Jackdaw Poems

Sky Hooks Hang Themselves

Will the sky topple inward
or the hills heap upwards
it I do not make these symbols
upon a snow-white field?

Will a poet turn to stone
before my eyes
or will a jackdaw caw
pointlessly into a gale?

And now the thin thread
thickens
becomes a full gutted snake 
laying across a dusty road

or is it a rope
knotted and curling
as obtuse as any 
imponderable script?

Boy and Barn

Bitty birds scuffle and flounce
under the roofed-in.
Barn dusted, rafters crust and whiffle.
Snuffle go the whiskered,
the mousy muzzle's
all along the bent beam wood.
A pepper powdering
in the chink-lit sunbeams.
In this his tumbled castle-keep
youth sky-larked a being
a ghostling ally sight unseen
there in the day-baked barn.
Long days he communed and lazed
in dim swaddled and idle ease
stretched-out and dream-basked,
seeped in the tar caulked wood
steeped in a gown-shadowed glow
with the evening-come nightly
jackdaw and crow.

Birdwoman Wears Her Birds With Pride

Birdwoman wore eagle, robin, osprey and owl.
In her hair, with a certain flair
Hummingbirds, swifts and waterfowl
Making their nest in her lovely hair

Birdwoman sported pelicans, penguins and egrets too
Wearing them proudly, none of them too loudly though
Nightjars, hornbills and beautiful jays of blue
Morning dove, blue footed boobie and silly dodo

Birdwoman wore her feathered friends with pride, to and fro.
She’s their protector, people said with reverence and awe.
She took them everywhere she ventured, don’t you know.
She loves cardinals, frogmouths, and a simple jackdaw.

Want To Replace Gardenia With a Claw

My hat has a gardenia that refuses to behave.
She throws a fit that would make a Neanderthal cave.
I asked what she needed, what helps, what does she crave?
She said she always wanted a close straight razor shave.

But wouldn’t that hurt you as you are made of straw?
She gave me a look that made my heart blanch and turn raw.
A gardenia and yet, she is as abusive as a rabid jackdaw.
I wish my hat had instead a dead rooster’s lifeless claw.

Which Bird Shall I Be

Which flying bird shall I choose to be?
Would Bird of Paradise suit me?
Owl, falcon or hawk might be fun.
Bohemian waxwing is on the run.
Trumpeter Hornbill or Military Macaw?
King vulture or Jackdaw?
Flamingo with her peachy color?
I can’t decide. I’ll ask my mother.

Word Nibbler

A jackdaw is stealing
my tote bag of unused words,
a rodentlike kibitzer, a pecking dictator
of the worthiness of sounds.
If I run out of bullets now
he will take over my range,
blue-pencil my graffiti,
he will denounce me
as a purveyor of insensible languages,
a peddler of demonstrations 
made for the amusement
of dabbling dilettantes.
Then I shall be defenseless.
I will have to render down
the fat of my mind
and when it is all as lean tree bark
it will be my own wickiup,
there I will wait
until he comes creeping again 
into my larder, aiming to rob me 
of my last cracked chicken bones,
my winter store
to make just a little broth
for my tongue.

The Jackdaw and Me

A jackdaw spit in my face today.
Saliva traveled six miles away.
I grabbed him by his ridiculous throat.
Offered him as lunch to my billy goat.

That jackdaw kicked me and laughed in my face.
Believe it or not he got me with mace.
When he got home my man asked what I’d done.
All of the bullets were gone from his gun.

Bullet holes all over house and the barn. 
Jackdaw escaped. Who could make up this yarn?
I have to go. The bird is back with an evil sashay. 
I am running as fast as I can, trying to get away.

Where Have They Gone

Where have they gone?

Where have all the commuters gone?
Said an old Fox nuzzling my hand.
I usually hide and sleep during the day,
Not that I’m complaining you understand.

Where have all the motor cars gone?
Thought a Hedgehog crossing the road.
Usually I must run for my life,
To reach safety and family abode.

Where have all the children gone?
Cried the Ducklings down on the pond.
We haven’t been fed for weeks,
Of that stale bread, we are so fond.

Where have all the vapor trails gone?
Squawked Jackdaw high in his tree.
When I was bored, I could count the lines,
On a good day, fifty-two or fifty-three.

Where have all the Rat poisoners gone?
Gnawed a large rodent leaving his drain.
I am free to infest all your houses,
Causing havoc and crazed panic again.

Where have all the hunters gone?
Cooed Game-birds flying free and high.
No lunatics beating the bushes,
Compelling us to be blasted from the sky.

Where have all the people gone?
Cheered the animals reclaiming their land.
We normally stay out of your way,
The world is ours now, do you understand.

Partenza Represa - Birds In My Garden

PARTENZA REPRESA
POETRY
-
THE BIRDS IN MY GARDEN
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The birds in my garden, seasons decide.
Seasons decide. Hardened species abide,
Species abide, like sparrows, all seasons.
All seasons why? My alarm, good reasons.

A Robbin, probably more, who can tell?
More, who can tell? Together could be hell!
Could be hell! Well they'll battle, unless mates,
Unless mates, probably death, it equates!

Robins, all year round, Goldfinches late Spring.
Goldfinches late Spring, a pair had a fling.
A pair had a fling, sad, got molested!
Got molested, found by cats, expected!

Blue and Great **** Winter, late Spring, Hedge Sparrow,
late Spring, Hedge Sparrow, long after the snow.
Long after the snow, a Jackdaw or two.
Jackdaw or two, hinterland corvids, nice view.

Blue and Great **** Winter, late Spring,	Hedge Sparrow
Black	Birds, nesting Collards in pine pollards.
Starlings at a bollards	birdbath drinking.
Birdbath drinking, more birds this year singing

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

St Cuthbert

On Lindisfarne, they say, 
St Cuthbert took a hooded crow, 
A jackdaw and a jay, 
And on their strident tongues bestowed

The gift of harmony.
No more did ugly croaks and caws
Dispute above the sea, 
Or trouble those sequestered shores.

They sang all day, those three; 
And as they drew their corvine kin, 
The devil wept to see
His shrinking nursery of sin.

Haiku ***

Jackdaw of poems 
Oh look shiny new words, mine
stolen words and thoughts

Multiplication

A dish issue is whether the verb forms a series of events containing two or three ingredients. Ingredients are often officially interesting when placed. And material such as Velcro is very very useful when balancing on a widespread bed of crockery. Well cook then. Worldy worldwide without waste. And a hare is never a problem when hopping through an abyss. Calibres of officialdom. Wow. No problem at a beach house and home and away for the weekend is fine but the other side of the United Methodist Church is the name of the first place of worship. Oh dare one meet a jackdaw in a cardboard car. Or a ministerial monkey. Holidaying hopping hippies have havens. And bend not over a crevasse as dangers stem from rock. And blades spawn from spacial secrets. Secretary then. A portly lady humming. Hahahaha and now a salty dew. Hahahaha and an additional android arguing. Hahahaha dare to swim with the dog. *** multiplication z

Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here

The hay bales golden, crimsons and ochre sere leaves fallen-- the caw of the Jackdaw
There was no Nightmare until after the fall, painted and swooned like a Fuseli
the clouds float in staccato and layered rich tones: vibrato from sparrows joins the chorus
the suffering alluring woman frail calling on Nature, who chides the mawkish

yet still holds in her in Her own way,
        as she ambles and thinks of loves’ long ago            
sadness your becoming frailty; weakness a handmaiden, its alluring on you

and there is a mourning call from the maw of the jackdaw
and the skies go crimson, deep ambers until a now purplish blue
and the clouds become negatives as rotation continue-- I see the first star
appear and think of all the females who thought love’s true

“Boot in the face, the brute. brute heart of a brute like you” said Plath
 Tolstoy’s males prevail, the amative women frail, and frailty is true 
 The tender heart a pulpy thing is simply the mind at war
And Nature now turned to dusky twilight transforms her as before

Pecking Order

Three black birds
Feeding on my lawn
Display their different characters.

Rook is king
With murderous bill,
Strutting, marking out his manor.

Comical
Jackdaw hops about –
The cheeky chimney chatterer.

Never yet
Intimidated
By the threat of advancing rook.

He quickly
Steals the stale bread crust,
Braving the rook’s road-breaking beak.

Respectful
Blackbird waits his turn,
Golden monocled eye, watching,

With patience,
Diligence, he waits,
Then swoops to gather up the crumbs.

The Jackdaw

The jackdaw is a curious bird
	He hops and runs along,
His genial “tchak, tchak” can be heard – 
	Alas, he has no song.

Why look these corvine birds so old ?
	Jet black and hooded grey,
With beady eye and black beak, bold,
	They chase small birds away.

Corvus Monedula is his name,
	It’s from the Latin took,
With habits very much the same
	Some take him for a rook.

Poor old Jack, has no collective
	For meeting with his friends,
He shouts “Tchak !  Tchak!” and this invective
	‘Gainst all mankind he sends.

Most creatures have collective nouns,
	It really is an oddity –
No way to name this gang of clowns ?
	I’ll christen them JOCUNDITY !

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