Best Rookery Poems
Pelican Bay
My rookery home
Nursery rocks oil covered
Parents dressed in black
As dawn starts to streak across the sky
heralding in the new born day.
Feisty rooster already perched on the wall
giving forth with all his might, he crows.
Sleepy hens, ducks and geese scat for worms.
Low moos emitting from the milking parlour
mingling with the sucking sounds of machines
as they gather the rich creamy milk in containers.
Banging of impatient hooves from the shire horses
hungry for their grain, tossing heads and stamping,
loud neighs and whinnies fill the early dawn.
Soon they will be at work ploughing and farrowing fields.
Farmhouse door opens smell of eggs and bacon wafting,
farmer's wife emerges carrying pails heavy with slops.
As she nears the pigsty the grunts and squeals grow
barging, pushing as they search for tasty scraps.
A caterwaul of noise from the rookery deafening,
as they wheel and spin around the yard thieving.
Slowly as the animals return to the sweet meadows
life settles back to normal, until tomorrows dawn.
written 09/15/2013
contest Nature
All is still in deceptions abyss,
Beneath fathoms deep, aquatic,
Wolves are on the hunt.
Stealth predators unseen, unheard,
Hanging on the fringe of detections,
Outer limits.
In plain black and white,
Behold a deadly beauty personified,
Intelligence next step in evolution.
These devils of the bluest depths,
Known as the Orca.
Chameleon's blending between shadows
Darkness,
And the suns rays penetrating,
From above.
Waiting in the quite shallows,
They hide in anticipation,
For the right moment to strike.
Titans Krakens, await for the first
Signs of weakness in their prey.
Together pack mammals work,
Combing talents to best formulate,
A strategy for the imminent attack.
Upon life's rookery a chilling,
Silence falls.
Young seals sleek and fast,
Taste freedom's excitement,
With wonderment's exhilaration,
To finally be on there own at last.
The open ocean calls to them,
Come challenge my waves,
Youthful innocence, boldly splash
Amongst surf and spray.
Yet beware thy kindred spirits,
Those whom seek the unknown,
May pay a high price of flesh,
And bone.
But these young pups hear the
Siren’s voices,
And heed not the warning tone.
Sliding instead into the icy waters
Cold embrace.
The undertows current carry’s them,
Towards the coral reef.
Deadly jaws haunt the tidal rift's,
Rough jagged edge,
It is a gruesome rule of survival.
Few new yearling return unscathed,
Some don't return at all.
The arch angels of death must take,
Their poundage of flesh.
With a grinning smile,
Natures perfect killing machines,
The wolves of the deep, await the
Next bloody hunt.
With hungry eyes anticipation,
Tasting satisfactions mouthwatering
Bites yet to come.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
canopy uproots
lies upon the undergrowth...
breeding rookery
© Harry J Horsman 2022
A restless night, another hum-drum day,
Resolve to take a pleasurable walk;
I make my way towards St Mary’s church.
Across the street, a sixteenth century home –
Maltravers Manor, testament to time.
I’m heading for the ancient Hollow Way
Where towering beeches shade the wagon route.
“The Hatchet” standing at the crossroads, empty !
Bereft ! No pints are pulled here any more.
Along the High Street, past the Corner Cottage
Perambulating slowly now I pass
Refurbished “Childrey Stores” and Chapel House,
The Primitive Methodists’ former home.
And next, the Childrey pond comes into view --
It’s guarded by a dozen angry geese
And to the right the Old Post Office stands –
No stamps or letters, now a family home.
Beside the bus-stop here’s the “village” hall
In red brick builded by Victorian hands :
The Working Mens Club And Reading Room
Where farming labourers were wont to meet.
Next a modern non-conformist chapel
On the site of earlier Methodist Hall.
Then looking West a high brick wall contains
A cedar, vintage, sixteen forty six,
As high above a noisy rookery sways.
We now fork right by Rampanes Manor House.
Set in the wall, a dedication plaque
Records the founding of the Old Schoolroom,
Of seventeen thirty two, for local boys,
Established by the knight George Fettiplace.
Along Church Row we pass Cantorist House,
Originally the Chantry House for priest,
Three almsmen, to assist in singing mass
For the soul of Sir Edmund of Childrey.
Enter St Mary’s by the southern door,
Then down the aisle, I’m heading for the chancel
Where ancient brass recalls five hundred years
Of folk who lived and died in Cilla’s Rill.
I’ll leave as campanologists arrive
To ring the changes loud across the land.
Through the serried ranks of slate and marble,
I weave a path towards a wooden bench,
And here I’ll rest, below the old Scots pine,
To watch the setting sun across the fields.
My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds steady under dynamic skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance
Pray my memories remain deep within me like a
Fortress securely established on a rock mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach
"Simon Edy, known as Old Simon, (1709-18 May 1783) was a London beggar who may have served as an inspiration for a popular nursery rhyme. He lived in a derelict "Rats' Castle" in the rookery of Dyott Street. He was born in Woodford in Northamptonshire in 1709 and died on 18 May 1783. He had a succession of dogs and the last of them was a drover's sheepdog called Rover.
He begged outside the churchyard of St Giles in the Fields and was a well-known figure, being portrayed by artists including John Seago and Thomas Rowlandson. He wore several hats, coats, and rings and collected much bric-a-brac such as cuttings from old newspapers like The Gentleman's Magazine, from which he regaled passers-by. As he was a simpleton, he is thought to be a possible inspiration for the nursery rhyme, Simple Simon, which was published in the Royal Book of Nursery Rhymes nearby in Monmouth Court."
Simple Simon met a pieman,
Going to the fair;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Let me taste your ware.
Said the pieman unto Simon,
Show me first your penny;
Says Simple Simon to the pieman,
Indeed I have not any.
Simple Simon went a-fishing,
For to catch a whale;
All the water he had got,
Was in his mother's pail.
Simple Simon went to look
If plums grew on a thistle;
He pricked his fingers very much,
Which made poor Simon whistle.
He went for water in a sieve
But soon it all fell through
And now poor Simple Simon
Bids you all adieu!
Twas a dark knight,
whence there came a pawn the hushed crowded movie house
A phantom of horror sprung out of the rookery that wrought deadly havoc
Renting asunder innocent audience members
Anticipating Batman annihilate evil within Manichean eternal duel
Extant within imaginary world of Gotham portrayed on the silver screen
When out of the black curtained theater tear gas canisters got hurled pell mell
Accompanied by a fusillade of heavy machine gun fire
Sheering many lives
Many in the prime ascent sans parabola of adulthood
The youngest, a six-year-old girl transformed into an ashen colored corpse
Which death yet revealed to her young mother
Critically wounded, and clamoring for said daughter
While teetering on the brink of mortality
Oblivious to stricken offspring
While family, friends, relatives and anonymous prayers
And this heartfelt genuine communiqué
From me – a self styled nonestablishmentarian
Gung-ho to invoke a mandate that high powered fire-arms
Must be much less accessible
I.e. bulletproof laws need implementation pronto
So inhabitants of these United States do not fear for their lives
Nor feel akin to a potential prey sighted in the crosshairs
Wantonly gunned down from some grinning joker
Slaking glee from mass killing as to appease unquenchable thirst
To avenge some psychotic nemesis gloating to slay
With a vengeance and contrived vendetta
Promulgating pandemonium and grisly bloody aftermath
Yet despite such horrific heinous atrocity
Bravery and sacrifice witnessed and extolled
From heroic instinctual motive to offer themselves as human shield
So that carnage less devastating than toll on madman’s hit list
Now in solitary confinement and even if executed
Would be a Pyrrhic salve to those forever deprived of loved ones
Burning with an eternal sorrow no matter
Generosity of cyber sympathizers across World Wide Web
Plus the president of these United States
Reach out showering kindness analogous to Borealis raiment!
The wolves do lope high and free
in mountainous trails and her masonry
the hallowed wood and rocky clefts
hold the dens of their hidden nests
Golden eyes pierce thickened dark
hunting prey within their park
hot breath raises mist in their flight
with urges to run in thick of night
lounging with the pack on a hill
neath the moon silent and still
The forest with all her rookery
cast eyes below to the pack they see
the cold crypt of the earth below
blood covered in splays of snow
pale ice rugs flow on ground and rocks
as the pack do run seeking the flocks
the burrow of the white wolf and her pups
upon her milk the fledgling sups
the shiver of their meal in deathly gore
lying torn apart on the forest floor
the sinuous beauty of their agility
of taking prey down with ability
The dominate male and alpha mate
are always first in hunger to slate
how many priests have nature of pack
are hidden in darkness and innocence lack
looking for victims the prey that they stalk
in secret places the plans of it talk
Religion that is false will slaughter the sheep
to not be it’s prey the truth you must keep
her princes are wolves ravening prey
the word of the truth they seek to stay
they would come clothed in appearance of light
but within the gown is blackness of night
With a flood of lies He seeks to deceive
and devour the hearts of those who believe
The serpent lays in the den of his mate
The Queen of Harlots , Babylon the Great
Ez 22:27 Zeph 3:2-4 Matt 7:15-16
COPYRIGHT © 2009 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
The robin sings, the dawn awakes.
Jenny Wren sings so much louder!
All wildlife rises to face the day.
The sun, nights respite, warms the day.
The dawn chorus every soul awakes.
Buzzing bees, all wildlife getting louder!
Rookery rooks set off, they caw louder!
Dawn chorus falls silent, calm now the day.
Sun now warmer, wildflowers it awakes.
Fox calling, awakes louder noises, afore the day.
more often than not, a knightly surge
combs a pawn me,
especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,
where bats in the belfry
flap their wings at the speed
of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house
(which doubles asthma
Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
to economize on space,
especially during tax time
(as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom
Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
particularly speaking
on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,
particularly War between the States,
where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben
a fit to this American
Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!
When I get to the Redwoods,
I’ll look for her clapboard home
above a sea-lion rookery.
I will seek out
her twelve-year-old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
She’s native,
she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer:
“I want you to know,
that a hungry man has killed you.
We will meet once more,
for you are my brother.”
I knew her by her seasoning.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’
Maybe she went off
with that s.o.b. jailbird
who twice tried to kill her.
I’ll take the back roads, getting lost
until I reach the ocean.
When I get to Crescent City,
I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions;
savoring their deep throated funk.
I will maybe say a hunting prayer;
a self-hunting prayer.
You are a lustful Pharisaic shark, who feeds voraciously from the sea of corruption.
You turn your soul away from the righteousness of God's ordinance, and now your head is sick with greed.
Your flesh burns with desire.
Your heart becomes laden with iniquity.
You wear an integument crimson as you let the tide of immorality navigate you to an equable rookery.
You are trapped in a world of get rich, stay rich syndrome.
So, at will, you summon your false devoted mien when you assemble the sheep.
You are a rhetoric genius.
You are brilliant in systematic explanations of the biblical text with theatrics and thematic expository narratives.
With an unpurified soul, you instill in yourself the force to be personable and charismatic as you sink your articulate fangs deep into the throats of your faithful sheep.
You gave birth to yourself and you live in a realm of narcissism.
You live with no prickling stings of regrets.
January 16, 2023
1 Timothy chapter 3 verse 8
2 corinthians chapter 8 verse 21
One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city
above a sea lion rookery.
She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:
“I want you animals to know, Open your eyes.
A hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”
She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.
When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.
I'll take the backroads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions,
savoring their deep throated funk.
I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salty truth of my words.
Hark the skylark sings o'er meadow.
Sings or fights to let rivals know;
the robin claiming territory.
Sings his claim, his sincerity.
A blackbird cock sings his claim so.
The rooks in yonder rookery.
Caw, peck and claw in mockery.
To let their life mate, their proud beau.
Hark the skylark sings.
To pursue an act, thievery.
A double act of mockery.
South, a copse borders the meadow.
Come the noon, it's all in shadow.
West, east, north, dry stone rockery.
Hark the skylark sings.