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Best Famous Bluejay Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Bluejay poems. This is a select list of the best famous Bluejay poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Bluejay poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of bluejay poems.

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Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

For The Country


This has nothing to do with war 
or the end of the world.
She dreams there are gray starlings on the winter lawn and the buds of next year's oranges alongside this year's oranges, and the sun is still up, a watery circle of fire settling into the sky at dinner time, but there's no flame racing through the house or threatening the bed.
When she wakens the phone is ringing in a distant room, but she doesn't go to answer it.
No one is home with her, and the cars passing before the house hiss in the rain.
"My children!" she almost says, but there are no longer children at home, there are no longer those who would turn to her, their faces running with tears, and ask her forgiveness.
THE WAR The Michigan Central Terminal the day after victory.
Her brother home from Europe after years of her mother's terror, and he still so young but now with the dark shadow of a beard, holding her tightly among all the others calling for their wives or girls.
That night in the front room crowded with family and neighbors -- he was first back on the block -- he sat cross-legged on the floor still in his wool uniform, smoking and drinking as he spoke of passing high over the dark cities she'd only read about.
He'd wanted to go back again and again.
He'd wanted to do this for the country, for this -- a small house with upstairs bedrooms -- so he'd asked to go on raid after raid as though he hungered to kill or be killed.
THE PRESIDENT Today on television men will enter space and return, men she cannot imagine.
Lost in gigantic paper suits, they move like sea creatures.
A voice will crackle from out there where no voices are speaking of the great theater of conquest, of advancing beyond the simple miracles of flight, the small ventures of birds and beasts.
The President will answer with words she cannot remember having spoken ever to anyone.
THE PHONE CALL She calls Chicago, but no one is home.
The operator asks for another number but still no one answers.
Together they try twenty-one numbers, and at each no one is ever home.
"Can I call Baltimore?" she asks.
She can, but she knows no one in Baltimore, no one in St.
Louis, Boston, Washington.
She imagines herself standing before the glass wall high over Lake Shore Drive, the cars below fanning into the city.
East she can see all the way to Gary and the great gray clouds of exhaustion rolling over the lake where her vision ends.
This is where her brother lives.
At such height there's nothing, no birds, no growing, no noise.
She leans her sweating forehead against the cold glass, shudders, and puts down the receiver.
THE GARDEN Wherever she turns her garden is alive and growing.
The thin spears of wild asparagus, shaft of tulip and flag, green stain of berry buds along the vines, even in the eaten leaf of pepper plants and clipped stalk of snap bean.
Mid-afternoon and already the grass is dry under the low sun.
Bluejay and dark capped juncos hidden in dense foliage waiting the sun's early fall, when she returns alone to hear them call and call back, and finally in the long shadows settle down to rest and to silence in the sudden rising chill.
THE GAME Two boys are playing ball in the backyard, throwing it back and forth in the afternoon's bright sunshine as a black mongrel big as a shepherd races from one to the other.
She hides behind the heavy drapes in her dining room and listens, but they're too far.
Who are they? They move about her yard as though it were theirs.
Are they the sons of her sons? They've taken off their shirts, and she sees they're not boys at all -- a dark smudge of hair rises along the belly of one --, and now they have the dog down thrashing on his back, snarling and flashing his teeth, and they're laughing.
AFTER DINNER She's eaten dinner talking back to the television, she's had coffee and brandy, done the dishes and drifted into and out of sleep over a book she found beside the couch.
It's time for bed, but she goes instead to the front door, unlocks it, and steps onto the porch.
Behind her she can hear only the silence of the house.
The lights throw her shadow down the stairs and onto the lawn, and she walks carefully to meet it.
Now she's standing in the huge, whispering arena of night, hearing her own breath tearing out of her like the cries of an animal.
She could keep going into whatever the darkness brings, she could find a presence there her shaking hands could hold instead of each other.
SLEEP A dark sister lies beside her all night, whispering that it's not a dream, that fire has entered the spaces between one face and another.
There will be no wakening.
When she wakens, she can't catch her own breath, so she yells for help.
It comes in the form of sleep.
They whisper back and forth, using new words that have no meaning to anyone.
The aspen shreds itself against her window.
The oranges she saw that day in her yard explode in circles of oil, the few stars quiet and darken.
They go on, two little girls up long past their hour, playing in bed.

Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Create an image from this poem

Knee-Deep in June

 Tell you what I like the best -- 
'Long about knee-deep in June, 
'Bout the time strawberries melts 
On the vine, -- some afternoon 
Like to jes' git out and rest, 
And not work at nothin' else! 

Orchard's where I'd ruther be -- 
Needn't fence it in fer me! -- 
Jes' the whole sky overhead, 
And the whole airth underneath -- 
Sort o' so's a man kin breathe 
Like he ort, and kind o' has 
Elbow-room to keerlessly 
Sprawl out len'thways on the grass 
Where the shadders thick and soft 
As the kivvers on the bed 
Mother fixes in the loft 
Allus, when they's company! 

Jes' a-sort o' lazin there - 
S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer 
Through the wavin' leaves above, 
Like a feller 'ats in love 
And don't know it, ner don't keer! 
Ever'thing you hear and see 
Got some sort o' interest - 
Maybe find a bluebird's nest 
Tucked up there conveenently 
Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be 
Up some other apple tree! 
Watch the swallers skootin' past 
Bout as peert as you could ast; 
Er the Bob-white raise and whiz 
Where some other's whistle is.
Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow -- Er a hawk, - away up there, 'Pearantly froze in the air! -- Hear the old hen squawk, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like! - and she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you! -- You jes' bet yer life she do! -- Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, Waitin' till he makes a pass! Pee-wees wingin', to express My opinion, 's second-class, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr.
Bluejay, full o' sass, In them baseball clothes o' his, Sportin' round the orchad jes' Like he owned the premises! Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is! That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two! Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kind o' goes ag'in' My convictions! - 'long about Here in June especially! -- Under some ole apple tree, Jes' a-restin through and through, I could git along without Nothin' else at all to do Only jes' a-wishin' you Wuz a-gittin' there like me, And June wuz eternity! Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be! -- Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'ats dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o'gold and white and blue! -- Month a man kin railly love -- June, you know, I'm talkin' of! March ain't never nothin' new! -- April's altogether too Brash fer me! and May -- I jes' 'Bominate its promises, -- Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land -- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two, -- Drap asleep, and it turns in Fore daylight and snows ag'in! -- But when June comes - Clear my th'oat With wild honey! -- Rench my hair In the dew! And hold my coat! Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat! -- June wants me, and I'm to spare! Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll get down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!
Written by Wallace Stevens | Create an image from this poem

The Sense of the Sleight-of-Hand Man

One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
Occur as they occur.
So bluish clouds Occurred above the empty house and the leaves Of the rhododendrons rattled their gold, As if someone lived there.
Such floods of white Came bursting from the clouds.
So the wind Threw its contorted strength around the sky.
Could you have said the bluejay suddenly Would swoop to earth? It is a wheel, the rays Around the sun.
The wheel survives the myths.
The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods.
To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine And pines that are cornets, so it occurs, And a little island full of geese and stars: It may be the ignorant man, alone, Has any chance to mate his life with life That is the sensual, pearly spuse, the life That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.
Written by James Whitcomb Riley | Create an image from this poem

There Was a Cherry-Tree

 There was a cherry-tree.
Its bloomy snows Cool even now the fevered sight that knows No more its airy visions of pure joy -- As when you were a boy.
There was a cherry-tree.
The Bluejay sat His blue against its white -- O blue as jet He seemed there then!-- But now -- Whoever knew He was so pale a blue! There was a cherry-tree -- our child-eyes saw The miracle:-- Its pure white snows did thaw Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet But for a boy to eat.
There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!-- There was a bloom of snow -- There was a boy -- There was a bluejay of the realest blue -- And fruit for both of you.

Book: Reflection on the Important Things