Best Peck At Poems
After my father died, I moved to his old house
Donated many large items to charities
As each item was removed, tears streamed down my blouse
But some were not wanted; what would become of these?
Set up a table in the yard; sign said, “Free Stuff”
The old Underwood typewriter wasn’t set out
Parting with memories it evoked was just too rough
It symbolized Dad’s life, without any doubt
The late night hours a CPA spent at his desk
With my cat curled up next to him, evoking grins
As Dad typed away, little Prince looked statuesque
I learned to type on what is now a “has been”
This manual contraption replaced by high tech
Represented a man who worked to provide
Freely offering love, but stretching each pay check
To give us a better life, Dad’s efforts applied
The hours work took away from his family
I used to resent, but I understand more now
A sacrifice he made for my siblings and me
The thought of parting with it I couldn’t allow
The typewriter remains on Dad’s desk in the den
As a reminder of how hard he worked to please
Sometimes I still peck at the letters now and then
When I’m missing Dad most, somehow it brings me peace
Beautiful lights that glare before me,
Magic delights you allow me to be.
Mystical Rain in the sky up above,
Mystical Rain throwing stardust of love.
A surreal sight as I stand and adore,
Leading the way - so that men reach the shore.
Mystical Rain in the air all around,
Mystical Rain making love without sound.
Marvelous specks of desire in my view,
Lightly you peck at my face as the dew.
Mystical Rain; blue metallic and green.
Mystical Rain; play your tune quite serene.
A show so alive as you dart through the sky,
Helping planes through the mist, where pilots do fly.
Mystical Rain; shine your light in my path.
Mystical Rain warm my heart; causing me to laugh.
Editing by Lindsay Laurie
The morning greets me with birds at my window
They peck at the glass,
they chirp and harass,
"The sun is up, the grass smells clean!
The flowers so pretty they must be seen!"
I pull the covers back up to my chin,
the cold cotton pillow feels good on my skin.
But the longer I lie here the more I realize,
the coffee is calling; I really must rise.
With eyes barely open, I saunter about.
The kitty is purring and happy as trout.
My shepherds come running, their tails wagging fast.
They want to go outside, and go running past.
I open the door and nearly knocked over,
They run off the deck and into the clover.
I walk to the table,
all dressed with pink roses,
waiting for barking, and kissed by wet noses.
I smell the aroma of Colombian beans,
my percolator singing, while I get on my jeans.
I'm feeling quite artful,
the day has begun.
The birds are still chirping,
the yard in full sun.
The coffee tastes great, and as I sit here,
the birds at my window, the cat in the chair,
there's one place that's calling, with north light galore,
just past the den, where Big Bear will snore.
My studio corner, my wonderful place,
where dreams are realized, and canvas to face.
The day has begun
It's a spring morning
-Mary Susan Vaughn
Mammals shed their hair;
Birds prune and feather their nests;
Snakes crawl out of skins.
Lions stalk their prey.
While birds peck at blades of grass,
Black widows weave webs.
Worker bees work hard;
They make honey from nectar.
Drones eat, mate and die.
Azaleas blooming—
Black widows weaving their webs;
Good-bye silk flowers.
Hungry hate hunting—
Love’s lone lamb looks luscious;
Faith favors freedom.
organisms spawn
sea heated by July sun...
red tide comes ashore
dead fish waste on sand
gulls peck at infected food...
illness spreads to all
*For Brian's "A Jewel in your Crown" contest
They come to greet me each day. They let me know everything is all right. They flutter and peck at my window. They tell me I am loved. They let me know they care. Funny, how I never noticed before. Funny still, I notice now. The birds are signs from God. And, that is a good thing. They are HIS love for me and me for HIM.
I am sitting on the stairs.
The people upstairs make me feel nervous,
They always stink of beer and spit,
When they speak down at me.
I am a duck surrounded by vicious seagulls,
They peck at the feathers,
On my back/my wings.
I am sitting on the stairs.
The people downstairs make me feel scared.
They are always shouting,
Not always at me, at each other.
I am stood in NO mans’ land
With the insults and cutlery flying,
Past my head like bullets.
I am sitting on the stairs.
This is my place.
I know I am unwanted.
I am happier alone.
Here I can think, read,
I even play cards with myself.
My only friend is me,
I am safe here, on the stairs.
I’d like to discuss the manners of crow,
That dine on the roads where cars come and go.
They peck at road kill without forks or knives,
But ‘caw, caw’ to their friends, saving their lives.
They don’t use napkins, to wipe off their beaks,
Yet they always appear dapper, and sleek.
Do they get embarrassed eating that yuck?
If so, or no, I can improve their luck.
Next time I pass by I won’t hesitate
To place their fresh meat on a dinner plate.
Or wouldn’t they think I’m the grand pooh-bah
By offering them a side of coleslaw?
Lastly, I’ll grill up their newly struck treat,
And locate the whole shebang off the street.
It’s not like I’m going out of my way,
Since I drive by their feast ten times a day.
Also, I think that they’re awfully kind
Staying with us for the long winter grind.
Or is it a guise, since their next supper
Could be us frozen in the road’s gutter?
So that’s why they wear such a nice black coat;
They’re dressed to stuff us dead stiffs down their throat.
I must admit, I thought initially,
That they might have needed our sympathy.
But crow manners, hmm, can there be a thing?
Well, like I first said, it had a nice ring.
Though I may be wrong, it’s happened before,
Like when I thought storks ran the baby floor!
Mammals shed their hair;
birds prune and feather thier nests;
snakes crawl out of skins.
Lions stalk their prey
as birds peck at blades of grass,
black widows weave webs.
White roses are cute;
black widows are hideous:
lovely is white silk.
Flowers feed the bees
and nectar turns to honey;
worker bees soon die.
Shining is the star light
filtered by the scent
of lilac
upon the wings
of the bird that never
ceased to peck at
the cage bars
for that special day
when it will perch,
free,
upon the lilacs
under the starlight.
Scarecrow
You'll find me
in paddy fields and gardens;
even on front porches.
I'm a decoy, as lonely as can be.
I look frozen in time,
mimicking Jesus
crucified on the cross,
but I swear I mean no disrespect,
you religious zealots!
Blame farmers and gardeners!
They make me look this way!
They live to humiliate me;
dressing me up like a ragamuffin,
stuffing straw inside my coveralls,
placing a dumb-looking hat
atop my head; you name it!
Yes, I know I look ridiculous.
I wish I'd put
my perennially outstretched arms down.
Don't be scared of me, kids,
I speak no evil
I don't speak at all,
and I do not harm anything
that breathes air
Yet you humans choose to avoid me
like the plague
but come Halloween,
you all love me for just a day!
Go figure.
Yeah, I see some of you
staring at me, chuckling;
whispering amongst yourselves
about me having no brain
in the "Wizard of Oz" movie.
In my defense,
It was a misrepresentation!
I don't speak, but I'm not that dumb!
I know how to do my thankless job
and do it well.
I scare off all the birds
that peck at newly cast
seeds of growing crops, don't I?
Not so brainless now, am I?
Date written: 05/15/2020
we were all born into sin but as time progressed
I became guilty of so many sins of the flesh
I guess the pain I possed needed an outlet
but would only get expressed when I became upset
raw pain and emotion led to savage rage
I behaved so far from the way I was raised
became accustomed to street life so most days
was in a drunk stupor or occasional weed haze
stickups,re-ups summer games that we played
street beefs,club fights sometimes the guns blazed
never thought I'd loose my little cousin in that way
should have read the signs , I could feel them that day
can't run from the pain so I had to face it
knew I needed a change but I wouldn't embrace it
All praises to God I rebuke you Satan
I'm ready to stand in front of the world a changed man
but old habits are hard to break
sometimes the ghost in your past are hard to shake
they'll peck at your flesh until it starts to ache
if you can relate then you know the toll it takes
My quaint little cottage
rests by a cool serene aqua
with rights reserved only
for my prettiest rosy bloom.
Her two little feet walk down-
wobbling like a penguin-
on the rain brushed green turf
to halt by the edge
of the soft rippling water.
She gurgles aloud
clapping her little hands
with bells on her wrists
for us to follow her trail.
Her echo I guess
is heard by the distant
mother duck busy flapping
for her ducklings to follow.
They stately glide
in a small neat file
under the chaste clouds
to meet their prattling mate.
The weeny webbed feet wobble
to my yakkity cherub
rompering around them
in her powder pink polkas.
Undisturbed comfort
runs in my veins as in unison
they peck at the grain
and bread I brought for each.
My heart melts to see the tranquility
between the twinned bird and babe
as they nibble in the summery spring
while I sit beside the balmy Jackson Lake.
April 5, 2016
The traffic was strident, lanes straight
the cars lined the street and froze rigid.
The cop with a glare of pure hate, directed
a line of gate crashers cutting.
The sidewalks segmented in rows, false
lure more tourists into a queue.
Cowed were young folk and old folks all queued
a ménage which was quite far from straight,
all had come for a peck at the Bard, false.
even a librarian or too, who waited with spines rigid,
and scowls on their lined brows like cuts
their critiques would be most direct.
Teens kiss in a clutch most directly
their faces make braces of queues
Scalpers hawk to the latecomers cutoff,
the elite meet and greet heading straight
for the red road with a rigid
line of bull filled with falsities.
Inside the antiquated theatre under false
the foot lights lining the aisles direct
Mayor and matron, gran and child in rigid
alleys to velvet seats also queued.
The stare of critic and patron glared straight
64 toward the author so pinned and cutting.
A bright white light cut
the chill air so false
and focused on drape lined straight
each fell open as artist directed
and orchestra swells filled their queue
and the author he sat stark and rigid.
His fate would he find in lines rigid
on the page of tomorrows review, they’d cut
make or they’d break his heart’s queue
these piranhas with smiles so false.
No fate could be more direct
this tonic he must imbibe straight.
So like dominoes, they fall lines rigidly, piercing cuts
Filleted be he by queues false,
in the end words directly aimed, straight to death cue.
THE DUCK RUMBLE
Like a Bronx street cop I saw it coming : I could bet……
One gang protecting its turf against another’s threat.
The mallards were well past the river-bend just cruising,
Muscling in on eider-land - just asking for a bruising.
Two small eiders, silent smooth, swam without effort around
To the five big green-head mallards coming to face them down :
The eiders called for black-and-white back-up, six en masse
Thinking, yeah. . . . let’s kick some serious mallard ass.
Green-heads picked up speed, leaving a racy wake
Thinking, these migrants gotta learn who owns this lake.
The lead mallard picked his target, readied his beak
Who’s your daddy, he silently thought with no need to speak.
One peck at those eider wings and the rumble would be over.
It was. . . . . . . .the mallards quickly flapped their way back to cover.
Ducks don’t feel the need to kill each other;
Just a flap and a peck and no more bother.
It’s all settled with beak, and signed with plume, agreed.
Their lake had lots of room - no shouts, no violence - no need.
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Entered in Ryan Jackson's Contest "Animals on your mind..."