Looking all around me and becoming more aware,
Of the people and surroundings at which many children stare.
I come to terms and realize the acts of hate I see,
And now I fear that this same scene will soon envelope me.
Walking on a lonesome road, though crowded it may seem,
I pass through silent hordes of people hushing silent screams.
Beside me standing hand-in-hand, older man and wife,
I wonder if they thought like me, what happened to their life.
I reminisce now further back before these broken days,
A time of wasting food and drink and dressing different ways.
But now we all look just alike in tattered grays and browns,
Drifting through these damaged streets and sporting matching frowns.
I thought we'd left the two world wars and poverty behind,
To linger in our broken books and fill an older time.
A time where death would cloud the world with sorrow and disease,
And fear would plant itself within the innocent with ease.
This made me think and look around for Noah and his arc,
And for the first time since the night I heard a flustered lark.
I quickly turned around to spot within a child's hands,
An injured bird whose time had brought it here from other lands.
The child stole a piece of thread from a redbreast robin's nest,
And wrapped around the ailing bird a splint so it could rest.
An hour past the lark took flight and answered to the wild;
The only resting place of hope is in the bright eyes of a child.
Copyright © Elaine Ho | Year Posted 2007
Farewell, then, AUKN boss,
The next this year makes three.
By the time they find a substitute,
Slovenes will be at sea.
He tried to cover his behind;
AUKN boss of bosses,
As every week, balances grew bleak:
He weighed merits and losses.
With all this he'd no time to eat,
And round and round he flew.
And now he's split in a hissy-fit;
So helmsman, too-de-loo!
Day after day, day after day,
He drifted on the ocean;
Guano-vernment rained on his ship
Their suggestions for promotion.
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Corporate boards crosslink;
Cousins, cousins, everywhere,
Let's take you for a drink.
Accountants talking rot: O Christ!
Missions, visions - oh please!
Yea, slimy characters need legs
And slimy policies.
So has he done an hellish thing?
Not hired who? We dunno:
Was it absurd, to have a separate curd
From the whey Slovenia owes?
This wretch won't play, after 60 days;
Pissflaps, he'll have to go!
God help ya, gospod Bencina
From the fiends, that plague us thus! -
It's time to go — shot like cross-bow,
The AUKN boss.
Ah! walk-out day! what evil looks
Had I from Ernst and Young!
Who's at a loss? AUKN's boss
Wouldn't take a bung?
"You'll be" quoth one, "abolished - no
Stigma to double-cross."
He chose to go - why? We don't know:
Harmless AUKN boss.
Re-reading the original gave me a great idea for dinner until I realised all the storks have all flapped off to Africa for the winter. Pity, as I have some ancient marinade from Tuš. Like the subject of the poem, I didn't have the stamina for a Coleridge-length effort.
The National Poet Of Slovenia In A Language People Understand interprets important Slovenian affairs for the non-Slovene speaking world. www.maria.si
Copyright © Julian Bohan | Year Posted 2013
Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins;
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs
Copyright © J.R. Dawson | Year Posted 2013
globalization’s bird of slavery
migrates south for
metamorphasizing into bird of freedom
which migrates back north
singing its tale.
Copyright © John Goodman | Year Posted 2012
the side hunt of another being distracts from the main goal the bigger picture new blood in the tribe all ways brings new thunder in the lighting storm of a cloud to rest tribesmen warriors questioned on there Integrity coucils held in different ways non
traditoal ways many societys in the past life many crumbles many edgeings craved in stone from past generations in the over all lifeform many civalazations crumbled before the one being build before the eyes of the laborers the laborers of the temple the foundation of the
lifeform The structue of which u create for ur self the old carpenters saying mesaure twice
cut once comes to mind we all might not come out square every mock up but the
ability to adjust and measure up time and time again to become the master piece
we all want to become is the test of the builder within
Copyright © Joseph gaydon | Year Posted 2014
To U.S. born both wild and free
There is no worse place one could be
Than in a prison cell for years
For most men ‘tis a gruesome fear
But to souls in other lands
Where freedom’sjust a word that stands
On paper-- but an object dead--
With it you cannot bake your bread.
In movies in these lands they watch
Thugs whose pants fall off their crotch.
Who off to court they go-- then jail--
No mention made of tears or bail
Third Worlds watch the U.S. cells
That should resemble Dante’s hell.
Instead they look so germ free clean
Like the quarters of a Queen
Luxury in killer's cell?
How can thieves live-- oh so --well
U.S. jail is no bad life--
Well, you might miss someone's wife
As one boss of one small store
Told me-- as he scrubbed his floor:
“Me, I'll fly to U.S. land
Kill some guy and live so grand."
His tune said joke-- but it was not--
(U.S. TV makes brains rot)
But-- twas no secret-- truth could tell
He'd snuggle in Obama's cell.
Victoria Anderson-Throop © December 1, 2012
Copyright © Victoria Anderson-Throop | Year Posted 2012
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 | Year Posted 2015
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 | Year Posted 2015
Trump China Mexico
Chirp chirp China bird
A little birdie tells us so
US dollars down
Oxygen left the room as well
Trump says China China all the time
And Mexico too to tell the truth
Anchor babies must go back
Take mom and dad with you
And build a wall real high, bye-bye
Make Mexico pay and go away
Trump says Jeb’s job is speaking English
Is that so hard to do?
Mexican is not a language
Cheap cheap is how the birdie speaks
They too must speak in English
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2015
When the worm ate the bird
and its body became big
we would never hear the end of it.
When the population
took over from the kings,
it became big and puffed...
Isn't this the trouble with the world?
Copyright © Julia Ward | Year Posted 2015
The prophets forewarned us in ancient words
Of monstrous, metallic, reptilian birds
Igniting skies with a flight of fire:
Below them the smoke of charred Earth will spire.
These death-pterodactyls are coming true:
Their pilots turn bleak the horizons of blue,
Sleek avian avatars, spilling down
Their droppings that cinder the field and town.
The creatures themselves are consumed in flame,
And man is a dinosaur, obsolete-name,
Forgotten as prophesied, slain by sleek
Low-swooping pteranodons, bones-in-beak.
Copyright © Steve Eng | Year Posted 2008
My son, speaking like a true griot,
A body of things rejected
By the sinister profile of language
Spoke one clear prophecy to the riot's
Heart, before he from this world was ejected
He named the bagage
He carried unbowed in his lineage
But did not name the bird
With the cold and ominous plumage,
Now I wonder if he heard
That after his hope was long deferred
He is waiting in sleep for a better world.
I saw the feathers of the bird
A vulture sifting the sky
Over swelling carcases, it was all
The hurrican had left.
My son has left more bereft
Than thousand debacles that this day palled,
But I will read his last poem again
Against the cancer of this pain.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012