Like the crow that caws
Forevermore, you sense the meaning
They speak as you walk, whispers
Resonating through the grey dead stones,
They see you
There's peace in the dead
(They see you)
They watch you pass
And hope you read their stories
Forevermore we're joined light and dark
Flesh and bone
We are the same
Do you see it?
We walk the paths they're walked before
And they reach out
In wisdom unheard, ignored
And so we come to the same earth
Peaceful yet loud
We shout unheard advice
We tell of tales walked past
But sometimes..someone listens
You see it..in broken eyes
And then we smile
Us dead..we know.we talk.and
They hear
And we are one.
upon quiet morn
when the stillness still lingers....
watchman crow caws
first only faint whimpering sounds
then full fledge warning billows
Robert Collum's style of writing a Haiku transferred over to Tanka poetry form.
3 words/5 words/3 words/5/5 words.
The morning sighs
with hoarse, guttural caws.
Crows twirl and cartwheel backwards,
like charred scraps of newspaper
caught in wild feral, wind eddies
above a raging bush fire.
Goosestepping gulls
enforce their feeding-ground territories
with threats and violent gestures
their beaks snapping shut
like rust-corroded, iron gates.
Looping caterpillars
form a Congo line
across the blistered bark of trees
while ants drag dismembered wings
along cracks in the pavement.
A magpie bludgeons
a snail against the stones
until the shell gives way
its pale body spilling outwards;
a molluscan sacrifice
that satisfies the hunger pangs
of a black-and-white starving bird.
Worms writhe blindly,
torn asunder
on the hot sunbaked soil
attacked by hordes of bull-ants
lake tiny matadors in torero corrida,
sparing with capes and lances
as they torment the helpless,
doomed, and dumb, succumbed prey.
The morning sun rises,
guilty as charged!
without pity or cause,
without mercy or motive,
to silent, stark applause,
as nature pleads for survival.
The night rain cooled the following day, making it feel like winter. Climate change continues to wreck the weather, and spring days bloom in winter. Earthworm carcasses rot in drying puddles. Freshly cut grass soaks the air and drowns the lungs. A murder of crows pecks at the bloated insect bodies floating atop the grass. Their joyous caws echo across the overcast sky. The feathers on their swollen bellies gleam from my car's headlights.
"I'll have the 3-piece chicken strip combo with hot sauce, and a medium Cherry Coke." A crow waits below the drive-thru window.
"Here's your order." Medium Cherry Coke crosses the facing windows. "Than—" The crow strikes the brown bag and spills the order on the floor.
"Please pull around to the front, and I'll redo your order." The crow's laughter reaches the front of the building and follows the fast-food server back inside.
a single red rose
lies on your grave
black raven caws
pewter skies
drip tears on me
church bell tolls
Sometimes it shrieks, hoots or creaks,
whistles, cries, trills or squeaks,
rattles, russles gurgles or moans,
babbles, crackles, grunts or groans.
Sometimes it chatters, chirps or howls,
baas, ribbits, hisses, roars or growls,
cackles, coos, squawks or crows,
chitters, bleats, clucks or bellows.
Sometimes it, barks, buzzes or caws,
clicks, gobbles, gurbles or heehaws,
moos, humms, oinks, meows or neighs,
peeps, purrs, quacks, snuffles or brays
the silence of nature is a never-ending song,
forget your troubles and come sings along.
The tombstones in the old churchyard
Stood as sentinels to the past
But eternity is not theirs to guard
To time itself their memory is cast
As the morning wraps itself in a mist
A raven perches on a sentinel
Its caws echoing in the midst
To the toll of a distant bell
As rain begins to fall
The distant bell continues to toll
Those guardians still stand tall
As if to watch over the departed souls
below dreary sky
warning of winters first snow
outside the crow caws
In the majestic mist—of a mountain’s dawn;
In the gray haze of fog, soon to move along.
Below smoky drifts, canopies, and the wind.
Below, the raven’s wings, and the perch he sits.
Bird’s eye view, gazing, gawking; blithely spying.
Yearnfully, yet, no eagerness for showing.
Mellowing caws; buoyant—wake the harvest moon,
Of streams and time, do not both cascade on by?
Frolicsome and flashing; a true sight to see,
To harken the lone wolf’s motley midday howl;
With these Great Smoky Mountains now cleared away—
The raven soars above; stately valleys low.
With winged truth and wisdom,
I bear secrets and change
that may aid human journeys.
My caws sound guidance to
persuade soul growth and as
helm, I join earth to God’s realm.
A young crow carries them-
selves meticulously, screening
their surroundings. Too wary
to engage with others, but
always so observant.
A golden jewel shines in a
parking lot corner. Tempting
the young crow’s eyes. Their
bill clutches on, fragile by
nature, it breaks.
Glass shards pierces their
tongue, blood cascades on-
to the concrete as the jewel
dismantles. Remnants of a
once pretty rock remain.
Lackluster caws transcends to
inconspicuous woes through
menacing thunder circulating
the floaters, ignoring their
cries.
Drizzles of rain deafening
continuous yelp, a dash of
salt soaking their insides,
their shadow scatters
far away.
The air slowly fills
with curly pungent wafts of steam
billowing up from a
hot freshly brewed cup of coffee.
Raising the baton to
conduct the dawn chorus
of bird songs and plans
mulled to begin.
I love to see and feel
the ringlet tufts of steam
getting up my nose, blurring and
opening up my eyes,
like a curtain raise,
to conduct the symphony to begin.
The trills and tweets,
chirps and cheeps,
whistles and trills,
caws and chortles,
are all entwined and garnered
in the first sips, of the first cuppa,
taken at wake of day.
The steam and songs
unspool a cotton thread of
memories and reflections,
hopes and fears,
to be weft, warped,
shuffled and shuttled,
through the loom
to weave the coming day.
When we lived beneath thatch-roofed houses,
Curry simmered in pots,
Flames flickered from firewood gathered
From hills and thickets.
When bullock carts creaked
Under paddy loads,
Harvests reaped from fertile fields,
Bicycles spun on dusty roads.
When sounds of hand-pounding paddy
Echoed from homes everyday,
Women weaving at fly- shuttle looms
Sometimes till late night.
And when caws of the crows
And chirpings of tea cricket at dusk heard.
Then we helped one another -
Life was simple,self reliant,and beautiful.
( Third in the Poetry Contest entitled "Write Sixteen Beautiful Lines" sponsored by Constant La France )
They dive and circle as if in hypnotic state,
Tiny wrens, and ravens, and coal black crows.
When trucks dumps their loads, the flurry of fowl contemplate
Savory morsels or just household throws.
The noise of large tractors, and of sharp shrills and caws,
Of wild wings flapping over a landfill,
The thrown scraps from a table bring the birds to a pause,
Then landing en mass for a full belly fill.
It's exciting to watch them, yet worries my mind.
Some of the garbage is not fit to eat.
To the forests and meadows, there are rich foods to find,
While hanging bird feeders are quite a treat.
Morning glory bud
Begins to unfurl.
An Eagle flies high
In the morning sky.
Aspen leaves rustle,
Stirred by the wind.
Hope floats above
Feeling refreshed,
Joy swirls within.
Rooster crows,
Raven caws,
Risers yawn
Coffee
Bacon.
Eggs.
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