He goes there every day; to that bench in the shade;
Where his shoes have formed small clearings in the gravel;
where his wool sport coat has rubbed smooth the paint.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
where the squirrels eat straight from his hand
as little birds frantically snatch up seeds he's sprinkled about.
He goes there every day, to that bench in the shade
but not today…and not again.
Submission for Contest: The Sense of Touch
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015
Hoot! Hoot! Came the call
In silence I listened,heard
Suddenly, hoot! Hoot!
Came the cry,tree
Seems the world was in
Went I to the window
and Looked into the
empty Darkness. As I lay
down,I Knew somewhere
I would Hear that sound
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
Against the setting sun, tall trees are silhouettes
The sparrows circle, then swoop down,
to gather leaves, and violets
They'll work to form their woven nests
Small fragrant bassinets
A sun slides down to take a rest,
and leaves a crimson crown
So gently, then, without a sound, light fades behind the hills
Our ills are left behind, as well.....'till darkness slips around
For Contest #236
Sponsor: Brian Strand
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2015
I Love You Bird
Becca's Inspiration Waiting Contest
Sponsor: craig cornish
As I sit delaying any action until something else happens, I am reminded of that day you left.. I said good bye and didn't know it was for good, if only I could've had more insight. There I was dropping you off at your destination...me kissing you goodbye, you telling me...
“I love you bird”.
You were the only one who called your baby sister bird. I drove away. Too far to keep good watch of you, too close to not feel you closing your eyes. Such tired eyes you had. Exhausted and defeated from everything this world couldn't offer you, sweetheart. I sat by the phone~minutes~turning into~hours and when days had passed, I was still.....waiting....for your phone call. Surely, you would have called me if you were in trouble, surely I'd be right by your side. I swear, I sat in that exact chair every night for three months just..waiting for your phone call. Waiting is a funny thing, you see, seems so slow as each minute passes, and oh my, how long three months really is. March 17, 2011 I finally got the phone call. They had found you broken and torn and your eyes had been closed for awhile.Stuck in the snow so cold and alone.. My waiting was finally over..I had the answers I needed as soon as I read your letter. Nightly, as I sleep with your bear, I wait all night long to hear you whisper in my dreams...
“I love you bird.”
Date Written: January 26, 2016
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
Let me go
show me out the door with kind words
I want you to Love me ..
not punish by Force
My Prison, my warden
Let me go
My choice to be Free
Free of suppression, of my own creativity
let me decide for myself
Let me go
let go of me gracefully
I belong to myself , children and God
Let me go , let go of me
I am free
to choose to love and give
I am Free
from what burdens me
now I am Free
Copyright © Shanity Rain | Year Posted 2013
The feeder's full; the hummingbirds
Have likely flown away
To find a better climate
For their wintering foray.
I've read that they fly solo,
Not like others, in a swarm,
To Mexico or Panama
In search of someplace warm.
I wonder how they fare in flight,
Their frenzied wings a'blur
And what they do if storms or winds
Or hurricanes occur.
I'll take my feeder down and dump
The sugar water out
And hope next summer once again
I'll see them flit about.
Copyright © ilene bauer | Year Posted 2016
The poetry I write seems harsh
it seems sad and powerful,
sings songs and pslams to the sorrowful soul,
sung its song in the past of sorrow in all.
The poet's blood flows like champaign
on a wedding day of young couples in love.
Champaign that flows like rivers and streams
in the green plains of Mid West America,
and the poet writes about the land and the bird
that sings afar in a tall, old oak tree
thick at barch with experience and age.
The soul burns and cries out to be freed,
yet sits and reads poetry till the crack of dawn
in an old apartment house on the second floor,
and the rats run along the walls, and the cockroaches
in cerial boxes,
with shotgun in lape and cocked, ready to fire,
one in the chamber.
Whiskey in the lungs,
and whiskey on the ground,
in the hand
and upon the feet
of a sorrowful soul, filled with pain
and age, age full of tender love that never was discovered
by any naive soul.
One time the clock ticks and tocks,
echoes rings in an empty mind,
that echoes the sorrowed mind and tortures the pale soul.
One pull of the trigger,
and the sound of an explosion of faint silence
and a smile on a face of a dead man is shown in the light,
and watch the blood flow on the white pannel wall,
flowing like champaign on a beautiful wedding day.
Two weddings and a funeral...
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
Quicksand Bird - Haiku
quicksand folds over
final wave of wing, good-bye
bird succumbs, day ends
Copyright © Earl Schumacker | Year Posted 2015
A Right To Swear
Young gulls - love.,
How that fickle wind blows,
Soaring, dive bombing.,
As their fancy takes, not a 'blue sky' care -
O'er the chaos below-screeching of laughter,
They've earned the right to wail and cry and swear.
I looked down from my window,
In the nano second of a beat,
Yes., he'd once soared higher.., higher-
Or balanced above all the recklessness.,
Life's precarious bird on a wire.
In the late Autumn's heat.
Just yards, at a junction, prized from his weapon,
'Lamp post lynching seemed nigh,
Til a uniform, roughly plucked him,
To give account..,
To the young school gang., crying ., 'Why?'.
An interview, he can't be late -
He never got the job,
The 'mort'-gauge, a leaky roof,
All meant nothing to the mob.
Whilst back down my road, in solemn silence we stood,
His wings broken asunder,
Mrs lollipop closed his eyes,
As a gust ruffled his hair.,
And in the distance -
A deep rumble of thunder.
So..., so long, young sea gull from number 28,
The homework chasing - no more,
The years and the town - all seem to stem from that day,
There ought to be a law.....,
Damn it, Dad.., there ought to be a law.
Copyright © Lemuel Griffiths | Year Posted 2016
Honored He Will Be
Oh one bright morning where the dawn has yet to rise,
In the mindset of the absent minded priest,
There he lay in his cotton sheets, ready for early sleep,
Over and over,
Erased from his checklist.
His caregivers settling for the loss of brilliance,
His mind sifted through many,
No gold was found,
Awakened he is no longer.
But forever a man he will stay.
One with dignity and,
He blessed many couples soon to be wedded,
Christened thousands of newborns,
Giving them the flame of promise.
His priestly duties no longer are practiced,
They have become dust,
The same dust that he harbored in his home.
But this day his mind awoke,
For a mere hour.
An hour to fulfill his last yearning,
His last act of brilliance.
The priest in his wake of longevity,
Yet his senility still consuming his functions.
Knelt down before the seniors home garden,
To have and to hold a fragile, long-departed bluebird.
His plumage ruffled,
His marmalade, and striking blue tinges faded from the touch of time.
There he stroked the bird, and ran off into an place of privacy.
He buried the bird, binding it in the roots of the tree it had fallen from.
A ceremony, filled to the brim with lavish homage.
He honored the simple oak,
The bluebird and her nest.
Smoke arose from the sky, as he burned incense, and lit candles.
He murmured in the tongue of prayer, “With altogether too much ceremony;”
The last words of the wise priest.
Thus consumed by death did he part,
Leaving the world with a pocketful of birdseed,
To later, in another life, feed his wisdom to society.
Goodbye Wise One.
Honored you will be with the peace thou has given to the world.
And to me, and the simple,
Copyright © Madison Demetros | Year Posted 2016
What is there inside the about- to- blossom bud
Plenty of light and some dark obviously for us
Or nuclear horror as Donald has thundered?
Whatever, I do look up to your soft green grass
Through the two deja vu purple window glass
In pink expectation we live this rainbow life
In expectation we look for a door and a window
In expectation the bee hums from flowers to the hive
Will the bud unfold towards a happiness crescendo
Or circumstantially we will be in a puzzling limbo
Let us welcome the new year two thousand seventeen
For an end of something and for others a beginning
Some poems to write off and some others to take up
Towards humanity improve our mental makeup
Towards the morning that would give us our teacup
Without elimination no purple invigoration
Goodbye sixteen that has spent all its green
Apples and oranges in colors of seventeen
Birds by the window in their voices umpteen
Standing in the juncture calls the future dream
Let us respond by saying we are ready too
In the tarmac of time holding hands me and you
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2016
Nice view if only it lingers
Hmmm catch me? You wish
I just crossed bar beach
It hasn’t changed a bit
Same volume of water and same colour as ever
Hope it tastes good too
The market is almost getting filled
Two more persons and it won’t contain
I see those women counting their losses and gain
And the robber laying wait beside the paths for their share to get
So they reap where they didn’t sow
Oh no the fields are on fire
I had hoped to break and take my lunch
But the farmers have gleaned and carried their bunches
Too bad they never had me at heart
Copyright © victor nwakanma | Year Posted 2015
Our Windstar Rides into the Sunset
I just sold my Windstar Cargo van
She was just driven off, by some other man.
I bought the old girl in April 2005
Every day since then, she’d been my ride.
She started out fine with nary a scratch.
For a handy vehicle, she’d be hard to match.
She had shelving in back and one extra seat.
A sliding side door, a huge hatch you can’t beat.
I would fill her with bird seed or corn might abound.
No matter the load, she never let me down.
With her new signage, she looked just first rate.
You might say if you knew us, we appeared on a date.
For almost daily, we’d back down the drive.
To go fill some feeders so those wild birds could thrive.
We went in all weather, birds need fed every day.
For our regular customers, there was no other way.
For they were elderly or shut-ins with a passion to please.
They counted on us to deliver, or their birdies might freeze.
With her front wheel drive, a good battery and snow-tired.
We never failed to get there before cold birds expired.
But then came the end of our long birdseed run.
We called it quits, it was no longer fun.
Those feed bags for me were as heavy as lead.
After 2007 someone else would need get them fed.
That wasn’t the end of old Windstar or me.
We still went together an old friend oft to see.
For there was still an acreage that needed our care.
Rides to Menard’s shopping and lunches to share.
A couple times a week for the next 7 yrs.
We three worked together thru laughter and tears.
There are so many things need work on a farm.
So much to be done to keep animals from harm.
So many wild turkeys and deer that need fed.
Raccoons you can’t count and woodchuck’s deep red.
Of course feral cats got our special attention
The mowing of grass I should also now mention.
Well it seems that I’ve strayed from the van in my story.
But before we now leave I must mention her glory.
That were the 4 signs she carried with pride.
Which told much of the old guy, the driver inside.
There were 3 bible quotes and some patriot’s plea.
Some words of advice always given out free.
To anyone that might comment or share a sly grin.
It they seemed out of touch we’d ask where they’d been.
For America to be Blessed as so many would like.
We need to get back to Jesus or just may take a hike.
For without Him in our midst, our country is lost,
We may soon learn that, no matter who’s “Boss”.
Written by oldbuck, Dec. 7, after selling his van.
Bucks 4 Birds – Wildlife Catering Service 1994-2007
Copyright © Old buck | Year Posted 2016