Long Jackdaws Poems
Long Jackdaws Poems. Below are the most popular long Jackdaws by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jackdaws poems by poem length and keyword.
Her soul is pure solitude
A home where trees meets
The granite fists of mountain Gods
Her eyes burn of near enlightenment
Of the cyclic nature of humanity's truth
She blesses the rain, the fog
The. Mosquitos the jackdaws and the frogs
Wishes for nothing only the warmth
Of a early morning sun,
She has no need to fill the void
For void is what it's
The true nature of things
And her wisdom expands
Watching, listening
To the silence of the silent moon,
A spirit of near perfection confined
Within a decomposing cage
She sing songs to the winds
And lullabies to the clouds,
Just accompanying time within the void
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels fan dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
I can see it now
Through the dismal mist
Pass the sorrowful heather.
With it's impotent beige bloom
Mossy fungal stone
Strangled by ivy contagion.
Up above,
Jackdaws seeking justice
Squabble and shreik.
Each one with a crown of thorns.
I sit,
Beguiled by a simplistic beauty
Under a pitiful April sky.
Forgetting all the constructions of man.
Up here,
The foundations of convictions
Can start to shake.
I could easily slip
Into the rhythms of ancient silent prayers
And sing softly those tragic hymns,
To doleful face cattle
Chewing obediently on everlasting cud.
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
take what they see to feather nests in hollow trees
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
sold into usury
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
later
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray
on the night before remembrance day
thus now in the kilter and unwinding of years
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the long hauled about laid to primal grist
the fallen slain recalled again
to quicken vintage tractors
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
service roads are built over tufts of d-n-a
spent shells and frayed lapels catalogued
filed away
then the blue and grey left to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise
Life’s Jackdaws
I wish it were now! Yes now!? ?Seven tens and two years further along,
like that dead headed summer garden, you know the song, you a long time gone,
In your eyes I saw all the answers, to all those questions which I never knew then,
you never spilt any, I constantly watched for drips of clues uttered unhidden.
Oh, and how, now, that impossible conversation would level this rutted path of blunder,
wonder rattles those memories, stirring thoughts echoing as loud, rumbling mind thunder,
in a spiteful way, where washed up confusion reigns answerless, wishes would become,
a frail burnt paper kite in a storm of lightning shadows, no solace to share just numb.
Instead, we coral horses galloping in endless circles, ridden by yesterday’s spectre,
So, we as empty wonder boxes, move on in the shadow of the hourglass’s collector,
we don’t see the time pass, we see the thoughts pass, on a destiny bound runaway train,
amid the cackling squabbles of life’s Jackdaws wielding their blunted knives life stained.
They came as dawn's fresh light fell upon the land.
With their hard hats and high viz jackets.
Busy men clamour and plot,
Measure and scratch,
Cigarette smoke floats up high.
They never told me.
Bulldozers and diggers,
In splattered yellow overcoats,
Sit patiently for ignition.
Waiting to devour.
They never told me.
Angry Chainsaws roar,
Felling arthritic trees
That tumble silently.
Only homeless jackdaws,
Screech resistance.
But why didn't they tell me?
Maybe they don't know,
That I was once emperor of these woods.
The tycoon of rickety treehouses,
Whose Kingdom stretched for acre and a half.
Are they unaware of our imperialist acorn
Wars,
And slingshot invasions,
That lasted to tea time,
Or until a ice cream van
Rolled down the road,
Where's Clint Eastwood when you need him,
He would ride in on his trusty mare
With guns ablazeing,
And rapidly put an end to this unfurling travesty.
By this time next week my childhood memories,
Will be erased, buried beneath tarmac and
White lines
Terminally extinct, so stressed out shoppers
Can get their trollies
To the shops at least five minutes quicker.
Some pondered ways
to pep-up the pulpit and pew,
but disinterest and ennui won the day.
The clergy went away to get help
and never came back.
Eventually, thunder and sleet
cracked stone, spire, and gable;
neglect, and the cold winds of time
nibbled at arch and buttress.
Where once was a stained-glass light,
weeds and mildew weathered to a moldy rot.
Where once the hems of cassocks swept
now mice and spiders rest or nest,
and baby bats roost in the rectory.
There In a dusty belfry
owls hoot and solemnly perch.
Walls crumbling to niche and cranny.
Amid all this spacy ruin
jackdaws lay their speckled eggs,
while in the misty moonlight
homeless angels dance
upon feather-light, slinky legs.
Twice a day, the jackdaws gather in their thousands, in that same old tree
It is as if they only gather for a good old group meet and a bit of repartee
Standing in the garden you see them flying in their groups from overhead
As in their thousands and all the late comers who have just got out of bed
The last ones in make me laugh, squawking as if to so say don't forget me
Then silence descends, just what is going on within there I just cannot see
It's as inside that tree the chief Jackdaws have a gathering of all the clans
Discussing all the local farmers, then talk about the rest of the day’s plans
Then no more than an hour you will get to see them all flying off in groups
Then it’s all over “till dusk when again they are all back in massive swoops
I really admire their kith and kinship; it's far greater than ours can ever be
But it never stops me wondering just what the ‘eck is going on in that tree
Indiana Shaw . . . ; )
the field is given a name
battles are about where they disappear
the ones that walk away
don't know where the hell they are
after the mayhem
peace continues destroying barns
birds peck at exploded eye sockets
insignia and belt buckles
are hunted to extinction
mists shuffle a daze of time
the rattling roll calls of magpies and jackdaws
echo the click-clacking of jawbones
executing orders and counter orders
the officers that stumbled forward or away
go quietly mad or marry well
shell stumped foot foragers tell their slogging tales
then find newly cracked rockers
to slip away on
between the hour before dawn and midday
the violence died away in smoke
muddle and disorder
no land was lost or won nothing ended or begun
only this smoldering
cannon blasted field surrendering its nowhere acres
eventually milk cows and goats are purchased
to he hell into butter
dead horses are brought back
as glue and sacks of fertilizer
the stubborn ghosts of mules bray on
the unnamed are plowed in or out
framed in visitor centers
the bearded and beardless site-marked and told
by the grave tongued rangers
who speak for the listening gone
and the whole much pounded shebang
grid referenced
as the muzzled earth still heaves up
its lead riddled bones
the blue and grey leave to fight
their own way home
while another day breaks its promise
Against all odds
I live to breath-in the daylight
that filters through dark curtains.
The green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
in a distant land
paws pitter patter over moonbeams.
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate my life
with ink and echoes.
Dormice scurry around brown teapots.
Jackdaws caw and whistle
looking for something to steal
while we, the innominate,
are not looking.