Long Buzzard Poems
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Nature brings us such astonishing beauty,
and one of the most lovely sights is Flamingos.
Whether they are in a huge group or two by two,
or a pink mother and baby with feathers new;
light gray feathers than will in time have a pink hue.
Flamingos are in truth quite bizarre and grotesque,
with their long necks and long, long legs and odd faces;
comical how they stand and even sleep on one leg.
They love to gather around a shallow lagoon or lake,
oh, such a breathtaking sight - it makes my heart ache;
they look so unique that at first you may think they are fake.
These ancient birds can live up to 60 years of age,
spending their day eating algae, crustaceans and bugs;
they are quite peaceful and tranquil but do have enemies,
one is man, too many have been captured from the wild.
You know what I mean if you have been to a zoo,
you really didn't think that to the zoo- they flew;
but there is another bird that likes them, too.
The Lappet-faced Vulture Buzzard consumes Flamingo,
this huge, powerful old world bird who also eats carrion;
has been known to hunt Flamingo adults and chicks.
Nature gives us both fantastic beauty and heartbreaking horror,
yet, even Buzzards have a beauty in their skills.
The in air cartwheels and soaring, the high-pitched crying,
spectacular displays that show off their awesome flying;
but, to hunt Flamingo is just dreadful - no denying.
____________________________
January 9, 2019
Poetry/Rhyme/Painted Pink By Nature
Copyright Protected, ID 19-1102-481-02
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Submitted to the contest, Scewed XX
sponsor, Rob Carmack
Ninth Place
Received, NA in Buzzards and Flamingos Contest,
Judged, 1/29/19
He’s judged and condemned to take the saddle, yet, still fighting
without surrender, while we slip the bit between his jaws.
This, and ducking feet in dubble time while lashing
the gear to his back, dodging lightning while riding Thunder.
A saddle placed on a throne and strapped to a rocket.
He fights, he chokes, and rolls his eyes.
Who would give a dollar for his tough ole hide,
go sit on him in the seat of a rocker or hang him over the pea-patch
With the crack of a bullet, he could be gone.
I have trouble waiting for my chance to sling the sweat.
I purch high on the seat, chaps folded back, a nod to pull the rope.
Then out of the gate we fly, the dust, the slobber,
the foaming mouth and ears laid back.
I am screwed to the back of the saddle and
held there by centrifugal force.
Suddenly, the earth and sky are drunken things,
bucked from my senses, jolted to and fro as fence
reel past.
My dreams of being a cowboy fading rapidly
into the choking dust.
Yet, I hang to a flying hearse, the horse called Thunder,
whose hoofs beat drums of doom with boiling smoke.
I’m tossed high in a sickly orbit of sky and earth.
Thunder, still kicking as if to sling his burden to the stars,
plunging ahead, searching for a place to land.
The sky appears to darken around my head,
somewhere between a raven’s wing and the
back of a buzzard. With my shaky hands, I feel
the knots on my head, I fight for breath while spitting
sand, choking on dust and red eyes rolling. I feel hands
on me as they pat my back with hoots and hollows
beyond the limits of my brain. I stand up with
my unsteady feet and stagger. I see Thunder standing
at the other end of his domain.
Then the red bronco whirls in a resounding charge,
rumbling a folly of hoofs in rapid fire.
The final defeat, as I hurl myself over the rail.
Who would give ten dollars for that piece of leather
hanging slightly to the right side. Who, while shopping
for a bargain would settle for a deal.
The roosters are in full glory crowing mode today.
Some dogs are challenging them now.
Between the barks and the ruffs and the coos and the caws
it is difficult to hear the traffic on the interstate.
An orange butterfly breezes down, seemingly from a tall oak tree.
The flutter of this insect brings my eyes to the sky.
A jet plane makes barely a noise as they dash past.
People on the way to somewhere.
I am lying on my back in the grass looking up at twinkling leaves.
A hawk flies purposefully past me a few times.
Measuring me for supper?
Sizing me up, to figure out whether or not she can take me home to her hawklets?
They would have a big feast if she could lift me.
She makes two or three more passes.
If she was a turkey buzzard I would have been a bit more worried.
I look at the dog. She was groomed yesterday.
Today she looks like the wild child of Borneo; there are bits of straw or leaves
all over her coat that looked super velvety and shiny when we came out here.
The tiniest ant I have ever met came over to see what I was writing.
She pranced around on the edge of my notebook.
Maybe she is a reader ant. Maybe my words make sense to her.
I ponder this and smile, lying in the sun, on a warm day, listening to the roosters and the dogs.
Pray for wayward doves heading out west.
For the single parent trying to do what's best.
Did anyone ever pray for those
with yellow stars sewn to sunken chests.
Predators simply see goodness as softness.
Something to be prodded, poked and diddled with.
Nibbled away 'til it becomes a black hole of mayhem and mischief.
Gift the young a firm and gentle hand.
The wisdom of age, how to engage
and the guts to debride out the bad.
Teach them the value of things
how to earn respect void of demand.
Keep them tight to the caring wing
until they can discern nightmare from dream
or a greasy, red beaked buzzard
from a silver songbird stream.
(This is a fictional poem)
You used my credit cards to buy stereos, 4 wheelers, motorcycles and even a car.
I owe a ton of money because of your sorry ###, this time you've gone too far.
I told you that you could use one of my cards in an emergency but you maxed
them all out on the internet.
When I made you eat horse manure and crammed a bird's nest up your ###, it
was something you began to regret.
The buzzard saw her nest sticking out of your ### and she landed on your head.
I thought you'd take it like a man but you cried like a little girl instead.
That buzzard pecked out your eyes and #### in your hair.
I video taped it and showed it to your fiance who wasn't there.
When she saw it, she dumped you on the same day the two of you were going to
get hitched.
I learned that the stuff you bought couldn't go back because you gave it away and
I called you a son of a #####.
Your mama got mad because she heard me call you an S.O.B.
She grabbed me by the throat and beat the crap out of me.
When I pay those credit card bills and my hospital bill, I'll be a very poor man.
As soon as I get out of this hospital, I'm going to get as far away from you two as I
can.
Form:
He chooses his medium and tools carefully:
It's oil and sable promise today.
He lays it on thick-haphazardly.
He folds then unfolds the unframed canvas many times
into the shape of a woman.
Squeezing out her dignity,
then reads what's left behind...
(his flavor of voodoo).
He fondles her entrails-shakes her bones.
That spill into the shape of.. "a little less than yesterday".
Picked over prey, he frames her.
Hangs her in his fun house tilted mind;
Then he buzzard hops away, taking to the sky.
Circling above, searching for another pair of wide soft eyes.
He chooses his medium carefully...to fit the deed.
Today it's his black clay heart that changes shape.
From a soft nest- to a cold, cackling cage...
The bunny takes the musky bait,
he spits gasoline on the bars.
Runs metal talons against a dying star...
igniting her.
He waits till her ashes cool.
He inhales deeply, puts the rest in a mason jar.
...proclaiming victory
he slithers away...
He chooses his medium carefully.
Today it's his stained-glass smile....
"His heavenly mirage".
A magnet for the she doves
which fly into it, heart first.
They're diced with shards from a toxic rainbow.
But there is no gold at the end.
Only hollow caves and poisoned winds...
He dons his cape and crown of dying doves.
Which have since turned from white to red.
He lounges around, buffing his trophies with a split tongue.
He chooses his medium carefully...
********************************************
Within the common (all purpose room)
at highland manor apartments aye
daily encounter, one bewitchingly dreaded
fiendishly horrible, jeeringly loopy,
nap noopy, pugnaciously ravenous, talon
viciously wizened, xenophobic yeti, zapping
zeroing zillion zippers,
zoned Zuckerman alley bye
barred doors fate helplessly jury-rigged
sealed with with plaintive cry
no escape known to this man caught
in a deadly voodoo clutch,
thus doomed to die
ugly cannibalistic, frightful,
heathen rumors myopic eyes espy
alarmed at feeling trapped
akin to a wingless fly
tapping reserves of scape goat
coping techniques ingenuity,
which earned me moniker "fall guy"
where accursed cruel destined exit
from getting husked, issued
jagged lance like mandibles "hi
there unknown weekly reader", I
pray for super leftist
write hand man/woman to extricate
(via whipping up literary poetic fabrication),
then joining me to sing jai
(let victory prevail against killer odds)
perhaps summoning division
of British shiver rights phalanx,
hood reply with Hackneyed "oh kai"
springing surprise rescue,
sans swooping inside
this hermetically faux prison,
where Matthew Scott Harris doth lie,
yet realistic to accept my
demise without putting up
a good fight well nigh
but... if luck finds thee plucking this bard
(out maws of death) be treated to custom
ye will be rewarded with pie
ala mode enjoying a Quai
yet moment...yeah...fading hope...sigh!
The town folk were in shock Page 5
As they saw blood run like water
As the mob set out to kill
All their sons, wife's and daughters
The men of the town
Drew their guns and started shooting
All the murderess men
And the others that were looting
Like shooting fish in a barrel
The mob became depleted
But there were so many
They could not be defeated
By the end of the day
Not one soul was left standing
As the buzzard circled round
And the Sun remained demanding
As their blood ran like a river
Down the streets onto the plains
Then, and only then
Did the sky, begin to rain
The End almost !
The New World vultures – buzzards and hawks,
Circle-soar as they look for prey, among stalks.
Chomping smaller bird out of their feeders, so keen.
Turkey buzzards, so ruthless and intensely mean.
Spindly pink flamingo, a water-bred bird,
Loving South Florida, though it may seem absurd.
Proud orange in pink feathers dresses carefully.
Caribbean’s delight, they roost near the sea.
Forest and Woodland buzzards and hawks avoid the Sunshine State.
Not tempted to go there for water birds, who cannot relate.
Missing this opportunity in their limited vision.
To partake on flamingo meat, a ready provision.
Written January 8, 2019
Buzzards and Flamingos – Contest Sponsor: Anthony Slausin
I strutted a bit on my branch as I surveyed the others
They were commoners mostly songbirds, and two of my brothers.
Is that a great horn? A beautiful red cardinal asked in a trill.
I knew my stance was giving her and her friends quite a thrill.
My brothers began showing off, doing tricks, flying around.
They almost always act totally crazy when females are found.
A notoriously ugly turkey buzzard stopped by for a quick peek.
He flew off quickly when he saw the mouse I made squeak.
There was a rumor that an exotic blue-green peacock was in town.
Unfortunately she never showed up or I would have shown her around.
Is that just a Great Horn or is that THE Great Horn? I heard a robin ask.
I gave her a shuddered look that made her take a drink from her flask.
Intimidating other birds daily is what I easily and happily do.
If you were me, you would probably enjoy being the king, too.
My brothers of course had flown off by now, annoying another.
I heard them getting scolded by the real intimidator, our mother.