Best Poultry Poems
"Howard woncha say a few wurds?
Cum on Howard like over tha bird."
Says Aunt Jen visitin' fer the holeeday.
Weuns are seated tha eight of us at this here sumpchus dinner table,
Lookin' at the damndest big brown poultry ya iver seen.
Howard ma Dad is jist liftin' a forkful a meat drippin' gravy an dressin'.
Tha rest of us heseetate not knowin' what's a cumin.'
Our familee niver did give no thanks fer nuthin'.
Now dad lays down the heepin fork careful like chokes then beegins -
"Weeeellll Lord I chased ol' Mahitabel all roun' tha yard.
She knew what was a cumin' an' diseepeered inta the rushes by tha pond.
Couldn't see her nohow but put a barrel-full inta the weeds anyways
Heered this here squawk!
Looked all through tha stalks fer old Mahitabel,
Niver found her
But! Lord we do now thank ye most bounteefullee fer this here swan.
A men"
The night was cold and dark , the wind strong and harsh pressing against his back and for a moment he entertained the thought that some divine force was watching and smiling, perhaps even encouraging him.
Encouraging the tendencies that drove him, muffling the voices inside his head that asked what he was doing.
He was beginning to transcend into the setting and situation, begging to embrace his role like an instrument in an orchestra, each working in different ways yet still all part of the same song and only together do they create orchestral music.
Him the same as the violinist who has never played in the orchestra before, playing alone he understand solely the violin and the music he plays, in his mind he cannot fathom what it would be like to play in the orchestra and the process of a variety of sounds coming together.
Yet upon the incorporation the violinist understand that it is no different than the music he makes alone. The violinist does not appease the orchestra; rather it is the orchestra that calls upon the violin and all the instruments of the orchestra calling upon each other, working to each other’s strengths and weaknesses this is what creates the bountiful flavour of the orchestra.
It is then that the violinist understands what it means to play in an orchestra. One may listen to orchestral music and perhaps it has even inspired him or her to take up an instrument of their liking. Yet this does not offer them the same insight that the violinist in the orchestra has.
They can imagine, maybe they play pieces from their favourite orchestral movements, perhaps they even go as far as playing along with the recording of an orchestra, entertaining the thought of what it would be like to play with the harps and drums and flutes, yet regardless of their manifestation they can never have the same insight as that the violinist who actually plays in the orchestra, who makes it a reality.
And if it is not that reality, then it never will be and the fruitions of it will never come to ripen in the head of the pretender, because if the tape stops, it’s over.
Egg thief
hatcher
snatcher
Hormones added
perky
turkey
Low T
rooster
booster
No eggs
layer
prayer
Pagan
Wiccan
chicken
OSHA injury
plucker
struck her
Power outage
broiler
spoiler
Sweet tooth
cobbler
gobbler
Terrorist
tickin'
chicken
Unfaithful
poultry
'dultery
H/T to Chicken Footles by Andrea Dietrich
Your only as sick as your secret, but this was only the tail end of his secrets, secrets buried so deep that not even he himself could exactly put his finger on the difference between what had happened and what he may have imagined. Never the less, it didn’t hurt him, so it only must have made him stronger. As he crouched on the outside of his housekeeper’s home he knew tonight would be over even before it happened. Leaving him teased by the feeling, what kept him looking for an experience that would satisfy such a hunger. The whole experienced seemed surreal, kneeling down he brushed his hands along the grass. Was it the same grass he had at his home? He thought to himself, Where the bricks on his house laid in the same way? .For a moment he just enjoyed the pleasantness of the experience, the calmness before the storm. The anticipation was a rush of ecstasy wrapped in delusion but Sam didn’t care this was the reality he enjoyed.
Sam knew that his house keeper lived alone, that’s why he was so particularly surprised when young women in her early 20’s opened the door. For a moment they only looked at each other. Sam felt caught, as if he was wearing his intentions on his sleeve, caught and angry, angry that whoever this girl was she was intruding on a very special moment of his. She was trying to take something from him, going against his plans purposely. In anger Sam reached into his inside jacket pocket and when he removed it he extended his had outward in an arcing motion slicing a horizontal gash along the young women’s face. He had meant to slice her neck open, but he missed and in turn placed what now appeared to be another bloody mouth from cheek to cheek, slicing her upper lip open along with her septum and left nostril. The young women fell backwards and Sam stepped inside closing the door behind him never taking his eyes off the young women.
A new interest in running a poultry,
Then, reckoned the needed sum not paltry,
Coolants for birds with the weather sultry,
The chilly worse, keeper desultory…
When birds start dying owner jittery:
Mass breathing of one’s last in battery;
Of its allure packed-with-eggs crates trappings
But should nose deal with foul smell, eyes droppings?
And then this Bastards’ cannibalism
Worse than Nigerian’s Tribalism -
You’ll be paying someone for debeaking
To make safer any fresh bickering;
Also experts on Coccidiosis
To cry less to God in His diocese…
I know it has been a don’t-risk-it voice
But the brave-hearted keeps his brave choice:
To remain their town’s chief egg suppliers
While routes to chicken stalls retain flyers.
I
Humans are divine, but watch & emulate pigs
II
We have body-vehicles; "I'm my car," is like thinking you are poultry
III
Scripture helps us recall our divinity (versus eating with pigs, as the fate of The rude spendthrift & HEIR in LUKE 15, teaches us)
IV
Earthly problems drag us to poultry level.
Recall you are an eagle; fly with eagles
A poultry farmer in Albuquerque
led a life some might call quirky
His birds he’d not eat
They were good friends, not meat
He willed his house to a favorite turkey
2/10/22
I
Siblings stolen
Why list the nations ills ...
Bring Chicken Little home
II
Kuiken has cage during light
Twilight cheeps, louder -- plaintive --
Back in box, quietest baby
And The Winner Is Miss Poultry (Country-Crossover Lyric)
so, tell me,
how does it feel
to be, so, finger licken good
you've, been puck, and tuck
from the neck,
down, to your feet
so how, does,
it, feel,
to be so finger licken good
you've, been powder, and pampered,
and felt up, in places,
you,
yourself,
couldn't, even reach
so how, does,
it, feel,
to be, so darn, tasty,
just, so, lip, watering crispy
that, I'd knock down
my little, old granny,
just,
to get, a another,
greasy, fried bite
so, tell me,
how does it feel
to be, so, finger, licken, good
that you have won, first place
right on top of my plate
so, tell me,
how does it feel
Form:
S and P
Receding towards grassy plains, fizzing with the sparks produced from unnatural synthesizers. I am tired, letting out an engulfing yawn. My ship, torn and withered as it may be, is uniquely mine. I have never doubted this once, though I have twice; I will not get into that.
What I will get into is the silver beneath my legs, the makings of such being from some sort of nectar which seeped, akin to perspiration, from the widening pores of cruel, unfurled humanity. A chuckle in a dry-mouth forest, with timber aflame and raging lacerations tearing through with fiery menace, licking bark and brush.
I grew to appreciate it; firework display at dawn, morning replete with boiling cake and melting fevers. Ice slips into pools of blood, and what was sharp was then soft, lapping upon the outer voice of reason, christening it in a way both pure and impure.
Spoken words float and dance and oscillate to the cadence of distant gunfire; the clatter resonates through earthly skin and mossy gauze, letting past residents in on the secret: man was not done with their domain.
Honey, I’m home, we shouted, spilling into the surmounted mounds of dirtied pebble. Skittering further and further, where fear was the zeitgeist and we were the empowered, springing to action dogma resilient enough for the most fervent iconoclast. Ebbing and waving goodbye, the generational tears of a lost people stood in silence, blending with shadow and muffled flicker.
A rooster gave an hen a chase
And caught her in a private place
The hen had fun!
When she was done
The rooster had egg on its face . . . .
Rose knows little about her country.
Far few women do from the pantry
And still fewer,when it gets wintry...
So,she begrudges not the gentry
And challenges not mounted sentry.
Doesn't know about Oprah Winfrey,
Concentrating on their church's Belfry;
Her broadest smiles for Vicar's entry.
It's an old heart for modern poultry,
Her birds leaving when heat is sultry
For her fondest film on Gallantry
Or,if she's loaned it out,Pageantry.
Eyes dancing for just the old pictures:
What would they do to modern cultures?
I opened the basket daily, Mother hen sat very silently, I touched the hen and eggs gaily, And I was not sure to be lucky.
I kept a dozen eggs before a week, That waited for them to hatch, No egg was seen with a new beak, Soon I became joy by that batch.
I forgot to open the basket, Three weeks had passed by, Rearing poultry was an asset, I heard the low chick's cry.
I eagerly opened the basket, Had delighted to see the young chicks, I passed the test by merit,
And tricked the hen by tricks.
Login to poetry poultry,
If some folks say,
"poetry and poultry
are friendly.
many poets take poetry
as their pleasant hobby
because they can do pottery
and poultry to get money.
Don't forget the unities
of money makers
through different writtings."
An artist says,
"poetry is artistic,
classic,
rhythmic
with logic
and big logistic
Poetry is friendly
with the nature.
it is sucre
and not behind lucre."
a comedian says,
"psychology and stupidity
are always in rivalry.
Hahaaah!
Hahaaah!
don't laugh loudly.
Angry and hungry are so friendly
It is always difficult to separate angry
and power- hungry when they are on special duty. "
Note: Sucre stands for Sugar.
Why did the chicken cross Abbey Road?
Because it was there,
but which came first?
Obviously, not the egg,
as it has no legs.
The first chicken to cross the road,
feeling peckish,
not one to throw in the towel,
when told, 'Walk, don't run a fowl,'
and, faster than a speeding pullet,
or so it is said,
was one giant leap for poultry,
one small step
for a Rhode Island Red.
But, by the look on the freckled face
of the old speckled hen,
arriving alive on the other side,
her tranquility was not expanded,
when she heard the words announced,
'The Eagle has landed!'