Avian Poems - Poems about Avian

Cunning Sam craved to catch caged canary, feigned sly not to be overtly scary. He sneaked with dinner in mind, caught in cage, Sam starved confined. The bird performed Houdini sorcery. ...

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Grey clouds are hovering near. Winter's chill will soon be here. Avian are taking flight, pausing to roost for the night, but only for a brief time then on to a warmer clime. Flocks fly on fine feathered wing, migrating, they trill and sing. To return in spring to nest. At journey's end they will rest before baby chicks arrive, so the species will survive. ...

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Amidst the woods, there existed exquisite birds, Warbling melodiously upon trees with rhythms that charm, Their vibrant hues reminiscent of a festive evergreen, Meticulously adorned within the forest's arboreal realm, akin to celebration adornments....

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Richi, Liz and Boris, which one will the fountain bless? What wise owl flies to our aid and pulls us from this mess? Vultures make lazy circles and falcons loop the loop. Maybe they won't say boo to a goose or are they planning when to swoop? Keir Starmer's counting chickens, but here there is a catch. How long does he have to wait before those...

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Twas a man with that spatula The mad cousin of Dracula And Tragically Spectacular Alas flat Pisttacula...

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A chickadee flew up to me And chirped out a request - Please fill the backyard feeder ‘Fore I head back to my nest. I had indeed put out some feed But clearly not enough, So other birds had polished off The nuts and fruits and stuff. I would have bet I’d never get A message that’s been tweeted, But I complied, for even birds Get...

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"The discrepancies are many, the dalliances are few, both pitched against one dynamic, lifelong achievement" Poking through the woods of the Mill Grove Audubon Estate, suddenly came upon an ivy-covered studio shed tucked away amongst foliage near Perkiomen Creek, apparently some artist's hidden haven, lost in time. Passing through this rickety door to dilapidation - sun shards were streaming through the cracks...

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Nests of weaver birds hanging down from the palmyra palm ...

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I know it's highly unconvincing, Mrs Blackwell; an unimaginable storyline no doubt. In all your years of teaching science at St Hilda's you must have thought our wild excuses would run out. I know you'll calculate with ease my fabrication but hope my alibi will raise a passing smile for even scientific minds abrim with logic can set imagination free once in...

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I once went out on a blind date But that'll never happen again A not so pleasant experience When I was set up by a friend He said, "She has but one problem," "I noticed as she crossed the street," "It's avian in nature, because" "She has what you'd call crows feet!" I said, "Well I'm no spring chicken," "And I'm a little weathered...

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Birds tweet beside my window all through the summer night An endless chorus of chatter until the morning's light They pause then, perhaps for breakfast while I bury my head in my pillows Then just when I'm finally sleeping they resume their peccadillos...

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Two wayward pigeons settled On the A.C. right outside. Nine stories up, they strutted With no place for them to hide. We were surprised to see them; They’ve not visited before. Perhaps they meant to stop off At a slightly lower floor. I didn’t mind their presence But my husband did, so “Shoo!” One tap against the window pane And off those pigeons flew....

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...to the finessed fowl humming by my ear tell me Did anyone ever tell you just how glad they are to have you here? Poignant eyes, azure crown, that lightasapenny frame... (how monstrous we must appear! our human eyes like soccer balls) We have only God to blame... ...and our senses to thank for perceiving such a lovely scene right here in...

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The day breaks on the edge of azure sea, squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine. Flapping feathered wings in cadence of glee, venture out for prey far from the shoreline. Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine, gliding through the satin sheen of brine air, venture out for prey far from the shoreline, the rhythm of the dancing surfs they all share. Gliding through...

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As robins forage on the lawn, their last pre-frost hunt, and feast within the berried trees, I wonder if they think upon an old disheveled nest and recall at all their youth within its sheltered folds; as we might ponder while passing by our old childhood home. Or, do they simply move along - time being too valuable for sentimental recollections. Inspired by the poetry of Robert Frost...

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