Best Famous Coyote Poems

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

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Written by Robinson Jeffers | Create an image from this poem

Hurt Hawks

 I

The broken pillar of the wing jags from the clotted shoulder,
The wing trails like a banner in defeat, 

No more to use the sky forever but live with famine
And pain a few days: cat nor coyote
Will shorten the week of waiting for death, there is game without talons.
He stands under the oak-bush and waits The lame feet of salvation; at night he remembers freedom And flies in a dream, the dawns ruin it.
He is strong and pain is worse to the strong, incapacity is worse.
The curs of the day come and torment him At distance, no one but death the redeemer will humble that head, The intrepid readiness, the terrible eyes.
The wild God of the world is sometimes merciful to those That ask mercy, not often to the arrogant.
You do not know him, you communal people, or you have forgotten him; Intemperate and savage, the hawk remembers him; Beautiful and wild, the hawks, and men that are dying, remember him.
II I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk; but the great redtail Had nothing left but unable misery From the bone too shattered for mending, the wing that trailed under his talons when he moved.
We had fed him six weeks, I gave him freedom, He wandered over the foreland hill and returned in the evening, asking for death, Not like a beggar, still eyed with the old Implacable arrogance.
I gave him the lead gift in the twilight.
What fell was relaxed, Owl-downy, soft feminine feathers; but what Soared: the fierce rush: the night-herons by the flooded river cried fear at its rising Before it was quite unsheathed from reality.
Written by Vachel Lindsay | Create an image from this poem

Epitaphs For Two Players

 I.
EDWIN BOOTH An old actor at the Player's Club told me that Edwin Booth first impersonated Hamlet when a barnstormer in California.
There were few theatres, but the hotels were provided with crude assembly rooms for strolling players.
The youth played in the blear hotel.
The rafters gleamed with glories strange.
And winds of mourning Elsinore Howling at chance and fate and change; Voices of old Europe's dead Disturbed the new-built cattle-shed, The street, the high and solemn range.
The while the coyote barked afar All shadowy was the battlement.
The ranch-boys huddled and grew pale, Youths who had come on riot bent.
Forgot were pranks well-planned to sting.
Behold there rose a ghostly king, And veils of smoking Hell were rent.
When Edwin Booth played Hamlet, then The camp-drab's tears could not but flow.
Then Romance lived and breathed and burned.
She felt the frail queen-mother's woe, Thrilled for Ophelia, fond and blind, And Hamlet, cruel, yet so kind, And moaned, his proud words hurt her so.
A haunted place, though new and harsh! The Indian and the Chinaman And Mexican were fain to learn What had subdued the Saxon clan.
Why did they mumble, brood, and stare When the court-players curtsied fair And the Gonzago scene began? And ah, the duel scene at last! They cheered their prince with stamping feet.
A death-fight in a palace! Yea, With velvet hangings incomplete, A pasteboard throne, a pasteboard crown, And yet a monarch tumbled down, A brave lad fought in splendor meet.
Was it a palace or a barn? Immortal as the gods he flamed.
There in his last great hour of rage His foil avenged a mother shamed.
In duty stern, in purpose deep He drove that king to his black sleep And died, all godlike and untamed.
I was not born in that far day.
I hear the tale from heads grown white.
And then I walk that earlier street, The mining camp at candle-light.
I meet him wrapped in musings fine Upon some whispering silvery line He yet resolves to speak aright.
II.
EPITAPH FOR JOHN BUNNY, MOTION PICTURE COMEDIAN In which he is remembered in similitude, by reference to Yorick, the king's jester, who died when Hamlet and Ophelia were children.
Yorick is dead.
Boy Hamlet walks forlorn Beneath the battlements of Elsinore.
Where are those oddities and capers now That used to "set the table on a roar"? And do his bauble-bells beyond the clouds Ring out, and shake with mirth the planets bright? No doubt he brings the blessed dead good cheer, But silence broods on Elsinore tonight.
That little elf, Ophelia, eight years old, Upon her battered doll's staunch bosom weeps.
("O best of men, that wove glad fairy-tales.
") With tear-burned face, at last the darling sleeps.
Hamlet himself could not give cheer or help, Though firm and brave, with his boy-face controlled.
For every game they started out to play Yorick invented, in the days of old.
The times are out of joint! O cursed spite! The noble jester Yorick comes no more.
And Hamlet hides his tears in boyish pride By some lone turret-stair of Elsinore.
Written by James Tate | Create an image from this poem

Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And A Worst-Case Scenario

 I swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel
in the center of the road and that's when
the deer came charging out of the forest
and forced me to hit the brakes for all I
was worth and I careened back to the other
side of the road just as a skunk came toddling
out of Mrs.
Bancroft's front yard and I swung back perhaps just grazing it a bit.
I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and in that instant a groundhog waddled from the side of the road and I zigzagged madly and don't know if I nipped it or not because up ahead I could see a coyote stalking the Collier's cat.
Oh well, I said, and drove the rest of the way home without incident.
Written by Philip Levine | Create an image from this poem

Sierra Kid

 "I've been where it hurts.
" the Kid He becomes Sierra Kid I passed Slimgullion, Morgan Mine, Camp Seco, and the rotting Lode.
Dark walls of sugar pine --, And where I left the road I left myself behind; Talked to no one, thought Of nothing.
When my luck ran out Lived on berries, nuts, bleached grass.
Driven by the wind Through great Sonora pass, I found an Indian's teeth; Turned and climbed again Without direction, compass, path, Without a way of coming down, Until I stopped somewhere And gave the place a name.
I called the forests mine; Whatever I could hear I took to be a voice: a man Was something I would never hear.
He faces his second winter in the Sierra A hard brown bug, maybe a beetle, Packing a ball of sparrow shit -- What shall I call it? Shit beetle? Why's it pushing here At this great height in the thin air With its ridiculous waddle Up the hard side of Hard Luck Hill? And the furred thing that frightened me -- Bobcat, coyote, wild dog -- Flat eyes in winter bush, stiff tail Holding his ground, a rotted log.
Grass snakes that wouldn't die, And night hawks hanging on the rim Of what was mine.
I know them now; They have absorbed a mind Which must endure the freezing snow They endure and, freezing, find A clear sustaining stream.
He learns to lose She was afraid Of everything, The little Digger girl.
Pah Utes had killed Her older brother Who may have been her lover The way she cried Over his ring -- The heavy brass On the heavy hand.
She carried it for weeks Clenched in her fist As if it might Keep out the loneliness Or the plain fact That he was gone.
When the first snows Began to fall She stopped her crying, picked Berries, sweet grass, Mended her clothes And sewed a patchwork shawl.
We slept together But did not speak.
It may have been The Pah Utes took Her off, perhaps her kin.
I came back To find her gone With half the winter left To face alone -- The slow grey dark Moving along The dark tipped grass Between the numbed pines.
Night after night For four long months My face to her dark face We two had lain Till the first light.
Civilization comes to Sierra Kid They levelled Tater Hill And I was sick.
First sun, and the chain saws Coming on; blue haze, Dull blue exhaust Rising, dust rising, and the smell.
Moving from their thatched huts The crazed wood rats By the thousand; grouse, spotted quail Abandoning the hills For the sparse trail On which, exposed, I also packed.
Six weeks.
I went back down Through my own woods Afraid of what I knew they'd done.
There, there, an A&P, And not a tree For Miles, and mammoth hills of goods.
Fat men in uniforms, Young men in aprons With one face shouting, "He is mad!" I answered: "I am Lincoln, Aaron Burr, The aging son of Appleseed.
"I am American And I am cold.
" But not a one would hear me out.
Oh God, what have I seen That was not sold! They shot an old man in the gut.
Mad, dying, Sierra Kid enters the capital What have I changed? I unwound burdocks from my hair And scalded stains Of the black grape And hid beneath long underwear The yellowed tape.
Who will they find In the dark woods of the dark mind Now I have gone Into the world? Across the blazing civic lawn A shadow's hurled And I must follow.
Something slides beneath my vest Like melted tallow, Thick but thin, Burning where it comes to rest On what was skin.
Who will they find? A man with no eyes in his head? Or just a mind Calm and alone? Or just a mouth, silent, dead, The lips half gone? Will they presume That someone once was half alive And that the air Was massive where The sickening pyracanthus thrive Staining his tomb? I came to touch The great heart of a dying state.
Here is the wound! It makes no sound.
All that we learn we learn too late, And it's not much.
Written by Edward Taylor | Create an image from this poem

Thinking Ahead To Possible Options And A Worst-Case Scenario

 I swerved to avoid hitting a squirrel
in the center of the road and that's when
the deer came charging out of the forest
and forced me to hit the brakes for all I
was worth and I careened back to the other
side of the road just as a skunk came toddling
out of Mrs.
Bancroft's front yard and I swung back perhaps just grazing it a bit.
I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror and in that instant a groundhog waddled from the side of the road and I zigzagged madly and don't know if I nipped it or not because up ahead I could see a coyote stalking the Collier's cat.
Oh well, I said, and drove the rest of the way home without incident.