Best Birdless Poems
I never know which way to turn per se
Enhanced emotions flooding to the top
My lifestyle once was simpler than it's now
Gone are those years of equilibrium
Shades of the night now blending into day
Those tears for joy now stranger to my cheek
I shuffle while the world moves on full speed
Fading faces giving advice to heed
But I have only feet for regret street
Down on the boulevard of broken dreams
"Hope is a wickless candle" I once read
Though I must hold hope closely to my heart
With faith for me to be the air to breathe
For life without both is a shallow pond
Imagine if you will a fishless sea
A birdless sky, a world animal scarce
14~June~2017
(Iambic pentameter)
Door arrives door disappears
Door deprives door shares
Had doors been toward one way only
Life would have lost its lustre
With one hand life provides
With the other life robs us
Life sometimes brutally divides
Some other time it is Mother Teresa
When my doors closed several times
I wept but didn’t stop reading poems
My chromosomes of hope kept me supporting
Till a shaft of sunlight brought new doors
The deep green Neem tree in my dream garden
Went into a dizzyingly birdless gloom
Leaves and flowers brutally plundered
Roots torn asunder in my room
But again one day the spring sun stopped by
Clouds called at its door with shower
In the windswept branches came contentment
Now I hug it in a happy deep breath
____________________________________________________
March 26, 2016
Neem is a tree in the mahogany family Meliaceae. It is native to India, Myanmar, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka, Malaysia and Pakistan. It grows in tropical and semi-tropical regions. Products made from neem have been used in India for over two millennia for their medicinal properties. They are said to be antifungal, antidiabetic, antibacterial, antiviral, contraceptive andsedative. Neem products are also used in selectively controlling pestsin plants. Neem is considered a part of Ayurvedic medicine. – Simple English Wikipedia
If you would only look out,
you would see the star-studded sky and a
swooning sickle moon, and down below
a fleet of quiet snails sailing gently over
lawns scented with newly cut grass.
You might glimpse the ugly awkward
gait of a dishevelled fox, trotting across
a road that had lost its cars by midnight
to the garages of suburbia; and perhaps
spot a motionless hedgehog sleeping
soundly beneath its mattress of bristles.
If you would just open up your ears
to the night outside, you might hear
the howling owl in the primary school wood, and
the on-the-hour Swiss cuckoo-clock over
at Number Eight crying out, absurdly, for urgency,
through an opened window.
You would hear cats wauling
and hear the swish of bats in the thick
dark air, hear the wind softly turning the
leaves of trees in search of only the wind
knows what, and perhaps hear the tide,
which sighs through the night from far
away to someone, somewhere.
But you won’t. You are lost in the night
within, that deepest darkness where no
stars shine, no moon lies recumbent,
a birdless night shunned by animals, too,
a night without roads, without lamps,
a nightless night on the edge of death.
FROSTY DAY IN THE CITY
Wetless day, birdless trees,
Witless denizens of metropolis
Long await the bus into
The delights of Manchester.
Townless bus waiters -
Their earphones are essential
For Deaf Man’s Buff -
Tuneless music.
plastic seas sick and
dissipating birdless skies
swaddle ash and dust
***
Written: September 24, 2023
_____________________________________________________________
In the dawn-like haze—a shriek was heard,
An echo so shrewd, yet birdless, oddly slurred
It was ordained by—a stratum unseen,
A throbbing coerce, a numen so keen.
A canticle flower—a bellow coarsely flung,
Through bosky drifts, those shadows clung.
The broken clavicle, brittle skull,
Doused in lacquer—a tale to annul.
Cried creative bone, from annals of time,
In a secluded hut—where lamina chime.
With guttural utterance—the gowk did sing,
Fluted notes on brinks of obsidian string.
Cloaked in the dimly lit mist, a canon of clamor,
Shaping the world with a mystic glamour.
In the glum of worship, a rite did splay,
As voices uttered—in a solemn display.
A corpse lay still, in the midst of the scene,
Dazzled by the entombing, a nebulous flesh serene.
Funerary hums—in syllabic verse,
Resonated through time, as a solemn curse.
In an urn—fugally adorned
With fugal melodies, the ashes were borne,
A symphony of sorrow, a requiem grand,
For the soul departed, to a distant land.
The misty air whispered—in mournful tones,
As the funerary procession made its way,
A solemn journey, through the mist, embrace.
To the final resting place, where shadows trace.
And so, the hum continued, a haunting refrain,
As the earth embraced the remains.
Silent and still—in eternal rest,
In the hallowed ground, the corpse was blessed.
Gone was the body, but the spirit remained,
A specter in the mist, forever ingrained.
A memory of life—a tale to be told,
In the echoes of time, where stories unfold.
In the depths of the mist, a legacy grew,
Of a life once lived, and the love that it knew.
The funerary hum—a reminder of grace,
As it carried the spirit to a heavenly place.
Alas, in the entirety of my composition I see, I feel, now, a part missing whose shape is strange, a form which nothing, without and within, might fill;
It is you, My Dear, whoever, wherever you are; you are the missing part, My Love, the phantasmal modicum;
One day you will come to me, and the hole will be plugged, and this frosty winter draft will cease to blow about the creaking corridors of my being; My Dear, the leaks will stop;
I won’t feel so heavy, so down; I will be full yet light, cumuli; I will be complete; alas, you are but a fiction, My Love, a lie, a distant note of hope, dishonest as a child’s laugh above a funeral’s solemn load;
For it too will cease and perish as the white dove, above turmoil and war, will fall and rot;
But you’ll see me through this hueless, harrowing day of trees crawling about my blank, birdless sky;
My Dear, for now, at least, My Love, for now, at least, My Lie, from now till the last, everywhere, nowhere.
My body is an ear.
Absorbing whispers meant for others' mouths that only close to wait to shove out more sound.
In other directions.
Towards another mouth.
Mouths who vomit sounds for the sake of sound.
Mouths that speak without a plan for other mouths.
Earless mouths.
Blathering on until they forget why they opened.
Holes from which echoed flatulence reverberates.
Unmeant for perception.
Meant only for sensation.
To be and for others' not to be.
As if,
As if another,
As if others would dare.
They; the non-playable characters would dare,
To perceive your sensation and respond.
Deaf to the tones you cannot even sing,
Despite the fact that you think you're a Lyrebird.
The only joy you provide is the thought that you think yourself other than a birdless liar; thinking it can think.
Your soul will rot in the brine you drown it in; nothing with a hint of you.
Basra, 2004
He doesn’t cry about it
anymore. No tears
in years. On occasion, though,
those who know him
see his good arm fly,
fist up, just above his eye.
So far the sun each time
has backed away,
allowing him to walk,
his good arm ready,
through the village
one more time
where he and others
picked off Shia
on a birdless
summer day.
Donal Mahoney
It’s a birdless situation in the trees today
Birds have changed the location to stay
Could it be they can’t find any food
If they doubt the spring, its no good
Buds are opening the sun shines on me
But I can’t hear the birds happy twee
They have flown, or they lie down and die
If I only could see the reason why
I would tell you, if you care to know
Hope the birds will return, flying low
At the end of the spring, or at least
With the autumnal winds from the east.
TWO-FACED TREACHERY
January is the warmest month. Her loss grips my heart,
Her treachery is colder than two-faced Janus:
My innocent youth feels old and lost
As the cold and frost grips my coat.
Snow Queen month: in eye and heart solitary
Ice pierces and everything’s a distorted way:
The frost ferns on the windows of my soul
Are hostile, cold and cruel in January.
January starts from a cold past
And leads to hope of naught but cold.
January stops each river’s flow, but cannot withhold
My tears splashing in winter’s blast.
Lifeless heart connot fly nor soul blossom.
My future’s given away to her who betrayed.
Birdless January, leafless January, heartless January -
No hope springing eternal in this year’s bosom.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Written and entered by Sydney Peck
In Nette Onclaud’s Contest PERSONIFICATION OF JANUARY
*Image of Ashes Volcanoes Eruptions by Pixabay.
A Cause and Effects
Richter scale gets dynamic
Seismic activity is registering
Voluminous debris goes errant
Birdless skies turn smoke-bound
Land beasts scurry about cornered
Afterward, man gasp-nature acts asap
2021 June 28
*HM*
Bite Size Poem no.9
~~Line Gauthier: Judged 2021 July 02
Mission Accomplished
Basra, 2005
He doesn’t cry about it
anymore. No tears
in years. On occasion, though,
those who know him
see his good arm fly,
fist up, just above his eye.
So far the sun each time
has backed away,
allowing him to walk,
his good arm ready,
through the village
one more time
where he and others
picked off Shia
on a birdless
summer day.
Donal Mahoney
I want a day of full repose
With only Nature within sight,
For only then I truly might
Attain the peace which she bestows.
A while ago, two swallows came
To raise their younglings in a nest
Below the roof, and I felt blessed,
But then they vanished all the same.
The chirping birds were scared away;
Their glade and merry woods are gone.
As for warm shelter, there is none
And, without birds, my life is gray.
I cannot blame their choice or rage
Against the deeds of my own kin;
Although man’s craft and will can win,
A birdless world is but a cage.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
In this season of dry winter
Cold winds dusty streets dry surface
Leafless willows barren fields birdless trees,
I can’t offer you!
A fragrant rose or a leafy twig of unripe almonds
Or raw fruits of peach or dried Ladhakhi apricots.
Nor can I show you!
Farmers visiting their ripening crops, trout-fishes fluttering in pond,
Sheep herd in green meadows, goats climbing mount,
Or free-horses in vast pastures graze;
Garden of hundred flowers—lovers holding each other close
By the breezy bank of the gushing stream;
Emerald grass shining dew singing birds sprouting bud roaring streams serene shade
Sauntering buffalos sleeping shepherd
And beside surging springs nomads tent,
Or white clouds so-scattered
Floating low in the blue sky.
Nevertheless; today I will!
Present you my voiceless love,
In the form of a long hug, and eyes brimmed with tears.