
He’s aware of the winds of change and utilizes divine resources.
I choose the eagle for America, and may we forever mount up higher.
May we keep flying high, soaring above and beyond, until our days are done.

Copyright © curtis johnson