Best Finch Poems | Poetry
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New Finch Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Finch poems are below this new poems list.
The House Finch
by Friend, Jenna
by Alhemaidy, Abdullah
by Helmer, Dah
Tai Wan Rose Finch
by Alhemaidy, Abdullah
On a Golden Finch
by Zavlanov, Gleb
purple house finch
by Kendrick, Sara
by Richards, Carrie
The Gold Finch At Play
by Kendrick, Sara
Greyson Frankfurter Finch the Man in the Purple Suit
by Takacs, Becky
View all new Finch Poems
The Best Finch Poems
She thought it a statement of fashion.
“Your red cheeks, they glow with such passion!”
Her mistake, it was huge.
For I do not wear rouge.
I am colored by my own hot flashin’.
Dedicated to Elizabeth Finch and any other lady that is experiencing perpetual summer in this colorfully, warm stage of life. ?:-)
Copyright © Carol Connell | Year Posted 2017
"It is a sin to kill a Mockingbird.
When playing games with rocks or guns, defray,
them, please, ...shoot old tin cans!" "Whispered words
of Mockingbirds, only heal wounds of the day"
Virtues are cultivated, children are weeds,
exploring a small southern town. Seeds, so rare,
spread moral ivy, filling knotholes, threading trees,
lining streets, during mad-dog summers.
Scout, one sprout with solid roots, sifts wrong from right
in spite of bull-headed pride. Stirring
up dust, where resistance incites,
although, brother, Jem, gently, grows more reserved.
Scout, Jem, ...best bud, "Dill", are bronzed by summer's sky
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
Moral's compass guides them home, as night returns
yet challenged, the precocious child
making assumptions. Folks would confound her!
Some people were an oddity and quite beguiling
Summer would sigh with ceiling fans, softly purring,
people napping, long afternoons. Wilted yawns
of a lethargic town, might seem undisturbed,
with complacency, behind pruned shrubs, tall grass, mowed.
Yet stilted air, would suffocate, with racial slurs
and secret hate. Some hid by day, and spending
their nights in masquerade, while crosses burned.
We'd see a face, pretentious smile, falsely blend
Integrity, at bitter cost, split wide the seams
in 1930. Civil rights were just a dream
In 1930, civil rights were just a dream,
and motherless children were coming of age.
Bare feet were swift. Bandaged knees and hands unclean,
would slam old screen doors, to seek lemonade.
A ghost, they feared, in the raw sided house,
watched close. A tree in his yard, hid treasures he stashed.
The three Musketeers, upon discovering, shout!
Armed by bravado, they are ready to dash.
Putting yourself into another man's shoes,
is a lesson, soon learned by Scout and Jem.
They've faced their fear, and will make a friend. "Boo",
the 'phantom', a new best friend left trinkets and gems.
Kindness learned, role model intact, was Atticus Finch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch.
A measure of integrity, inch by inch,
advocate for those who won't stand a chance.
Folks down on their luck, where dollars won't stretch
in a depression full blown. Money is scant.
Fighting for the underdog, who have no paycheck.
What's right is right. What's wrong, is wrong.
Someone must stand at the end of the day,
where flies fill a courtroom and tempers grow stronger.
Regardless of skin, be it black, be it white
Unfit, by standards of talcum shaved chins,
if injustice is war, he'll give his lot.
The falsely accused, he'll defend, to the end
Those who wallow in mud, eventually sling lies
when honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle
When honor goes to hell, and folks sit idle,
false accusations can simmer, slowly inciting
bigoted people, into mobs, spewing cries
of hate. Screaming "rape" into the night.
Ignorance and prejudice, are all of one stuff
with corn-likker sauce and gravy mentality,
amphibian worms, as if from a trough,
gorging on mania. They covet brutality.
Led by Bob Ewell, with arrogance oozing.
Clan- fed, tantrums squirming out of control.
Small minded men, choosing squalor, alluding
the truth. Some would sell their mother's soul.
They have lied on the stand, where justice treaded thin.
Where white man's word, over a black, always wins.
Where a white man's word, over black, always wins,
was a rule of the thumb, during those years...
The innocent man, Tom, shackled, condemned,
taken away and waits to die, and endure
With Indian summer, waxing and waning,
Atticus chooses the simplest words.
His children need, wisdom, and calm understanding,
in trying to explain, that most men are good.
He tells them, gently, how someone so crude,
even Bob Ewell, no matter how evil
perhaps in his life, was misunderstood.
The hellish of summers begins to unravel.
But another ill wind, would brew up a storm,
to bring more than a flurry, into their home.
To bring more than a flurry into their home,
burnt embers of color, drift down, red and yellow.
Carved pumpkins, and a grieving autumn, looms
in the night. Roaches encroach, deep in the shadows
As Scout rushes homeward, behind her on the trail,
a whiskey-breath nightmare, with evil intentions
Then, someone appears! Halts this devil,...,Ewell
is not immortal! .....as we come to conclusion.
A guardian presence, waiting to rally
has kept a vigil, guarding children who run,
swiftly through thickets. Lonely Boo Radley,
appeared like an angel, a bird seeking the sun
So pure of heart, and a thing so rare
It is a sin to kill a mockingbird
Re-submitted for Skat's Premiere Contest: #4
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
For a time we all must go away,
like orphaned memories
whos' only wish is to remain...
like windchimes in a hurricane
we lose the scent
seeking to find what we think
we want and wish for-
For a time we must all go our way,
running swift to gleen the chain
to stroll from happy-saited-just to suckle pain:
lone lemming on the slippery edge,
for a time we all must go away-
Making trails like saturns rings
crossing minds with death's clear intent,
the opaque of pleasant things,
(brittle creatures in metal galaxies)
seeking whats inside our veins...
for awhile despite the truth of denial
like sandcastles in a driven rain
piece by piece or whole grain
we all must go away
we'll come back full(bloated) circle
after a thorough
panning of the vein
when the path back home
sings like a golden finch,
post-warm hearted rain...
for a time we all must go our way-
for tracie and linda
Copyright © Anthony Slausen | Year Posted 2012
My Amber dear, awake to me.
My madrigal has melody
in trills of the gold finch that you hear.
Awake to me, my Amber dear!
It’s dawn. Arise, my angel sweet.
Put golden slippers on your feet.
We’ll follow where our songbird flies.
My angel sweet. It’s dawn; arise!
We must make haste, my lovely lass,
to walk on glistening velvet grass.
A day like this we cannot waste.
My lovely lass, we must make haste!
A meadow waits, my cherished one.
Through sun-bright posies we shall run,
where dewy fragrance permeates.
My cherished one, a meadow waits!
I know a stream, my darling love,
a shining mountain sits above.
And water falls where gold fish gleam.
My darling love, I know a stream.
We’ll find a rock, oh, maiden fair,
where you can loose your yellow hair.
And please me more. . . unloose your frock!
Oh, maiden fair, we’ll find a rock.
My one true heart, do come away.
Beneath the falls this golden day,
pure pleasure will our love impart.
Do come away, my one true heart!
4/17/14 for the Colourful Verse Contest of Charlotte Puddifoot
(Just playing around with swap quatrain form,
imagining one of those guys from centuries ago trying
to woo his maiden!)
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2014
My sweetest cravings, fledglings in a nest,
were held up high; into the air released
by eager hands of mine. A world to test
was mine before youth’s wishing time had ceased.
The birds who have come back to visit me
are well-remembered dreams that have come true.
The pleasant yellow finch; the chickadee
and skylark gave me nothing I should rue.
The cardinal would warble in my ear.
I yearned for him, but he did not stay long.
The bluebird too I hoped to always hear.
She comes and goes. At times I hear her song.
But long forgotten wishes to grow older
are sparrows at my door as life grows colder.
For the Contest: Pen a Sonnet on It
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
In the southern parts of Africa
You can hear me singing my song
A member of the finch family
Maybe the smallest one
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of the sun
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant yellow soul
With an attractive mellow hue
I’m a border fancy singing
Whistling these songs to you
We are the songbirds of America
Hey’ the special roller tours
The beautiful American songsters
The ones you cannot ignore
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of the grass
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant green soul
With plenty of attitude
I have a wide range of songs
Let me sing you the blues
Were a colourful chorus of birds
Competing in the shows to sing
But not during the molting period
In the summer just after the spring
Were the birds of Canary Islands
But took refuge on Spanish sails
The most famous finch in history
Singing beautiful as nightingales
I’m a small passerine bird
Such a tiny, tiny, thing
Like the colour of a rose
Bright shining from my wings
I’m a vibrant redish soul
A brilliant little actor
Hear me bellow out
Have I got the Xfactor
We are popular cage birds
On both sides of the Atlantic
The hen she’s kind of cute
But the cock, now he’s romantic
© Copyright KC.Leake
27th November 2014
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © kevin leake | Year Posted 2014
The Sinai Rose finch, oblivious to the commotion in the nearby city, busily gathered dry grass and floral fodder to repair her nest, disturbed by a human behemoth, snatching the thorny brambles which hid the outer funnel of her secluded cul-de-sac. The needle sharp thorns administeres safety from prying predators, bent on their quest for the tiny eggs that will soon become her precious fledglings.
On a cloudless day, the sun transforms from an, almost white crystal, into tangerine as it graced the morningtide sky, the little Rose finch makes her way into the city to feed from the discarded grains and stale flat breads, tossed from the Roman garrison’s busy bake house. Curiosity caused the little bird to perch atop the stronghold as she spied her thorny brambles, crudely woven into a crown and forced factitiously upon a man’s bloodied and battered head.
An uneasy pall filled the bird as she returned to her nest, realising she hadn’t fed after viewing the strange spectacle within the city, a galling crept within her being, a foreboding of some unexplained and imminent upheaval of nature’s stable laws. Her heightened senses could feel the portentous currents transmitted through the aerosphere. She hid herself within the thicket, hiding and mourning catastrophes baleful premonitions. As the day wore on, feelings of hopelessness caused the restless bird, unable to contain herself within the doom, to take flight.
Avoiding the city, she soars across the landscape, her sharp eyes take in a multitude of rage, filled humanity, gathered on a hillside gleefully indulging in the misery of 3 crucified men suspended from rudely fashioned wooden beams, unceremoniously settled in the clay. Dolefully she settles on a sycamore, as she gazes at the man in the middle, still donning the thorny, mocking crown. Dark, dread filled clouds appear carrying with them a blackness, with the keys to unlock the gates of hades, setting free lucifer and his ghastly horde of evil renown, that have visited guile and festering plagues of filth upon the earth since the beginning of time. The finch, too frightened to move, nestles closer to the trees foliage as she witnesses evil raging at the man in the middle.
With the cacophony of evil spirits and hate fuelled men, even the sun must shun its burning furnace from the dire spectacle, driving the earth into blackened pitch, matching the evil darth swirling around the man on the cross. The earth itself, appalled at being the venue for such despicable exploits, groans and rumbles, splitting fissures, adding further chaos to the cataclysmic event unfolding. For three hours the flagrant torment hovered over the crucified soul. The little bird fell from her perch, unable to move until she heard the final climatic cry from the man as he gave into his mortality. As the sun re-appeared she took flight to her nest in unnerving spirit and awaiting the days end.
Unbeknownst to the Sinai Rose finch on the Sunday morn her Easter eggs will hatch and her chicks will emerge to breathe life giving air as they are transported from the darkness of the shell in to the light of life. On her daily jaunt to the city will she spy the newly adorned man in his risen form? Will understanding be benighted unto such a small, seemingly insignificant creature? As man himself must ask the question which plagued Pontius Pilate, “What would I do with this man, called the Messiah.”
Copyright © old man emu | Year Posted 2017
Fueled by atmospheric ecstasy
Into ethereal regions' mystery,
Tilting wings cavalierly,
Bridging Heaven and Earth,
Falcon, sky-hawk, hoopoe, finch
Starling, sparrow, blue-jay, Grinch;
What matter the appellation?
The feeling's the same---
Incessant ceaseless sensation
Jealous we gaze, stricken with admiration
At creatures without borders, without nations:
Would that we could bask in their bounty
Would that we could sip from their stations.
Copyright © Gershon Wolf | Year Posted 2018
Far away at the break of day, the Peacock spreads his beautiful feathers.
While the Purple House Finch
Feeds its young from my feeder
To him life is a cinch
Until the cat comes as a reader
Of those birds, which he is a seeker
The Mocking Bird sings
Because hidden with nest_eggs
Escapes fast cat's swings
For nest rest in rose trellis
Clever this fellow and mean
Purple Barn Swallow rises high
Above this stress greater than the rest
Sponsor:Constance La France
Written by: Sara Kendrick
Date: April 29, 2011
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2011
SIGNS OF SPRING
The lawn is riddled with robins
A bevy of bluebirds too
Finches on the finch socks
And sparrows, more than a few
Three pairs of cardinals feeding
I count a dozen doves
A sextet of crows all cawing
Chickadees circling above
Buttercups blooming in profusion
Along the roadside, beautifully arrayed
In my lawn I see the furrows
The digging moles have made
There's a pretty bluebird couple
Building a nest in the bluebird box
And the flash I saw in the bushes
Was two kits and a mother fox
Yes, wherever I look it's Spring time
My favorite time of the year
Trees are blooming in all colors
I'm glad Spring time is here
10 March 2013
Copyright © Curtis Moorman | Year Posted 2013
The ABC’s of Morning
Awake on the dot of seven
Birds are chirping away
Coffee… as always, first order of the day,
Doggy kisses from Kea
Enjoying the peace and quiet
Fumble for my glasses to see
Garden shadows in early light
Harmony of leaves in the garden
Intricate patterns at play
Just as sunlight begins, a
Kinship of finch burst away.
Lavender dreams are fading
Mindful of duties to do
Overcoming an urge to be lazy, I
Pirouette to the bathroom to dress
Quietly, I exit the bedroom, a
Resting hubby not to disturb
Sit in the lounge with my ipad
Thankful for all of life’s gifts
Up to date with events, I
Venture to start my routine
Walking, now for health reasons, try to
Xerox this action each day
Yesterday, though, I missed it
Zealot, I’m not, you might say!
Copyright © Suzanne Delaney | Year Posted 2015
The feeders were empty, dejected, forlorn.
The lady who filled them had suddenly gone.
Her time here now ended, she wakened no more:
Gone from her gardens, departed her door.
This little much mattered to birds on the wing,
With winter now over, well into the spring.
All busy with nesting, caught up in new life.
No hunger in summer, no cold, bitter strife.
New homes to be built: sturdy and staid.
Songs to be sung and eggs to be laid.
Sheltered and nurtured; the young ones appear.
A sure rite of passage in the spring of each year.
Fledglings near grown will be taught how to fly
And soar past the tree tops up into the sky.
They will learn of the hawk and its hunger for flesh:
Of wicked, sly felines that hide in the brush.
Then late summer grows weary and tired of play.
It goes to bed earlier and earlier each day.
The fall time all golden and valued the more;
Birds sense coming peril past winter’s cold door.
Those who remain for new season’s sharp sting,
Grow restless, uneasy, not choosing to sing.
Old feeders hang empty, no seed to be found . .
Below only barren, forbidding, cold ground.
Blue jays and the doves, all the species of finch,
Chickadees, titmice, now feel winter's pinch.
Woodpeckers, nuthatches, cardinals and crows,
Will all group together to face winter woes.
Then a morning arrives with white flakes in the air.
Frigid and stark; the day reeks of despair.
First jay to arrive at the earliest light,
Gives out a sharp cry to all others in flight.
There's someone out tending the feeders below,
Tamping the snow where the cracked corn will go.
And filling the hollow in that old rotten stump:
Sunflower, suet, dried fruit and some nuts.
Bleak landscape has kidnapped the scene down below,
But all’s right in the hemlock, as well as the snow.
New feeders abound, where old feeders once hung
And with someone to fill them, let the new winter come.
Copyright © Diane Lefebvre | Year Posted 2015
I needn't don a tuxedo nor pay a dime to enjoy a pleasing symphony!
In my own back yard or lying abed at night I hear nature's harmony!
The rolling bass of thunder, the strobe-bright lightning on a stormy night,
Plus the rain pelting my windowpane, anoint me with pure delight!
A chorus of crickets in the holly bush lull me to sleep in Morpheus's arms.
I'm awakened at dawn by choirs of robins, not by strident clock alarms!
The vagabond winds soughing through the ponderosa pine join the recital.
Cicadas add a blend of percussion with castanet-like rhythm so very vital!
A quartet of mourning doves serenade me with their soothing coos,
(Interrupted by a pair of raucous blue jays injecting their atonal views!)
I hear the water's hymn as it trickles o'er ancient stones in a nearby rill,
And the delightful choral melodies of golden finch as they sweetly trill!
From afar I hear the clarion trumpet call of elk echoing in the hills!
The merging of these harmonic voices is one of life's gratifying thrills!
How I relish the exquisite orchestration of His creatures in glorious recital.
Oh, that I had the poetical acuity to give this symphony a deserving title!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Robert L. Hinshaw | Year Posted 2011
Along aisle of twigs, moist brown leaves and stones,
Clustered bellflowers guard as I ramble
Whispered chord echoes from choir of bushes groans,
The rustles, a beckoning preamble
Shady sky-high trees of wrinkled clothed moss
Healthily exhaling thy cool fresh air.
Tongue satiates divine wood spring, I doss.
Finch trembles chanting rosary keys pray'rs.
Built organs from pines tunes mellow reeds
Gentle soothing blows invites butterflies
There flights harmonious lambada speed
Squirrels one fugue pitch share a lullaby
Golden rays peeps through gnarled branches of trees,
Casting apes acrobatic seesaw dance.
Glorious forest homes choral life thee
Who will dare and miss such enthralling chance?
(c) Olive ELoisa
June 23, 2014
placed 4th.. :) to God be the glory.. :)
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2014
Back on the river, forward into the howl of the unknown,
for three days Sergeant Floyd has been crippled by excruciating pain in his abdomen,
as the only man here trained in internal medical matters it is incumbent on me to treat him,
Doctor Rush's "Thunderbolt" pills are failing to alleviate the malady
and the ground Peruvian bark hardly sedates Flyod, his agony is bleeding into the eyes,
for 48 hours the rains have been rampant making the river sizzle in cool agitation
the mosquitos are swarming like whispers in a brothel
they are the devil's needles, we resort to spreading lard on ourselves as a repellent,
ironically, despite the downpours the wind is high at our backs
so the sails are up and we are moving swift as a curse off a witch's lips,
Sergeant Pryor woke on the boat this morning with news of death
his voice didn't wait for breath, the steps of his boots broke open my irritation
after informing me that Charles had recently died,
I believe he expired from a ruptured appendix which we had no remedy for,
he had the soul of a lion, Godspeed to him,
while I slept my spittle smeared the ink in my journal
forming a pictorial omen of a tombstone on the page,
the only question is whom be it for,
Clark has identified a suitable burial place for Flyod on a large hill,
no one speaks, its just the slurp of the paddled water
and a handful of gold finch birds that seem determined to skip on the wind
reminding us that there is always a place for a soul to go,
coming up on the riverbend we are accosted by an armada of geese
so plenty that the trees wish they had that number in leaves,
my Lord, the ruckus these creatures are generating in honking indignance
as they lift into flight is nerve pinching,
its like an army of imbecilic people shouting in panic all at once
yet these geese are noble in their beauty and militant natures
and I see this moment as a sign that no Indians will interdict our passage,
Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2015
The Flames of New Emotions
I am Grand Master Dragon
This new wave feels different from the others.
It is quite an odd feeling.
Being calm as always, I wonder why do I feel this way?
The ghosts of the past are memories.
So many betrayed the one who was right for them.
Not to be a braggart but the one was too good for them.
The One is a kind and mindful soul of knowledge and nature.
In truth they are double nature (astrology/zodiac).
This is the short current story of Grand Master Dragon of the new Jesuits and Assisi.
II. Connections of the Past
It is not incorrect to state that they were always of a strong mind even from an early age.
From time to time they were always known to be a thinker.
Currently they are a scholar of the damned.
A single dragon searching for the phoenix to fill his heart.
One potential mate was a finch. Loud and obnoxious like her sister the dog.
The second one was a mere black hawk, a misleader with no honor. The last one had the mind of a turkey and still has one.
One was never asked, they are a robin that Allah has protected (a good friend they are). Truthfully they never wanted to ask them.
III. Wind from the Mountains
She is tall, young and lovely, as she walks in the classroom.
The class is full of different people
But she is the only one he notices
Her personality is sweet (also SWEET!)
Right on the mountain trip, they hang out.
During the walk they had more in common then they knew about one another
A long hike and nearly lost they are found by a dog who leads them out
Breakfast with one another the following morning
She is a good person
When he gives her a hug it makes him feel peaceful
Only time will tell
This is the experience of Grand Master Dragon
IV. The Flame
The flame has been lit.
It is one thing or the other.
Who knows but time.
He wants to know her better, but does not want to scare her away.
Out of all the ones he has ever met she is the best.
The wings are made of steel.
Copyright © Aaron Vialpando | Year Posted 2015
Dreaming with the sleeping pines
On a lazy afternoon
The sprightly finch chirps mating calls
How lovingly he croons
As yawning flowers open wide
Their multicolored blooms
Sweet aromas hovering
Cause butterflies to swoon
While feeble breezes undulate
The hammock to and fro
Brown dead leaves set sail again
Wild blue yonder blow
A woodpecker is tapping at
The next door neighbors willow
I'm sleep smiling and envisioning
That shady fishing hole
Awakened by a cold wet nose
Some friendly tongue and cheek
Sweet serenade of springtime
Sings me back to sleep
But old cold nose is restless now
And at a playful peak
I tell him on these lazy days
"Just let me fish in peace"
Copyright © Daniel Turner | Year Posted 2016
With bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way
we'd pass by old man Finch where when he'd sit and watch the world
one of us would wave. Most times he'd look,
he'd say— Ever tell you boys about the game?
He stole our breath away, sure, a hundred times.
We were fielders for him, basemen, catchers and every ball
split seconds from extra innings in mid-flight-
from-outfield-to-second-base-and-home-plate night games.
Peanuts, beer, hotdog vendors shouting—
with every other voice, shouting!
Out! You buncha losers! C'mon cmon cmon! Safe!
Allow the call or fault it, either way.
We were ball card heroes, just the same,
with bat and ball and gloves in hand and on our way.
Copyright © Kevin Taylor | Year Posted 2016
There was once a hot cutie named Finch
Who was quite a flirtatious young minx
On St Pat's she shunned green
And dressed quite libertine
With ambitions of getting a pinch
March 17, 2016
Copyright © Roy Jerden | Year Posted 2016
Gold Finch quietly
Grasp Rubeckia's stem feeds...
Flies on silent wings
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010
purple house finch perched
'pon loose weeping willow limb...
swinging in spring breeze
Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2013
Oh, tragic feather what is thy tragedy
No longer freedom gay or certian loft
How is this thy new translation
From a majesty, unto a wing thou hath mighty dropped
Were thou thus, shunned, cast away
Or merely, cut out or off
As limb from downward spiral angel
Perhaps, a troubled finch or insanity in wayward hawk
Lie, if thou must, be it amidst a deafening silence, lonesome soft
But, I plead, please tell me fallen feather, what hath befallen thee
Thy tuft to ne’er evermore touch again
What life should be, warmth of the summer's breeze
Sleep, sleep now 'neath the alley's gutter greys
Catching Weeping Willows damning drops
Adrift as the drowning lily dying
In seas of the myriad scattered rots
An accomplice I shall say, within a winter's willing white
And alas, buried ordinary in this doth the corpse delight
Far beneath the crowds held at bay and forever lost
Now thou hath become the naked grove of wicker and then...
the more of naked souless crops
Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2013
THE STRANGER MAN (3)
But let life live its life and I mine.
I ease myself of all worries
And drift where I may such as liberal
As a wind and unheeding to the obstruction
Where of the fate of the wind lies.
With same velocity on toward the hurdle
And whether it shall scale through or not
It is of no concern to the wind.
In this wise, once I burdened the future.
Of what will be is the mundane-minded query
Always to guard against the future
Is as to the cloud preventing away from sight.
Thus I scrimp and stake all that I earn
As savings for futurity yet behind the cloud
Haba…again and again lost it all in a duel
With forces of circumstance ascribe not to!
Love is an elusive finch that flutters
And made me become both foolish and wise.
The elixirs of love are the very banes,
Anxiety, longing, heartbreak…name me!
So lovesick for love I lost compos mentis.
It is all a delusion I bargain with my heart
I pursue her no more, let her seek for me
If she loves and I shall test her genuineness
With life-span patience while I wander still
Till I return we shall unite yonder the horizon.
The mind alone the power of love can feel
And her essence can tell in absence of her.
Let it be so, I shall not be enamored
While she crave for my presence
My wistful heart is not for her I see
I do without her and keep the beat on
I sold her my heart even in absence
And now she is gone to have a soma.
Farewell dear to blow air to the wind.
Why tug scudding cloud and cling a shadow?
I will let go of all I love and heave the burden
Not on my shoulder but the ease of my heart.
From the piles of corporeal stocks abscond,
I tire of them because they content me not
From years searching for gold and myadestes afield…
But from within the recess of my heart I find
An amber gilded gem concealed in the depth.
I never was good mixer having to know first myself
For men someday shall walk the solitary path
While also to sing the soloist song;
Friends are strangers for they shall depart
And strangers are friends for they shall arrive.
Copyright © ITSOGHOLE O SOLOMON | Year Posted 2014
("To Kill A Mockingbird")
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2009
I awaken to the lovely snorts of my sweet English bulldog,
Frankie sits up in my bed, legs out, looks sort of like a frog.
Toddling down the stairs assessing the light from the window,
We know whether the trip outside will be short or rather slow.
Terrified of thunderstorms, she’ll do her job with no delay,
But she’ll wander and sniff, taking her time on a sunny day.
While Frankie smells the grass and deposits her little gift,
I make a tea and look out over the river, it gives me a lift.
Blue Herron feeding and carp jump, the temperatures scorch,
Cardinals, Bluejays and yellow Finch fill the trees by the porch.
You breath in the fresh air and appreciate the nature present,
Peaceful and filled with hope, its a typical morning, no big event.
I refill the bird feeders to keep my feathered friends coming back,
Then Frankie and I go inside, mornings we’ve perfected the knack.
Written August 9, 2012
By Lee Ramage
For Francine Robert’s contest
“A couplet- morning”
Copyright © Lee Ramage | Year Posted 2012