Long Cockerels Poems
Long Cockerels Poems. Below are the most popular long Cockerels by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cockerels poems by poem length and keyword.
I once made a man see stars, read the state
of his synthetic, wrinkled suit back to him,
I watched as it melted.
Served him the world on a mirror—
Cracker Barrel plate of desire, he said.
It was just crispy bacon with sides of himself,
I didn’t even mention I was a constellation.
He called it love when I gave him the check,
named his myth, grown boy’s story
common as milk teeth on breakfast meat.
In the end, I held his face and called him
broken, lonely, afraid,
tired of being too much and too little,
gave him his change.
They’re all broken and lonely,
like dropped eggs are useful breakfast
in the right setting; murdered bird in another.
Sometimes, they’ll marry you—
just for discretion, if you’re good at it.
Even Sisyphus took a wife,
perhaps anticipating
base needs at seventh inning stretches,
fifth amendment opportunities
in front of elders.
It’s the same eternal story.
When the tally’s off, or the ham has unspiraled
it’s best to shoot straight into the chafe,
a breast pocket underneath the collar bone,
there’s always room to talk in half-truths until
you find the trigger that stabs them, right
in the detail,
see the blood pumping from plate to vein,
though it was the sausage that was raw
and they ordered the bacon,
it’s best to play it safe, and direct attention
to the source wound—
blame the eggs, stay in the kitchen and live
to see the cockerels cosplay as roosters, save
the frying pan for another day.
blueprint
To have the innocence
again, not abused
nor denied
to see with the
eyes of a child
the beauty
that could be
in it all -
what we lost,
through bitterness
the curse of
me over you
and warring life
throwing its poetic
grenades, watching
feathers fly
the absurd piranhas
and cockerels fighting
fed love,
the monsters
put to bed to sleep,
to wake
to live
the beautiful dream
the sting
of wonderment
in the child’s heart
untouched
open, sweet
beatific smiles
innocence untried
retrieved blueprint
could be ours again
in another world
in another time
bathed in sun,
Blue Sky
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"The Walk"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_walk_1376951
The clouds have opened their eyes wide
And all blackness wiped off the face of
The earth.
Night’s curtain has been drawn.
The rising birds in one single squadron
Halloo the world,
Winging and swinging through the
Broad lanes of the ceruleans.
I wake and tremble with the coldness of
Netted fishes;
My spirit stumbles upon fresh thresholds
Whiter with the dews of a prostrating day.
I return to my first day when I had cried.
I speak of my vagitus.
Morning celebrates itself,
Its return from a wayward night trip,
And the glory of dawn.
Crows from drunken cockerels
Ring out loud and clear on the spine of
The village,
Saluting the birth of a new-born day.
I'm a Wood Cockerel
a Metal Tiger's my mate,
which meant for her birthday
five years I did wait.
Then twenty four years
had passed on their way
till joining of species
on that happy day.
Tiger and Cockerel
fur and feather and fun,
in crowing and growling
they can't be outdone.
But nesting together,
at home in their lair,
this cock and his pussy
combine as a pair.
They’re totally manic
mammal and bird,
strutting together
the pictures absurd!
Now that forty five years
has passed this pair by,
their children surround them
and non can deny,
that Cockerels and Tigers
though a different breed
found that love found a way
to propagate seed.
Together forever
under Chinese Moon,
there’s non now are saying
they’ll separate soon.
For a lifetime of living
they’ve shared with each other…
A Cockerel as Father
and Tigress as Mother.
Ivor G Davies
Time changes with life and life changes with time.
October grows too old,
Hobbling backwards
With the burden of years,
On the sinuous alcove of time,
Tenebrous and feathery,
Her hidden lamps blinking furiously
At the silhouettes of wasted days.
The wasted leaves of autumn
Break forth and dance down
With the weak speed of burnt confetti.
The clocks go back several ticks,
Schlepping on the tired sinews of
Broken slumbers interrupted by the alarm bells
Which ring up the dreaming souls of boarding schools.
There’s darkness upon the face of the dial.
I wonder how the hourglass fared back then.
Passers-by hasten their questionings ? “Fellow, tell me, please.
What is it o’clock?”
Oh, it is late. Roosting time!
“But why so late now when it smells so early?”
The clocks have gone back one hour.
And so darkness covers the earth for three months.
Then March, the bearer of thirty-one offspring,
Sprints with the brio of a restless stripling.
A Phillipedes,
Running from the sleepy west to the yawning east,
Fanning the embers of dawn as he speeds along.
And light fills the world.
The cockerels record each other's crows
In one-strength choir.
Venus is viewed yonder smiling proudly like a crowned star.
And light fills the earth.
The clocks sprint forward,
Ticking with the pulse rate of Ancient Greek runners.
Spring is the light at the end of the tunnel we know as winter.
Soft somnolent skies have ceased seething, for day’s nearly through,
while winds echo whispering thoughts of returning to you
and heavens throb, pulsing and bleeding in crimsons, once blue -
their passions, like flames, fill my veins as you pass into view.
The breeze holds her breath as you touch, then embrace me anew
and smouldering clouds withdraw, blushing, then paling their hue.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The pendulous moon appears, sweeping the fog from up high
distilling the drops into notes of a hushed lullaby,
their quavering tunes spinning tales which amaze, mystify,
while tremulous stars fling a fire that fevers the skies,
for stories they tell reflect love as revealed by your sighs -
their fury is burning, alive in the depths of your eyes.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The shifting shore’s moaning, seduced by tempestuous tides
which flow with the rhythm of flesh as our senses collide,
and quiet explodes as the stillness of night’s amplified.
A lingering kiss bids adieu till the morning breaks wide
when cockerels come conjuring dawn with voluptuous pride
enticing the sun into banishing night, starry-eyed.
The twilight is painted with wandering dreams of your charms,
so close your eyes slowly and slip into sleep in my arms.
The clouds are turning blue;
the grass awaken to the first heat.
flowers smile at each other:
daffodils, sunflowers and the like.
Morning glories awake, stretch their petals lazily
swaying to the morning breeze playfully.
The cocks are already crowing accolades
to the ONE who made all things.
The mooing of cows, among the cattle
clashing their horns, sounding like spears in battle.
The chatter of sparrows, the cawing of crows;
the crowing of cockerels, the twittering of swallows
all cry for the heavens to awaken.
Then the sky becomes tingly bright red,
orange; and the sun bursts out in dazzling yellow,
spraying the world with rays of hope, joy and laughter.
The birds burst forth, and then,
it sounds like morning in the Garden of Eden.
Dew sparkles like diamonds on the blades of grass
all creation rings with songs round about
to the God of all flesh, Creator of all things;
without whom nothing would have been possible.
And then, just as the morning deepens,
Moving caps are seen above the tall grass, going towards the fields.
Allusions lead to absence?
Believe it, sir and ma'am.
Hold the door? Then get ye hence?
Why the constant slam?
Truth be told, the terror tells.
Tollbooth of the dead.
Nebula, will-o-the-wells.
Stray to look ahead...
Young the yellow yearling?
It's right there in his name.
Hornets, honeybees. Same sting?
Stake it on thy claim.
Frame of usual story?
O kindness, are you real?
Would if could, morning glory?
Flicker as ye feel!
Unity the ugly damn?
Indeed. That's been true.
Summertime, the crowds thin. Ham?
Blow away the blue.
Hated is the world outside!
Woe betide, landslide.
Pace of poet, poison plied.
How the cockerels chide...
Is it the songs of the chirping bird in the morning?
Or is it the sound of the crickets at night?
It could be the timely crow of the village cockerels in the morning
That has awakened the residents for yet another beautiful morning?
Could it be because of the village mongrels that are barking furiously as they chase the
wild rabbit to the nearby wood?
Or it the mooing and the bleating of the sheep as they demand to have their middle belts
filled?
It could probably be the noise of the school children as they rush to school
Probably it is because of the hooting of the milk collector as he comes for the morning
milk to take to the dairy?
Is it because of the fresh produce of the greens?
Is it because of the numerous expanse of the land that the eyes can not have to its full?
Could it be because of the naughty neighbors that will listen to your silent conversations?
Or is it because of the early neighborly visits just when the "morning devotion" is at its
peak?
Could it be because of the neighborliness of the neighbors?
Probably it is because of the 'friendships' behind the banana plants near the house.
Or it could be the whispered sweet nothings under the tree just outside the gate with the
moon smiling over the young lovers
It could be because of the 'accidental' pouring of hot dirty and foul smelling water to
the shadowed forms near the banana plant?
Or am i just blindly in love with country life?!
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