My husband has a new friend , it's not "best man's".
It's a winged , feathered cliche that's taken a stand.
He lives in a tree or on our porch rail.
Don't ask what it's doing when it flicking it's tail .
It's lived here for months and won't fly away .
I've consider naming him until husband looks my way .
It's really quite funny to see my love rant .
Swearing , cussing and being ty-rant .
Hosing and washing should be a deterrent
But believe me when I say that bird is divergent .
I think he is mourning the loss of a mate ,
IT's passing won't be too soon , my husband can't wait .
He'd blast him for sure without even a word .
But damn it to hell , he's our freakin state bird !
My son keeps repeating it's unconstitutional .
My husband just smiles looking quite mad and delusional .
Maybe come Spring he'll fly from here .
Find another mate , far away , not near .
I try to be serious and try not to giggle .
But over his shoulder I see that bird wiggle .
The swearing and cussing starts over once more .
Grabbing his weapons he storms out the door .
For now I'll just watch as the battle goes on .
Bird against man , armed with a bottle of Dawn .
Copyright © Bev Smith
Once in a land full of life
At least that's what I was told so
There lived a happy man and his wife
Who smiled and watched the birds go
One day as they were watching the birds
The old man had flipped his hat
For he had said only a few words
And it was that he could fly like that
The wife then began to frown
For the man had simply gone mad
So she got ready to leave the town
Which made the cheery guy sad
He swore to her that he would fly
So the wife had grabbed her things
She opened the door and said bye
And when she left, the man sprouted wings
A few years had come and gone
The wife grew old and watched time pass
One day when sitting, she heard a song
That sounded from her fifth floor window glass
'my love,' it said, 'I now have wings.
my love,' it went on, 'I wish you would see me fly.
my dear, come look at me, drop your things.
I wait by your window, perched in the sky.'
The wife got up and looked out the pane
She froze at the sight she had saw
Her husband flying, or was she insane?
He smiled at her dropped jaw.
'My love, come with me. Fly in the sky.'
'I can't,' she shook her head
'oh come on. climb out. I promise you won't die.'
So she climbed out, and was never seen again.
(this is fictional)
Copyright © Destiny Jordan
How many poetry books = 1 Nissan Pathfinder exhaust system.
How many bluebirds? Money is how we thank people for what makes
How we express our love and gratitude.
Weight and moods, up and down, with weather and outcome of
I am so sick of humanity, people. Wouldn't I prefer chickadees?
Then I get home, that is the comfortable tree hole I've been longing for.
Aaron pitches and plays piano. Zach likes lacrosse and math.
The mound was soft, sand, with a hole big enough for an urn or to hide a
But Aaron pitched carefully anyway, slow strikes and the opposing team
What would God's work be? Meaningless question. Today's schedule:
Write fund raising letters, conserve small farms. Local food, local jobs.
Don't transport food coast to coast. Save fuel, less CO2.
In my opinion the dislocations resulting from climate change and global
warming will be within man's adaptive capacity. On the other hand.
Also, green industry will open a vast employment market, a job for every
The good life, unsustainable, we're poisoning our children although my
children are not so poisoned. They're bald. Unusually bald. Good
looking bald. Future of man bald. Happy bald.
Bald eagle. Nesting, mating near Karen Sheldon's, a conservationist,
philanthropist, on the river, whose husband recently died. During
romantic dinner on a second honeymoon in Paris, so I've heard.
That's Jake's spirit come home as an eagle, Karen said. Isn't that
great, I said, and the she-eagle he's nesting with!
-I'm gonna kill that bitch.
Compare Captain Carpenter and In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One
Day. In each case the hero's (heroine's) body declining
Under life's duress. Anything located in Secaucus, NJ could not be
considered prominent, could it?
In the end, clack clack takes all. Hard to end a poem better than that.
Clack clack the crow's beak, upper and lower mandibles meeting.
From hunger, or it just does. Crows clack clack to communicate.
Whitman's greatest poem is Out of the Cradle . . . also involving
communicating birds, in what is initially an embarrassingly emotional
display. All that italicized moaning and yearning. Get away.
Then, clack clack, he turns on you. Death lisping, straight into your eyes.
Suddenly you realize you should have taken him seriously, been
In the meantime, traffic, corn, new exhaust system, ask for money, save
farms, poor people, sun on garden, whole wide world, wars, stars.
I gave up long ago on a quiet world. Now going deaf. Then it will be
quiet, too quiet.
No more birding by ear. "No more fucking." I mean really . . . I was
moved as anyone by Hall's honest poem about Jane dying and I
guess fucking can be music to someone's melody, stand for living,
but not me.
No more birding would have had more meaning. I'd rather bird than
fuck. No more fucking, no more worry, no more war.
Which is why I'm gonna kill that bitch is so funny, such a life-affirming
At first I worried Karen really believed the eagle is her husband. Maybe
But that punch line makes her the kind of woman I want to know.
Copyright © Robert Ronnow