My heart is a pelican beak.
Opens wide but never sings.
Conceals what the tongue cannot survive.
Drips salt from truths left unchewed.
A pouch tucked with fishbones,
straining to sift the indigestible
I’m a dumb rooster’s beak
pecking broken chunks of cheese
from every event
every moment is astonishment
and if I climb a roof
only left in the ruins
you’ll see my people
behind the sunlit bar
but my next neigbhour
who’s coming in
is a thief and the new label
on the beer we serve
I’m engaging him before
this place is bombarded
with that machine dogs
One may see puffins and parrots
any hour of the week
both birds bear a big colourful beak
the former pelagic feed on fish
and live in large colonies on coastal cliffs
tho' monogamous collectively breed as a bunch
but with renown as the Atlantic sea clown
in Iceland several are served as lunch
the latter arboreal primarily frugivorous
toco being by far the largest
are opportunistic and occasionally omnivorous
to a few prudes it may seem unseemly or rude
and yet if they stick around they'll later get down
as their chicks are seen to hatch in the nude
these avians may fly high in the sky
have the same such things as two wings and legs
and of each species the female lays eggs
but that's where similarity does stop
one puffin can do more than toucan do
in more or less of a day
after mating its pecker turns grey
and without waiting its bill it will drop
The beak has broken, and I settle on the shore of painful thoughts,
while the sea sews salt around a shell of feathers—
a cradle carved from a time long vanished, a vapor dream of the past.
I touch it gently—the wings contract like secrets hidden in evening shadows—
fragile bruises, a poem of memories passed through rains of forgetting,
hidden beneath an old echo of lullabies that the wind whispers voicelessly.
But still, the shell splits and leaves behind only silence that drips into the depths,
beautiful things, shattering harder and harder now,
its beak caught in the shell's emptiness, wide and unmoved, a scream transformed into sculpture of silence.
And I—I remain stuck, dreaming with open eyes at skies of memories,
dragging myself through the sand of time, with knees scraped by edges of dreams,
still trying to fit into a space where I was never meant to be.
And the only question left—how many times can you bury a falling star,
that never asked to be held in the palm of an unknown desire?
I am your little bird
I want to live in your nest
I want to live with you...
I want to share a little space
I want to be on your path
to have a life of pleasure...
Come, let's be very close
together, beak to beak
to create a beautiful comfort zone...
You are my beautiful little bird
I am your sweet little bird,
so close together
let's overcome everything,
and Live a free flying life...!
I am the hawk, the falcon, the eagle
circling the skies, swooping with the winds
that roar through gold and carmine canyons.
I soar to hunt, to pursue, to feed.
Gliding on ageless currents of thermal energies
exploding through the clouds,
stooping to the field, the sea, the desert.
I have the strength, the will, the fortitude
of the ages beside, and within, my being
sharpening my insight, my vision,
calling me to the feeding grounds.
I am the caveman, the forager, the hunter
of all within my penetrating sight.
Succumb to my mighty beak and talons.
Elizabeth Smither' THE BEAK ' (JUDGE)
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~ ~ (==) )~~
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The day The Eagle is defeated
The incident shall be repeated:
All transmitting stations televise it,
The rarely praised tongues loosen in wit!
Born - to - Rule Valiant of All Seasons
To be lambasted for four reasons:
Who had off switched its amazing wings
Or had God said "it's time to spoil things"?
What had it done to matchless vision
Begun to things sights in division?
Could Mortifying Beak go on strikes,
Suddenly curve less because this likes?
What can have happened to stunning speed:
Rehearsals ended that would it feed?
The day The Eagle is Defeated
Furnace of 'Why' shall be reheated.
The Remotest cause solicited
The sweetened truth not prohibited.
I’m sure that what you seek
Is at some cloud-veiled peak
That could pick up more than a week
For a nearing by The Weak;
To be soon skinny that is sleek
And mentally thwarted – A freak
This proving by easily sounding Greek …
And-Gosh!-already, I picked out a beak
About to on it havoc wreak
Or leave an unseemly streak …
It is sure, a discouraging prophecy
But Wasted Effort is no legacy.
Oh Heck
There's a frog stuck inside my beak, oh heck
And the rascal's has his hands round my neck
The frog is no quitter
Should've been my dinner
I'm now fast becoming a strangled wreck.
23rd May 2021
Quitters Never Win Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
Wings feathered in snow,
weightless, drifting through the air,
a beak chirping, strong.
bird speak
no words have been created
that can explain
if I had a beak
it would be much easier
beak speak is bird speak
everyday
i wake
sometimes
early
others late
but lately
whenever
i do i'm
greeted by
the sound
almost owl like
but instead of
who i hear
you or boohoo
hoo
as if Noah
waiting
for a sign
someday
sometime
i will
not wake
to the call
of the mourning
dove for he calls for
thee
A cosmic beak pecks
an explosion of maroon
that converges with
galactic vastnesss where stars
brightly splatter midnight blue.
Feb 20, 2019 for the Tell Me- What Do You See-- Poetry Contest
of James Edward Lee Sr.
the tangerine beak
stuffed into a round of snow -
where a carrot grows
1/28/2019
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