Long Crows Poems
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Sunflower fields sunburnt yellow,
glowing moon orange
and deep ocean green.
A vibrant masterpiece of wild wonder,
gleaming prisons of light
for all to be seen.
The horizon shimmers,
elevating up to pillows of clouds,
wise wings of crows
cutting through the tranquility of light,
as if a magnet, all puzzle pieces now adjoin,
aligned in perfect delight.
Then brisk winds come
with sparkling rain
illuminating even more
the rights of nature.
Reality spun into a trance,
a spectacle that one would hope
to be present forever.
This liberated simplicity and joy,
a consciousness available to all,
above the earthly debate,
here there is no hate.
Look to the wild wonders,
find natures soothing soul
once this eternity is discovered
all will always be whole.
poetic trilling of joyful greedy song birds in summer
faded pink male cardinals swoop and flip
running red squirrel flashes tail
excited white-tailed deer knocks down bird feeder
mushy wet birdseed is now on the ground
bashed in red feeder lies limp and helpless
october transmogrifies rapidly into december
holiday activities are keeping farmers busy
wife is not filling feeders as diligently
snuggly nights get longer and darker
ice and snow brings in frost from the north
squirrels are in hiding now
feeder is emptying fast
hoggish crows, cardinals and wrens
blue jay watches and waits, uninvited
The crows came out and sat on the raven’s ramrod necks
Wily witches were watching and laughing at the feathery flecks.
Wild wooly warlocks came out and joined the throng.
They were all ready to sing the annual Halloween song.
Hee Hee Hee Ha Ha Caw Caw
Dibbly Dibbery Dawdy Daw Daw
Let’s be spookier than ever this Halloween night
Let’s join the bats for their midnight flight
Dracula was irritated at the way things were set up.
He had not been consulted, and neither had his big pup.
We will cause them trouble, they agreed with the bats.
They set their cauldrons on fire and turned all of their cats.
How dare you turn our cats into frogs!
We are now going to go after Dracula’s dogs.
The main dog was scared, so he went to go hide.
They followed him into Dracula’s house, well inside.
Hee Hee Hee Ha Ha Caw Caw
Dibbly Dibbery Dawdy Daw Daw
We have you right where we want you Dracula said.
He turned all of them into the lamp posts, couches and beds.
The moral of the story is amazingly clear.
No matter where you trick-or treat, listen my dear.
No matter how lovely he is, never go into a stranger’s house.
He could turn you into a Kleenex box, a candy bar or a mouse.
Carry it gingerly to the backyard,
it is a nursling yet ancient,
as stiff as chard gristle, as soft as lead,
as hard as a gallstone.
Open your hand.
see how it glows coal black.
This is your inner work,
this amorphous bone eating fire,
it smolders now in your hand.
Somewhere in the night
it grew stubby moth wings,
spans singed by the suns shadow.
Carry it now to the respiring air,
see how it breathes;
its elongated lung heaving
inside a flickering sac
of nebulous conception.
Hold the hand
with its seared burden palm upward,
whisper to the raptors of wind and sky,
let ravening talons tear it apart,
the hand also
let it be torn to the glistening cartilage
until there is nothing but ash.
When these metaphors fly away
as the baleful caws of crows,
when wraithy harbingers
cool into waymarks
a poem shorn of your gravity
will come to you.
Now growl or grin, grind even ash
into newborn light.
It’s a Face Ache
When your heart doth break,
it shows in face ache
Knowing ugly truth,
he's found love anew.
Lines in the brow show,
round eyes crows feet grow
Smiles from lips gone too,
turned from red to blue.
Stars from night sky fall,
moon seems a dull ball
Sun shines no longer,
rain pours down stronger.
It hurts when love’s gone,
still thoughts linger on
In dreams his queen’s you,
you wake - it’s not true.
Walk memory lane,
draw love back again
Remember the time,
when your two hearts rhymed.
The taste of his kiss,
moments of pure bliss
Could not be replaced,
or gone without trace.
Playing songs both loved,
lost in wonder lust
In a place for two,
that only you knew.
Wearing clothes you wore,
your heart will be sore
When face ache’s on view,
blame it on déjà vu.
23rd April 2021
Writing Prompt - Ache - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
* * * *
A Friday from hell
I was writing about consumerism.
What is the point when people get up at five in the morning?
buying tumble driers that use plenty of electricity in a country
where the sun shines nearly every day.
A new computer when they can upgrade the old one is such
a waste of money.
I`m missing the point people like buying shiny objects
like crows drown to the sparkly buying new yes, the newness is the future.
When most of the products are made elsewhere
it does little to stem the mass- unemployment in this country.
The earth minerals to satisfy the useless.
I hear you laugh derisively; he knows nothing.
So, you can have your black Friday, and black it is when loans are served
at the end of the month.
The people are fooled and seduced by capitalism,
therefore, banning credit cards, when paying cash, one is more careful.
My face tells me nothing. Not nothing but nothing useful,
the complications of ageing humorously but not how to avoid
injury.
Permanent injury is a now popular cliché. At this age any injury
could result in pneumonia, pain in bitterness for your peers,
your jury.
What a headache I have! And never forget injury provokes
at best only pity. Friends are merely friendly, they belong to the
majority.
They forget your name and so should you, who are you? Even you
don't know for sure. In relation to community, no change was noted in
the
registry.
Still, man's mercy, economy's ecology, there's some joy in being small,
some joy in staying strong, and keeping death before you without
perjury.
Unsafe to run the wind. A big stick might hit your head. Then
the hip and heart and head will hurt, all three. Un-
fortunately.
I like a strong wind. Dangerous to go out in. As a fire or flood.
I like the way we are at risk, not a risk-averse weasel. A carnivore,
very hungry.
Pay money, take chances. Yo's an elegant contraction of you.
Cool. Message from street to board: mongrels rule. Democracy or
tyranny.
Scared to die? Why? Take appropriate measures, descend through
meditation. Be empty, rest. And to your friends and sons be as
gravity.
Tired of death. It's what it is. Let's play sports, have sex, kayak
to the huckleberries, fish for marvelous fish, live a wonderful life, give
generously.
Done blowing, O wild wind? Not yet? So be it. I lay my head
in your felt hands. The motion of the branches, evolutionary branches,
are my
guarantee.
That's all folks, 7:30. The sky is clear, the crows are out. The clouds
are with my mood commensurate. I should shout, having lived
prodigiously.
Off with their heads
They wanted me dead
Or buried alive
And for this they did strive,
The conniving baboons
A bunch of buffoons.
But vengeance is sweet
And to this I did tweet,
I’m out for their blood
I’ll drag them through mud,
They’ll wish they weren’t born
With my insults and scorn.
How dare they act so
They’re vileness so low,
To spy and besmirch
After all my great work,
I’ll give each no quarter
Aside bread and water.
The country now knows
These heartless vile crows,
Who squawked all along
Their monotone song,
But now watch them squeal
While lashed to my wheel.
As to their fool friends
They’ll need make amends
And do so real fast
Since my patience won’t last,
I know who they are
They won’t stray that far.
A lesson well taught
Perpetrators now caught,
You mess with the Don
And soon you’ll be gone,
It’s always the same
I’m so great at this game.
Some songs remain unwritten,
so many unsung.
Sometimes there are words,
but no background music
so I curse this refrain.
Unable to find the perfect blend
My art remains unappreciated,
my soul blames my spirit,
my spirit my heart,
my heart my mind,
yet my mind remains mute.
Too fatigued to fight,
constantly pondering
why do I let myself create a
vocabulary of unspoken language
where a brittle bridge of
mulberry memories still stain.
Why do I remain in perpetual pain?
I know I cannot sing in tune,
nor play in an orchestra,
but, If you knew the verses for these violin strings,
then would you sing..... With me?
Too feel
Too believe
Too be heard
Maybe then, I too, will know if I'm understood -
bringing an end to this ebony eye existence.
Only the birds know my ballad,
but this morning they have no melody,
maybe they have forgotten the chorus to our chant,
so now my anthem of angst is surreal silence.
Why do they supress the lullabies?
Lyric less in lament,
I'm a nightingale surrounded by a murder of crows,
and I see cats prowling,
they seem to sense my breathless beats.
Yet, I know in a playground of pitfalls,
the canvass must bleed in a brush of emotions,
so blank pages portray lyrics of a sincere symphony,
blasting in colourful sounds, merging forever
because the world is the music,
my life a mere note
hoping it is never abandoned.
Eve, once a suppressed silent marionette,
immersed herself within the borders of word spinners,
searching for a metaphor to entice her heart,
but hid behind monikers, to evade the sinners,
so Adam, whilst nurturing his garden,
left it behind to compose
an abundance of odes,
to heal the suffering of her untamed soul
and for a while her spirit adored his verses.
But even in Eden,
not all blossoms are sincere,
as wildflowers spread delusions of grandeur,
ego grows among horned thorns,
where camouflaged green serpents,
seduce with their silver tongues.
Eve, in her innocence,
manipulated by the 'hisses' of poisoned whispers,
fell deeper into a pit of venom,
trapped within realms where crows
perch upon tombstones
and in her loneliness,
absorbed herself into a world of counterfeit applause,
falling prey to a viper's falsehoods.
The anthology of Adam was forgotten,
and his muse lost among the darkness of cosmos.
Without a riverbed to place his sorrows,
he roamed among the mute,
shielding his inkless quill,
craving to see her shadow,
believing when two souls connect,
they become immortal poetry,
so he searched for his muse,
yearning to ink romantic musings,
so poetic sighs could ascend,
but he found no alliterations,
only rhymes without substance,
under midnight horizons,
where temporary lanterns,
waved goodbye to the moon.
He did not need lessons on poetry,
for he has penned many a poem,
he only called for the return of his curator,
so his mind did not become a museum in her absence -
nor her final kiss only an artifact
but all he found was the silence of poets.
Upon his last poetic breath, he wrote
O beloved,
your hands will become tiresome,
so why do you keep bleeding in misery,
ignoring the embedded elegy,
beating after each melancholic reflection.
Now that your verses
no longer carry my name,
I still called for you
through the dreams of sleeping poets,
but even echoes
no longer recognise my worth.
So I remain homeless,
where the ink refuses to release,
and the scroll forgets
it was ever touched...
Today his garden still blooms,
even among the wildflowers -
but without his affection.