Long Beaks Poems
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Tonight....10:30 PM....
I can't think straight...ahhhh!
My heart is thumping with love-coated hate! Ahhhh...
The chirping pests get louder and more obnoxious than ever
COULD YOU STOP THAT RACKET?
Shhhh! Dead silence.
The chattering twerps project their voices to the highest extent
COULD YOU PLEASE KEEP YOUR BEAKS SHUT?
ZEEP. DEET! ZEEP. DEET! Commotion fills the apartment.
ZEEP..BLEEP..DEET! Ah! I think I'm going nuts...quiet down...now!
Will you guys stop making noises and sleep for cat's sake
SH! SHHH! SHHHHH! Don't make me scare you!!
Why aren't you brats shutting up? Could you all give me a break!!!!
Do you guys mind?
I'm trying to sleep...I have school tomorrow!
Could you guys find
Another way to communicate...'cause you'll see me building up in anger and you'll know
I mean business... I mean serious business. c:
So don't go there, birds...just do a quiet activity with your herds
Of buddies and your big-beaked turds...
Thanks a lot...now I have a major headache!!!!!!!!!
Don't test my fury...robins! finches! I can still hear your peeps!
Could any of you keep your chirping to a low volume for heaven's sake??!!
Don't bother me...mockingbirds! nightengales! I can't stand your beeps!
The chattering pests get a bit bothersome...then my irritation gets ever so worse...oh, it gets more hideous...more revolting
COULD YOU DO ME A FAVOR AND SLEEP?!
Good night!! Dead silence.
ZEEP! ZEEP! ZEEEEP! - I shake my head...pissed off to the point when I'd tie their beak shut
Hello? DID you hear me? Go to sleep now!!
The commotion ceases as my comfort approaches me...then I sleep in an instant
THANK GOD THOSE BIRDS AREN'T CREATING RACKET
Deet...Zeep...Deet...Zeep...and they rest in gratisfying slumber
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The next day....6:00 AM....
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ZEEEEP!! DEEP! ZEEEP! DEEP!
Thanks for being my weekly alarm clock!
How alarming...my phone alarm didn't go off today!
Thanks for doing something productive, twerps! Now my life isn't full of dismay!
Just STAY silent, you pestering jerks!
Just stay put in the cage...and don't make foolish quirks!
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-DEDICATED to my silly pet finches-
Two birds like mischievous teens
skipping, giggling as they cross
the pumps, dodging car scenes
through the oily and Oldsmobile dross.
Scoundrels living loud in their little world
chirping along, rippling through grime,
gabbling as they kick the can, twirling
and uttering in incoherent rhyme.
Oh the crime of poetic injustice,
those bobbing teeny hoodlums -
their imagery without substance.
No alliteration nor allusions.
But the human takes notice of the couple,
just too cute, their slim legs and beaks
skimming through the rainbow puddle
with sputtering tweets, puttering in the grease.
It's four o'clock in the morning
It's still pitch black outside
And the cute little male robin
Is serenading his bride!
It's really cute and sweet and stuff
But if I only had a gun
I'd blast that frigging robin
Right off to kingdom come!
Doesn't this sweet young birdie know
I'm not finished my beauty sleep
Sure like to wring his scrawny neck
So he couldn't let out a peep!
At risk of sounding a wee bit cruel
I'll bake up some robin pie
Garnished with a swallow's beaks
And feathers piled on high!
There should be a law to allow us
To end their sweet serenade
To permit us to cook them in a stew
After letting them marinate!
© Jack Ellison 2013
The tabby slinkily strutted across the yard
fresh kill held loosely in diamond teeth;
a turtle dove, its tiny head bobbing,
to the lazy rhythm of the loping cat.
A flash of pink spangled collar
around a plump, too fleshy neck
bears witness to a home;
domestication of a sort.
Still warm; the feathers barely ruffled
the offering limpidly dropped with pride
onto soft white cushions of a couch
will be repaid with loving words, treats,
a hand gliding along a soft arched back.
The cat, again among familiar things
will guiltless drowse, exhausted
from the day's first kill.
The dove will rot; its putrefying body
trashed among the other scourings.
Two hatchlings with gaping yellow beaks
wait vainly; abandoned, they too will die.
The cat's companion tends the feeder,
enjoying morning birdsong in her garden.
Turtle doves, red-listed birds,
now, three fewer.
Temperatures constantly drop,
the first chill stroke my unknown sense,
that sense which causes depression:
when winter knocks once as luck does
to state its indisputable intention....
who looks forward to seeing snow?
Children like snow and some adults do also,
but thinking of how cold it will get,
most of us rather think of sunny beaches
on those islands savoring summer's dreams...
then who looks forward to seeing snow?
By the ajar door, where shivering robins eat my breadcrumbs,
I hold and sip a hot cup of Miss Swiss chocolate
and curiously watch how they struggle with their iced beaks:
I pity them and let them in...who looks forward to seeing snow?
Birds to watch r' alotta fun
In the garden while they play
Alongside weeds and shrubs overrun
They flock to the open outdoor spray
Which cools them off when they come
To scrabble and sachet for airplay
Hummingbirds to watch r' alotta fun
Their long, narrow beaks survey
Pollinating flowers, while scattering seeds in the sun
Flying through the fine mist, open air spray
Searching on flower dung
For nectar from blossoms display
Butterflies to watch r alotta fun
Drinking from shallow puddle lots
Hang on flat flowers as they sun
And on dim, draggy, ho hum, rocks, sunny spots
To themselves to warm their wings some
Perched on a sunny branch, grass stem lots
Tis' all shelter, breeding places, nesting sites
For O' beloved winged creatures n' rockery orchard delights
Here I sit in the womb of room
gazing out into the sunlit day
consuming its tranquility,
In moss trimmed trees
squirrels play hide-and-seek
between branches laden with leaves
hued with shades of sunset colorings
camouflaging other aerial anchor tenants,
The cerulean sky—polka dotted
with cottage cheese like clouds
canopies the terrestrial scene,
Red breasted cardinals ape and peck away
like jumping checker moves—Beaks darting
between chlorophyll sheened blades of grass—
the unseen restless wind images its ever presence;
So,
Here I sit in the womb of room
gazing out into the sunlit day
consuming its tranquility.
I will never forget our very first mating ritual,
some swans species are done in seconds . . .
but ours went on for over an H O U R !
Oh, the courtship dance was divine
and s u b l i m e .
For days and days we touched wings while drifting,
on the smooth water
and wasn't it lovely to preen together . . .
we dipped our beaks over and OVER,
I loved when you would just be still and watch me.
Our bodies touched smooth and g r a c e f u l ,
we never took our eyes off each other.
Soon our necks were intertwining (I loved that part).
and while we paddled our WI N G S spread
and you took me to the stars . . .
at one point you even pushed my head under the water, dear!
you make very s e x y snorts and groans.
And from that day we have been as one,
in perfect H A R M O N Y ,
and together we raised all those fluffy cygnets.
You are so protective to all our little ones,
don't you just love the first time they go for a swim.
With you as our HERO our family plays and sleeps in safety always,
thank you for being the best m a t e for life
and a great father . . .
_________________________
November 3, 2017
Poetry/Free Verse/Love Letter
Copyright Protected, ID 17-9560-07-0
All Rights Reserved.
Written for the contest, Love Letter
sponsor, Viv Wigley
Fourth Place
Some say the summer sun,
drove them to the jagged peaks,
where they pressed their feet in snow,
and froze, defeated, swallowed by silence.
Empty skies above,
Hollow fields below—
Who will recall their vanished songs?
Who will cradle their echoes?
Others recall their beaks filled,
with plastics from tainted fields,
like cacti bristling through sand
choking the voices that once soured.
Some saw a trembling mirage.
A pool that shimmered, then dissolved;
their throats dried, their voices shattered,
Their chorales silenced by drought.
Empty skies above,
Hollow fields below—
Who will recall their vanished songs?
who will cradle their echoes?
More birds succumbed to wildfires.
That burned forests to blackened bone.
Their feathers lying singed in the ash.
Their shadows fallen, stilled, and gone.
Yet in the hush of this dawn,
a single feather drifted on the wind.
A faint lamenting chord was heard—
Perhaps the birds may rise again.
Where have all the birds gone?
Long time passing; long time ago.
Empty skies above,
a feather on the breeze—
a faint call in the hollows
Let's pray the muted sing again soon
In the silent spring.
In the silent spring.
Something about loose lips and loose women,
old young recollections
some too dark for conversation,
some too light for
a poetry reading.
Your face is disfigured;
when I open your page,
greying origami birds
fly out of your story
beaks carrying
lint and gilings, but something else,
a partial picture of what we left in each other.
We will cry about this one day,
after the last day perhaps.
I am modulated by memory,
by the lingering smell
of your lusts.
The slow simmer of times
throes and pangs.
Maybe by then we will
catch each other’s breaths
inhale long last drops,
bundled together
as close as new bled lambs.