Best Finch Poems
And I Barely Heard the Finch
How sweet your timid twitter,
Like a child pulling on its Mother’s dress,
And like the child, “Do you want to talk to me,
Do your little chirps mean more than seed?”
Free you fly through the dawning skies,
Problems far from your waking eyes;
Immigration, prejudice, have no place
In the world of sunshine on your face.
“Oh, you say, there are cats I must fear,”
And you avoid them. and many Jays,
Solemnly equipped with camouflage,
You let those big birds play.
And while flap-jawed feathers pick a fight
Around oval and hurricane restless seas,
Your Master calmly guides you where to go, and
You weather storms with ease.
And I barely heard the Finch.
crimson lilts of joy
fill the alder tree with song~
concert of rubies
03/14/22
howmanysyllables.com
.
High
moral
character
("To Kill A Mockingbird")
purple house finch perched
'pon loose weeping willow limb...
swinging in spring breeze
gold turning silver
feathers with the leaves shedding
summer colours fall
9/9/2019
A Transition Of Seasons Haiku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Tania Kitchin
Awaiting my presence,
You knew I was there.
Black beads gaze into mine,
Why would they want to leave?
RARE BIRD
Sitting outside my window
a Black-throated Finch is there.
This little bird now is on show
seldom seen, could become rare.
A Black-throated Finch is there,
hoping he'll stay for some time,
seldom seen, could become rare,
pecks at a worm to dine.
Hoping he'll stay for some time,
content to continue grazing.
he pecks at a worm to dine
this little bird is amazing.
Content to continue grazing
each morsel he chooses with care,
this little bird is amazing,
of extinction he's unaware.
Each morsel he chooses with care,
needs protection before decline.
Of extinction he's unaware
his habitat men want to mine.
Needs protection before decline,
this little bird now is on show,
a Black-throated Finch so fine
Sitting outside my window.
Copyright © Vivien Wade 2014
A Pantoum
Grinch Finch
I once was hired to use a winch
to wrap it’s chain around a tree
a tree that held a frightened cat
I knew that this would be a cinch
for nothing ever worried me
I didn’t know there was a finch
who nested there and what a grinch
and then I felt a little pinch
an assault that made me flinch
my facial muscles gave a squinch
who is this angry bird so meek
to threaten me with its small beak
the cat was saved and I had vowed
to wear this moment like a shroud
and never speak of it out loud
no more to use a winch and flinch
or squinch because of a small pinch
by anger of a grinchy finch
who woudn’t even give an inch
What Makes You Flinch Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Julie Leigh Rodeheaver
June 16 2019
springtimes
chiaroscuro
gouldian finch
A Gold Finch visited the bird bath today
It seemed that he only wanted to play
He stood on the rim putting just one foot in
He seemed really afraid to take just a swim
Then his reflection he seemed to spy
Soon after he began to fly
Then back down and he did the same
Almost laughed when he called my name
Look at me look at me
Now I'm way up in the tree
Then he was gone
So long , so long
Morning’s clarinet of feathers
over blunt autumn cold
Singing finch
scurry branch to branch
Southeastern’s feeble flame
burns November’s thin wick
In the air
blue ice whistles
--------------------------------------------
from my 6th book-length manuscript
©dah / dahlusion 2014, 2015 all rights reserved
"Autumn’s Finch" was first published in
'The Filid Anthology'
chirpy little finch
awakens early risers
opening the day
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
And triply even more, my soul’s the same.
As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
Your lilting charms which, magically employs
All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
I Silently sipping the last limping remains of wine
within the crumbling confines of my glass.
guiltlessly glistening in the amorous arms of evergreen.
Lonesomely, my eyes lift themselves
up from my blackened
blue brass bottle of bitterness
and gradually grows aware
of the arid aristocratic atmosphere.
Lustered with the luminous larks
who lurk within the numbing neon
nature of the iridescent nightlife.
But among these unfruitful flocks
feebly flutters the faint fanciful feathers of the frigid finch.
Who still sternly staggers his weakened way through the
world’s wishful
word woven woodlands of what if towards the eternally
terminal edge
of mortality.
In search of an answer
patiently perched upon the topic of
what light lingers within the relieving realms of truth.
Greyson Frankfurter Finch,
Was a lonely man,
Who had an obsession,
With doorbells.
One day,
He went to,
The doctors,
To find out whats wrong.
He got a letter,
One day,
He read it,
And knew something was wrong.
The doctor,
Had wrote,
You need,
Help.
Greyson walked,
Without his,
Purple suit,
Wandering.
Goes,
Wacko,
On someone,
He doesn't know.
Runs back home,
Leaves a note on,
His neighbors door,
And goes home.
Steps on,
A stool,
Jumps,
And commits suicide.