Cawing Poems | Examples

Battlefield

The children came late, at the end
among the bodies, naked, stripped
the corpses starting to distend
with gaping wounds where swords had ripped
and hacked to recognitions fall.
Their foes had taken life and gold;
the wives to stricken poor to pall
these men whose lives were dearly sold.
The children came, as did the rats,
the cawing crows, the hungry dogs,
the ever-present feral cats,
and fat pink grunting, rutting hogs.
They came to scavenge what was left
upon this greenfield butcher's block
and what they took was not the theft
it is those who lead should be in dock.

Meadow Butterfly

The butterfly, its crimson mottled wings
flitting in the delicate Autumn breeze;
uncurled proboscis taking sweet nectar
from early dawns, newly opened daisies
does not regard the corpses of the men
whose dead eyes ever stare the grass below
fresh attention-seeking meadow flowers.
Men's bodies yet unclaimed, save for ravens
who do outpace the sunshine-seeking flies
and vacillating mothers, sisters, wives
to take an early feast of tongues and eyes.
They watched from high upon a sunlit hill
the eve before, gold sun on flashing blade,
the yet unhacked brawny sinuous limbs
rip through the waves of verdant sweeping green.
And all but them were silent for a while
the wind had stopped, the cawing of the crows,
the crickets chirp, the children's playful laugh,
until the clash of steel on steel on flesh.
The butterfly, its crimson mottled wings
lifted by the delicate Autumn breeze
is taken to a meadow fresh and new.

Angels and Razor Blades

Take care of each other out there
wherever "out there" may be...
a shopping mall
a city street
a place of worship
beside a country creek.
There's a deepening stain
on the tapestry of society
It's time to 
scrub it out
scrub it rough
scrub it clean.

Had enough of turning the other cheek?
Seems to me the cheek was picked clean a long time ago.
Time to Fill it in with razor blades and fiery angels.
Roll up your crowbar souls' good folk
make the crows bleed out until they stop cawing.

Take care of each other out there 
because "out there" doesn't give a rat's A-hole about you.

corn field crow

crows caustic cawing
polluting morning silence
corn field quiet

The Poetic Call of Creativity

When creativity whispers in the dark,
A voice both foreign and familiar,
I wonder: who am I to answer?
Who am I to shape these words into being?

The blank page waits, patient as winter,
While doubt circles like a restless crow.
Perhaps today I'll listen to its cawing—
Perhaps tomorrow I'll be brave.

But something stirs beneath the hesitation,
A current older than my fears,
A rhythm beating steady as my pulse:
*Write. Create. Speak.*

So I gather fragments manifest and attract like magnets
Half-formed thoughts and midnight visions,
Overheard conversations, remembered dreams

And begin to weave them into something new.

Some days the words flow like spring melted water,
Other days I chisel each syllable from stone.
Both are sacred acts of becoming,
Both teach me who I am.

This is how we've always found our way back—
Through stories told around fires,
Through songs carried across generations,
Through poems that name what we cannot.

So when creativity calls,
I answer not because I know the way,
But because the journey itself
Only one question remains

WILL YOU ANSWER THE CALL 
OF POETIC CREATIVITY???

Under The Tree Where The Bodies Hang

Under the tree where the bodies hang
swaying, dancing in the gelid breeze
neath their rotting toes, the children sang;
slow circling a boy; they taunt and tease.

"It's your father and your mother, too,"
they chant, as one, fiery eyes aglow,
"Who dance on the rope, and soon will you."
to the cadence of a cawing crow.

"We'll slice you up and cook us a stew."
the chant gets faster. Each takes a knife
"Then we'll boil your bones and make some glue."
thirteen stabs put an end to a life.

They braise the boy, then each they follow
from dark black cauldron upon a fire;
of steaming stew, they take a swallow;
each with each other, they now conspire.

"We sliced you up and cooked us a stew."
the singing slows as the children fill
"And no one cares because no one knew."
soon, sleep takes over the early thrill.

Wolf was waiting on the edge of dark
thirteen children who once danced and sang
become just a stain, a bloody mark;
under the tree where the bodies hang.

Comma the Crabby Crow

Comma, the crabby crow, was a curious bird
He collected aluminum, kind of absurd
Necklaces were swooped up in his beak
His cawing was louder than most bird speak

He was always moving, stomping around
When he was not flying, if he was on the ground
Frenzied and furious today, for he had lost a gem
A gorgeous moonstone necklace, given to him.

Some tried to help, but he shooed them away
He was not in the mood to be nice or play
But we want to help the other crows said.
A murder of crows singing over his head.

A lone caw after long

The caw of the crow,
Once harsh and loud
Filled the skies when they
Gathered in a crowd.

For fifty years
Their voices not heard
Untill one lone caw
Returned out of the blue.

It's sounds once grating, 
Now sweet and dear,
A melody of memories
I hold dear.

He flew away cawing
then I pondered,
"Where he lives,
from where he came."

The Poetic Call of Creativity

When creativity whispers in the dark,
A voice both foreign and familiar,
I wonder: who am I to answer?
Who am I to shape these words into being?

The blank page waits, patient as winter,
While doubt circles like a restless crow.
Perhaps today I'll listen to its cawing—
Perhaps tomorrow I'll be brave.

But something stirs beneath the hesitation,
A current older than my fears,
A rhythm beating steady as my pulse:
*Write. Create. Speak.*

So I gather fragments manifest and attract like magnets
Half-formed thoughts and midnight visions,
Overheard conversations, remembered dreams

And begin to weave them into something new.

Some days the words flow like spring melted water,
Other days I chisel each syllable from stone.
Both are sacred acts of becoming,
Both teach me who I am.

This is how we've always found our way back—
Through stories told around fires,
Through songs carried across generations,
Through poems that name what we cannot.

So when creativity calls,
I answer not because I know the way,
But because the journey itself

Bachelor Crow Suggests Another Meet Up

Three shiny-loving crows found a perch, and plunked their talons down
Two had landed on a rusty antique pick-up truck – Tom and Town.
Their cousin Lee had found a place to sit on a telephone pole.
Bragging, laughing and sharing stories was their goal.

Their stories were bawdy, and funny, fowl-like and fine.
By the time the sun began lowering, they had told forty-nine.
Cawing, squawking, crackling creaky beak laughs floated in the air.
Let’s meet here Wednesday said Lee, if you two married ones dare.

Time Has Nothing to Do but Dance

A crow struts into a bar,
it's a crow, not a native American.
There's a hot wind blowing through town
Texas Rangers are drinking on the job.
A young beauty is busy
capturing boys' hearts
on her I Pad.
A land Line rings loudly
from a backroom -
no one has the skill to reply to the call.
The sleek jet-black bird
commences to dance
on the dusty wooden floor,
neck back and cawing loudly.
A picture of Clint Eastwood
looks down from an adobe wall,
he is 150 years old now
but he is still the rightful President.
Some crusty old-timer
throws a ten-dolor bill on the counter.
Soon the crow is drinking
and occasionally playing the fool.
Outside, a mule bray's,
crow flaps up and leaves
for the past.
Hollywood is still slowly arriving.
Native Americans have been on strike
for a hundred years.
The Crow Nation brews its own beer
and rez cops take their share
and don't care.

I Will Not Dance With Death

I'm going to tell you a tale that may frighten you
about the precursor of death that will pursue...

There's iridescent beauty found on his ebony wings
but always of impending death his cawing sings.
He perches as a grim reaper on the fence, taunting
as if on my gravestone to bring fear and daunting

A dance step to his left then quickly to the right
He takes wicked pleasure, but I will feel no fright
for never will I weep and as long as I remain alive
His corvine refrain fortifies my strength to survive

Black as pitch he sits, fluttering wings on my gate
I refuse to accept him as foreshadower of my fate
I'm not destined to be the carrion that he will feast
In shadows, day and night, lingers the black beast

Jeering with an evil stare, are bright beady eyes
His dark presence I've come to loathe and despise
Blackguard! I shall curse him until my last breath
Begone raven! Today, I will not waltz with death

Now you know the tale of what keeps me awake
It's the macabre one whose thirst I refuse to slake
I am still alive and have not yet fallen from grace
So, I will not let him lead me to an unholy place

Clever Cuckoo’s Crazy Caper

Cunning cuckoo, craftily creeping,
Cackling, cawing, constantly cheating!
Clocks keep clanging, chiming, churning,
Cuckoo’s call--chaotic, concerning!

Cranky critters, clueless, confused,
Chased the cheater--cleverly bruised!
Cuckoo, chuckling, cheekily flew,
Claiming nests like cuckoos do!

Wouldn’t trust that cuckoo chap--
Crafty con artist with a claptrap trap!

A Prey Circle

A feathered crowd of crows
jostle together over roadkill.

They peck and tear,
lift a little in the air
allowing other beaks
to stab at a morsel.

Iridescent black wings
flap in the cram and bustle.
Above them a hawk hovers.

The raptor waits,
the crows will eventually
fall to squabbling,
some will fly away cawing,
others will strut the highway
seeking other scraps.

Then the hawk will descend
to rummage the remains
only to fly off quickly
with a piece of gristle,

it often being content to be
the prince of the sky
and the servant of the mob.

Purgatory

When will my judgment come? He asked
of him, who stood, face shadow-masked
in moonlit dark, beside his right.
Don't let it be this mournful night.
Perhaps so, or not; has, or ne'er,
they rasped, exhaling rancid air
so brackish foul to cause a soul
to wish for Golden Oriole.
Who asked, who heard for judgments call
within, without, or none at all?
And yet, the shadow questions so;
and answers as a cawing crow
of dreams for which they dare not ask
the truth, but hide behind a mask;
as he, or they, for we are many.
They lay upon their eyes a penny;
I still have tales to tell, they plea!
They spoke; what is you ask of me?
What's done cannot yet be not so
you held that power long ago
and sold it, for this coin we give.
You think that they can now forgive?
He smells them near, their sulfurous breath;
is this a dream, the truth, a death?
Death is for those who felt some pain;
who smelled the flowers in the rain,
shed a tear at sunset's dying glow;
it is not yours to now foreknow.
They softly say with whispered threat.
It may well come, but not just yet;
there's time for you and I to play,
for you to waste another day.

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