Best Pecking Order Poems
Every family has them
These unsettling times these misunderstandings
Times when many things come into play
In most cases these wee spats are soon over and forgotten
But sometimes differences run deeper
Because of other factors
Such as jealousy, middle child syndrome personality
It's only human nature at play
The necessity for all to find our place
In the overall scheme of life
To establish one's self in the pecking order
And accepting it without malice, without jealousy
A hard lesson to learn when we're brand new at he game
Always suspecting that siblings
Are the ones receiving preferential treatment
In reality, they are reacting in exactly the same matter
Trying their best to learn the ropes
To understand what life means what life is all about
But we never do have all the answers
Even if we survive those uncertain early years
And live to the ripe old age of thirty
Well that is what old age is when you're a teenager
Please be assured, you WILL get through
And be a well adjusted adult
Non-Toxic Love
Pecking order glances
Destroys friendship chances
Dissolves love, annuls romances.
Surviving smart as a fox…
Smooths that road of hard knocks…
So step out of the box.
Live above mental kicks.
Care, without verbal pricks,
Strengthen homes made of sticks.
Avoid hot gossiping lips
Prevent ill judger's grips.
Watch the evil one do flips.
Find peace with the white dove.
Be sheltered by God above.
Receive His gift… non-toxic love.
© Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen
January 22, 2010
Poetic form: Rhyme
Hens and Roosters in the barnyard
living in symbiotic relationships
each searching for kernels of corn.
Taking turns with beaks they snip
scorned and pecked. What the heck?
How hard should it be to get along
even when some foul fowl are wrong?
Cockadoodle don't squawk at me...
Why can't you see
peace in the barnyard is a reverie.
Squawk squawk...scratch scratch
Roosters and hens don't get along
Farmer, unlock the gate latch
to free those who don't belong.
Don't scratch, peck and complain
when you don't garner fame.
There should be no pecking order
Don't point the finger of blame
when you don't know the root
from which the clawing came
or you'll feel the farmer's boot.
Don't be misled by words of ruse
from roosters or hens on the loose.
They're out to suck up the worm
in the early morning sun...
their charade has just begun.
Squawk squawk...scratch scratch
Roosters and hens don't get along
Farmer, unlock the gate latch
to free those who don't belong.
Don't tell me this is a fabrication...
of a chicken barnyard story.
This is merely an observation
of things that are not hunky-dory
Beware the fox, lurking near
feathers ruffled in the barnyard
Cockadoodle don't live in fear
of a fox, a wolf, a fraud.
Keep safe the eggs in your nest
Don't leave your children unguarded
Outwitting the fox is a test
One for which you'll be rewarded.
They squawked and squawked
scratched and scratched
Roosters and hens in the barnyard.
"Cockadoodle Don't Will Open the Gate,"
is the title to a new hen house song.
birds of a quill, or a feather
flock together at odd times
from all four corners
of thinking creative
to jostle with keyboards,
pens and sharp pencils
fingers fidget, tap-tapping
frantic scribbling down
in notebook's lined pages
screens and keyboards
prepare for posting
all that flutters in skulls
staring blank-eyed into spaces
behind temples hot throbbing
turns tensile to tactile
steely minds become strings
unhinged yet synaptic
as typists happily fly
out of the window
out doing much undoing
with words, concrete stacks
of thoughts buried in letters
homing in on ideas is noted
by fraught-filled grey matters
e-motions will ruffle, jostle, shuffle
trying to find their feet
on narrow high perches
no one cooped up again
in confounded wired places
safety in numbers protects
from eagle-eyed predation
teeming teams have no trepidation
preening each other
pecking order in order
while who's who is related
faithful fair friends love being updated
lovebirds are word-cooing
with beak-kissing nibbles
some of us like darkness
it brings poets together
winter hibernation in torpor
taking wing in springing up ether
fancy that take off?
it's what we are made of....
all that really matters
when feathers start flying
is the daylight between them
caused not by division
but the tight act of trying
to avoid mid-air collision!
13/10/2018
Poets need poets....enough "space" for all of us!
Presumptuous to think
that all should be subject
to man’s will – We highest
on the Pecking Order! Till
nature shouts her feminine trill,
has her monarch fill, clawing
back, with undressing wind,
voluminous waves, and
impaling chill --
For no man can command
the summer’s end,
nor the fall’s exact rate of exchange
though we give such cycles a day
Mother will have her own whimsical
way, reminding us, that she is forever
wild and free...seeming a season abrupt
or a never-ending frosting eternity….
In the shadows, harpies linger as agents provocateur,
for the Fallen Watchers, for pecking order.
Prostitute mercenaries,
addicted to mercury and disorder.
Their claws sharp, their cries a shiver,
their motive insanity from hell's hateful quiver.
They pluck you from the light of day,
leave you in the flames to barter the fray,
to drown in the sea of faith no more.
Till nightfall,
where they tend the fires of a black wind,
poking signal lures,
preying for entropic thunder,
and romantic moon,
lyres to ascend your spirit
for the purpose of dropping you again
in despairs pit and swoon.
Denoting your abandonment and seclusion,
shoeing the fit,
wild horses couldn't drag them away.
Hoping to find you behind chaos's fire-line,
enemy mine,
a broken rhyme-
not asKing for a new day;
a soul adrift, in a sea of doubt,
no compass, no sails, no wind,
no faith, "tag you're it, hide your eyes and don't count."
on being saved from the fade to black
from grey lack of faith.
I think this Footman likes to snicker,
and the human situation is the kicker,
when one becomes sicker and sicker,
and it’s one’s time to die and cry for one’s soul.
Prufrock’s point is well-taken and understood
for the Footman is an end of life reality who is
the “King of Finality” and doesn’t care while seeking
mankind’s banal end, since Man is really small potatoes
in the Universe’s great and grand pecking order.
I think that I shall not want to meet this Bamboozler,
at least this would be my choice, if I really had one.
I doubt that I, like others, could ever be like Lazarus.
The Footman presents us all with a one-way ticket to
what awaits mankind beyond the pale of death!
And so we all await the end of our finite time as
measured in grains of sand and the clock on the wall;
waiting for the day and time of our final departure,
and hoping not to hear the scornful snicker, snicker
of the Prufrock’s Eternal Footman!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
(July 17, 2014)
Every family has them
These unsettling times, these misunderstandings
Times when many things come into play
In most cases these wee spats are soon over and forgotten
But sometimes differences run deeper
Because of other factors
Such as jealousy, middle child syndrome, personality
It's only human nature at play
The necessity for all to find our place
In the overall scheme of life
To establish one's self in the pecking order
And accepting it without malice, without jealousy
A hard lesson to learn when we're brand new at he game
Always suspecting that siblings
Are the ones receiving preferential treatment
In reality, they are reacting in exactly the same matter
Trying their best to learn the ropes
To understand what life means, what life is all about
But we never do have all the answers
Even if we survive those uncertain early years
And live to the ripe old age of thirty...
Well that is what old age is when you're a teenager
Please be assured, you WILL get through
And be a well adjusted adult
© Jack Ellison 2014
Crow magpie and dove
Blackbird thrush robin and wren
The pecking order .....
==============================================================
Lunch ~time at our bird~table ; NOT as we wish , but the reality of how it IS !!..
Wolf Works
Not your run of the mill wolf, my fur is shiny silver
My left legs are stronger than the other two
Every day it is a struggle to prove my place
In the wolf pack pecking order
I am the center level in the group
Fever in my mind, in my blood, I strive
Salivate to compete, positioning to be number one
The lower and upper members of my pack
Attack my good legs to keep me down
On the hunt I jump just like a crab, sideways, then pounce
I know, crabs don’t jump but you get the picture
Licking my chops, tongue hanging like a liver, panting
Ice cold breath arresting the bloodied moment
As my teeth sink in the captured prey
Left legs did me well as I devour the premium parts
My partners stare at me and pace
I guess they are saying grace
If they take one step closer
I will put them in their place
Who will buy my lovely oranges
I am a whore in the bed of Charles II
Nell Gwynn is my name from Hereford I come
Beauty I have money have none.
Acting is my forte yet I must wait my turn
The stage is a busy place, I first must earn
The right to be classed as a star
Not just a bed warmer Charles II whore
I cross dress at times to see how it's done,
this art of beguiling both sexes, thought as a skill
Yet a diva I will become after birthing a son
Another one for Charles to show off at will
Three babies I gave him yet all the time
My stage work continued, couldn't stop,
Illness I can't have, would end my fame
Losing my pecking order topple from the top
Many women share his bed, marries just one
Would rather be footloose care for my son
Than be a wife of a philandering man.
To know I can up and go whenever I want.
Will you buy my lovely oranges, says Nell in loud voice
Revealing her bosoms,you don't have a choice
But stare and think many thoughts of a man
being teased by more than the oranges held in my hand.
penned 24/06/2014
True person
Gallus gallus domesticus, friend in times good and bad
An animal which didn’t evolve well
From dinosaur to clucking egg producer, isn’t that sad?
Trapped inside its wire-based cell
A hen brood fight; pecking order again
Feathers flutter like a torn pillow
Much like life for many women and men
We cannot fly, but ideas can billow
When the world ends, I’ll live in a coop
Nothing can get in, except for the hungry fox
It will be quite small, I might have to stoop
I’ll be safer in there, except from chicken pox
My simple pleasure hails from 'sixty eight
a time before what's known as 'Nanny state'.
My father gave me some, but with caution
since children should not have a whole portion.
The family would fight to gain control
each week over the contents of the bowl
there was a pecking order to be had,
the bottom layer going to my Dad.
Jealous when my oldest bro left home,
since he could have a whole bowl of his own.
Although the odds were better now, to me
since then it would be shared between just three.
Jump forwards forty-eight years, now just me
bowl to myself although I now can see
though Doctor's frown on it , and it's my fault,
I do love beef dripping, on toast, with salt.
For contest 'Simple pleasures', Kim Merryman
19th Jan 2016
On entering the afterlife, to be met by my father.
(Hopefully a long way off)
> Hello Dad, it has been many a year
You're looking well, since I looked at you last
Good job, you won't believe how much I'm scarred,
can't say the past few years have not been hard.
The burdens that I was prepared to take,
the sacrifices I have had to make.
I shan't deny you had it really rough,
but from my point of view it was quite tough,
child number three within your clutch of four
way down the pecking order, that's for sure.
Your last son was priority number one............
Such love you speak of never manifest
I felt alone, adrift, unlike the rest.
A fishing trip together, when I was small
the only day we had I can recall.
< I worked, but it took my good health at length
an industry that sapped my breath and strength
by fifty, there was no more I could do
the body of a man aged ninety-two.
If like some of your friends, you'd had it all
been mollycoddled , pampered, treated, spoiled
by adulthood it would have been too late
for you to come and step up to the plate.
The inner strength you have to go so far
is from your past, defining who you are.
I'm proud you somehow managed to get by,
now, come here, son- and let me dry your eye.
For contest 'A conversation', sponsor Frank Herrera
31st August 2016
Saying your a rodeo rider
Makes it sound so much fun
But living hand to mouth
I assure you isnt fun at all
Make sure your timid horse
Is well fed and warm
Your second in this pecking order
Keeping well is your aim
Driving from one venue
To another i assure you isnt good
But the visions that you see at night
Makes the journey understood
The rising and the setting sum
Is a feast for the eyes
A mental picture that you carry
When your mouth is dusty and dry
When saddling up that muscular horse
To ride into the arena
An adrenaline rush is prevalent
To ride those 8 seconds clean
The satisfaction of big money
When winners are announced
Makes all worthwhile for you
To saddle up for another event
So I tap my hat
Pack up my gear
Pick up a six pack
A few hours to sleep.
Before the next journey
So watch out
A Rodeoman is coming to town.