Best Chicken Hawk Poems
He's not just any chicken hawk,
He's very special to me.
With a hat on his head, a tie on his neck,
And some shoes on his little feet.
He's brown and tan, a little worn,
Well loved you might as well say.
He was my friend as a little child,
I played with him night and day.
I've grown attached to that chicken hawk,
Even though I'm not a child anymore.
He was my favorite, although he was stuffed,
And he couldn't fly or soar.
He's a very special chicken hawk,
He's very special to me.
With a hat on his head, and a tie on his neck,
And some shoes on his chicken hawk feet.
He is the prettiest rooster I have ever seen.
Handsome too, she said. She was the chicken hawk queen.
We had heard rumors about them both, some of them mean.
She was an ugly hen, kind of pathetically drably and green.
He is the talk of the barnyard, she told us. For sure!
If she was in love, he was possibly her sights-set-on-cure.
We watched him crowing, he was standing so near.
I think she would like him to call her “my dear”.
They are gaining on us! Yelled a honeybee
Baby chicken hawk Dee smirked at his ride, Zee.
We will soon be drinking tea with Queen Vee.
You mean we are winning? Asked turtle Zee.
Of course we are! Dee said. Look at that bee.
One honey bee was shaking his fist at Turtle Zee.
Pink clouds ahead, and lighting, watch out! Yelled Dee.
The honeycomb went down first, along with a honey bee.
The other bee flew over and asked to join Dee and Zee.
Why not? They said. Surely Queen Vee will have extra tea.
A tiny bit of honeycomb landed with them in Normandy.
And they all ended up sipping Earl Gray with Queen Vee.
Butterfly kid takes a photo of the other ones dressed.
Some are perfectly together, their curls perfectly tressed.
One is a chicken hawk, just leaving his enormous nest.
He takes a terrific photograph, surely one of the kid’s best.
Skinny kid in baggy clothes
hovers in front of your house.
With eyes hidden behind a half-cocked
Yankees hat, he spies the stroller and
other items on your porch like a
chicken hawk ready to swoop.
We burst from our spot with
advantage of perception
and a thrill for the hunt
to spook the predatory misfit
as he runs to the back of
his Isuzu to slam shut the hatch
before hopping into the purring
machine to tear up the road,
wounded but not vanquished.
We share a knowing glance
that reverberates with a message
blazing the synapses with one word,
“diligence”.
My feet were screaming about the concrete walk.
I ignored them totally, they are prissy and always squawk.
Better pay attention! Trilled a passing loud beaked chicken hawk.
I rolled my eyes. I know his wife. He is one to talk!
Come on! They screamed, we will be limping soon.
They like to complain all day until we see the moon.
I am not going to feed them sympathy with an empathy spoon.
I kept walking, maybe a little harder now, bringing them more doom.
But wait! Yelled my brain. Who are you actually hurting here?
I was limping now, and I could feel blisters climbing up my heel’s rear.
I am afraid to teach them a lesson, I was the one to learn so clear
That to not take care of your feet actually hurts you, my silly dear!
I have heard of crows and crones
But these old geezers are overblown
over dressed with suits that squeak
beady eyes, scrawny necks, and beak
are they from the barnyard then?
Their necks all wrinkled to their chin
I have heard of crows and crones
But these are ugly as crawdad gnomes
it’s weird you say that said the chicken
they are abnormal roosters, hearts a tick’n
we call them Slim and Slam for fun
They walk real slow, neither can run
They appeared out of nowhere in the fall
They are scrawny and weird added pig Paul
They do not talk, whistle, peep or talk
Weird to even us fowl, added the chicken hawk.
When I want to cook others beg me to stop.
I once baked a cake that when rolled could hop.
We made it into balls and watched it go down the walk.
Some of it was whisked away by a determined chicken hawk.
Hope that bird does not die, my sister said.
She loves to cook, can make pies, puddings and bread.
If I try to make a hamburger, it scorches black in the pan.
I am the worst cook in Kansas, you can ask my man.
Out of desperation he learned to cook.
He is a really great chef, can maneuver the nook.
Which is to say the kitchen which I begged the builder to leave out.
That put his knickers in a knot, the man swore and gave a shout.
She does not cook, she is really bad at it, my husband explained.
I was going to try cookies yesterday, but everyone complained.
They have cleaned up my messes, and none wanted to do it again.
Luckily I live close to my baking, cooking sister; she is my twin.
Grit flies from spinning rubber,
the traffic is edging through roads,
narrowed, by the plowed and pushed aside.
Curb-side snow remains; solid humps turn brown,
in an un-melting light.
A lone chicken hawk circles an iced-over acre
of snaking roadway,
its black track attracts the birds eye,
as if it were the contrail of an elongated rat,
stretching into a bolt- hole of frozen sky.