Long Jays Poems
Long Jays Poems. Below are the most popular long Jays by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Jays poems by poem length and keyword.
I was a successful, fashionable florist, in mild green days of elegant gardens,
When an orange sun beamed its pleasure, like locales where lavender begins.
I formed arrangements for many occasions, drawing beauty lovers from afar,
As pretty planets arrange for a meeting, after wild rumors of the newest star.
And crowded hours were filled with summer, like pearly dews crowd morning,
Until ruby butterflies are playing tag, and gemmed damselflies are swarming.
Friends felt I might always be found, in some area of flush bloom fragrancies,
Like raven midnight's march to daybreak, with its warm, varicolored agencies.
Fond family held festive feasts, in fading hours of sparkly, fuchsia sun falling,
As whippoorwill songs clashed with red robin's, midst magenta stars gawking.
I lived in the house of tangy, saturated noon, when flowers were in full glory,
Like the most beautiful day of a woman's life, when a bride she's come to be.
Scarlet, saffron and other hues glittered, within the soulful sector of summer,
As starlings sang songs along my street, and sun rose and retired, a stunner!
Neighbors were nomadized at times, as honeydew moon nestles in new night,
When visiting me on eves of silk and satin, when fresh June was at its height.
Silver clouds were saddled with summer sun, in suddenly days of sweet rose,
Like grey encumbering smoke from autumn fires, when in plum mists it flows.
Raven noon was in green treetops, as the inarticulate ravens were squawking,
And fading time seemed to stand still, but ephemeral moments kept walking.
One day I woke to a gorgeous view from my window, daisies pink and yellow,
In the wide field right next to my house, glowing in the rich, sunshine mellow!
It put such a smile on my face, oh my! Like flocks of pretty blue jays going by,
And I kept seeing daisies everywhere I went, like a pearlescent moon on high!
I beheld African daisies and shasta, and pom pom-like chrysanthemum ones;
Along with fine lustrous gerberas, in all colors found, in wild green kingdoms.
I wondered at my strange, good fortune, in seeing beloved blooms anywhere;
Like the young, butterscotch days when Mother said, 'We're going to the fair!'
For awhile, I saw sweet daisies by day, and it seems I dreamt daisies at night;
Like a brief mystic spell of rapture, when hidden beauty's freed from its plight.
I was an active, prominent architect, like fervent stars which race the sun,
Or exotic, summer flowers that bloom vibrantly, creating rapturous visions.
I'd wrought modernist skyscrapers, as huge trees lean into a bronze glaze,
On raspberry, latter days, quite lovely, when azure blue jays sing in praise.
I had designed homes and buildings, to the plumb delight of stylish people,
While satisfying the favorable environment, with novel, vivid colors, gleeful.
I had built homes for family members, the loved ones who made life sunlit,
Like magnificent avenues of autumn, wherein we bask before all colors flit.
Happily, my works were very popular, as current sweet songs of ruby birds,
At the purple, sunset time of fading skies, when lilac time flows backwards.
I dwelled in the house of the whimsical new, admired by casual passersby,
As clouds and gemmed landscapes are admired, by visitors to neon skies.
Neighbors wafted through visual colors, as rouge moon visits newborn sun,
Like hours spent visiting gaiety's garden, waiting for something to happen.
Torrid summer was in the cherry sunset, and green birds owned coral day,
And pink butterflies flew by the window, as gilt, molten time slipped away.
Juicy apricots were beginning to ripen, with their tangy, sweet savor of July,
When I saw several of my creations come to life, on the street, walking by.
I laughed to see the sudden swaying, to graceful, fluted music of the wind,
Like the smiling time of the evening, when seeing sun and moonlight blend.
They moved proudly upon the skyline, playfully frolicking, hues shimmering,
Like the earliest break of antique day, when newest truths start glimmering.
Mellow sunshine fell straight through the clouds, as the dancing slowly died,
Like the last day that a rainbow was glimpsed, on the day that nature cried.
And I had sensations of blind wonder, like the starry-eyed, dreaming night,
When the mighty ocean bellows its roar, in huge, full moon's powdery light.
I realized my buildings were alive, because of the people who dwelt there,
For people lent them color and spirit, as a medallion sun makes floral flair.
But they never again danced in daylight, nor in the sudden, purple twilight,
Yet, the rosy memory has never faded, like vibrant memories of moonlight!
Turtle heard that Salt Woman was on the road again, and he was
wanting a taste of her. Some miles from Cochiti, he stopped
for directions at a Speedway gas station.
The dwarf who ran the garage could not speak, but Turtle
using the language of Sandhill cranes put a spell on him,
making him dance directions. The dwarf’s jerky movements
became more fluid as Turtle urged him to relate more of the
Salt Woman.
In these parts, Salt Woman had a rep. She traveled
with a wooden puppet that she called her grandson.
When she came to a pueblo she would ask for food for
the boy. Some villages offered her food from the communal
storehouse, and she would bless their store with her tears,
while her grandson grew green leaves on the top of his wooden
head, but in some pueblos the mayor would refuse to offer
anything. Salt women would then turn the children of the village
into chaparral jays.
Turtle figured that the garage dwarf was just a fool, but he knew
that a salty woman was worth finding, and so he drove on following
her trail. Sure enough he found her in a bar in the Acoma
settlement known as Sky City.
Her grandson was with her. Turtle took a good look at Salt Woman.
She was not young, her face was lined, but her hips were as round
as fat babies, her belly dimpled, rosy, and delectable. The wooden
child’s eyes opened wide as he watched Turtle walk up to the bar.
Turtle was looking fine in his rhinestone studded jeans, his tan ruby
fringed shirt and his white, eagle-feathered Stetson.
Ordering tequila, he turned to the woman.
"Will you give me one of your tears, mother"? He asked.
"I have a thirst that can only be cured by a greater thirst".
Salt Woman looked at Turtle:
"And what will you give me in return"?
"I will share my salt with you," turtle replied honestly.
"The same as any man then," she said with a curling lip.
"Yes mother, but my salt will make you younger,' turtle lied.
Turtle will promise anything for sex, in this he is no better
than most men.
Salt Woman laughed out loud, yet a teardrop of sadness fell into
Turtle’s tequila. In a flash Turtle drank it down, grabbed hold of
the boy transforming him to a crane, then he took Salt Woman
upstairs where they tasted their thirst – again and again.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBZACUxTFLU&feature=related
.
..
...
..
.
.
.
"~ (~) ~"
"~" "~" ("~") LOVE> ("~")
.
.
.
..
...
..
.
...............
...........
.......
......................
........... "~ (~) ~" "~ (~) ~" "~ (~) ~"...........
......................
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.......
.
..
...
..
.
.
.
"~ (~) ~"
"~" "~" ("~") LOVE> ("~")
.
.
.
..
...
..
.
"~" (~) "~"
"~" (~) "~" (~) "~"
""Papa what about spring... ?"
"I don't know Son, Killdeer-draw-
you-away from their-nest, Blue-jays-
holler-to-all about-it, hungry-father
fox he knows-about-it... .
Kinder-yes I think-much gentler-Spring,
when the-rejuvenation is just first-arriving-
reminds-me of the-back-and-breaststrokes-
holding-your-breath while-doing-a-crazy-twirl,
all-the-(W)orld-alive-with-energy-(S)urrounded-
(T)ogether-in-warmth.
Saw three of them Kamikaze my humble dog-one
day. Samba just hit the grass rolled over boxed away-
at-them old Blue-jays on his back-yelping; I laugh, he
was-just a pup-then.
Best way to compare it... I would think Spring;
"The-hands of-time are-alliterate-Spring-is-but-the-brunt of this-
each Season-carry's snow-caped mountains-berries in-the-valleys-
lilies-in the-meadow-pine in the woods squirrels-rummaging-in-the-
trees.
Bird-Dogs are quite capable of pointing this out... as still-this-hope,
Spring-it-is I believe its-rejoinder-to-us for our-Winter's-supplications,
the-(h)arvest of-the-(w)heat-in the-fall (S)pring-rains I feel-remind-(u)s.
The Summer-Sun-always toasting-the memory's golden-brown... .""
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FF-pzG_XWY
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-i-rise/
http://www.bartleby.com/119/1.html
http://www.bartleby.com/118/2.html
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=18CJGlp5eiI&feature=related
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=269419
.
..
...
..
.
.
.
"~ (~) ~"
"~" "~" ("~") LOVE> ("~")
.
.
.
..
...
..
.
The animals know better than us. The rain has never poured so loudly in a key so soft.
To the front, the sailing of city buses and mini vans cruising across in this weather makes the water underneath their tires sound like the street is crying out for 5 more minutes of sleep. Up above, the trees are protecting a nest of baby blue jays before they get washed away by the silence of their mother not being there. But with sky blue young spirits, and small empty stomachs, they keep hope alive in the fact that even children know storms and struggles don’t last forever.
Below the trees, nature has found a name to call it’s own. From the hole dug by the little boy next door, a family of three foxes have named human nature sanctuary, and burrowed their problems into the sediment to rest for a while.
To the side of the hole, a flock of ducks are swimming in the water with eyes open wide enough to where you can see their loyalty to love one another rushes wild.
To the right of the pond, caged up in a man made blanket, and lost in his own mind, is the boy. From what he remembers, last night was like a train accident; A head on collision of two people he could’ve sworn he saw holding hands just the other day. He hears the sound of plates shattering in C-minor, and the chorus of words that his parents screamed in F-sharp, so he imprisoned himself in his own bed sheets, accompanied by the courageous corduroy bear who he swears keeps hearing whisper “everything will be okay.”
It’s raining outside, and the crescendos of screams have been silenced by it’s peaceful security.
The boy, sleeps soundly now. The rain has protected his ears, and guarded his heart from being washed away by all of his nightmares.
He doesn’t care whether he wakes up. The baby blue jay, the resourceful fox and the brave little duck are all he wants to keep dreaming about.
Maybe he’ll run away into the rain? Or maybe into the arms if his mother?, whom he prays he can still recognize. To the left of his bed, he picked up the blank page of his coloring book and a crayon, and became a life long poet in that moment that morning. Taking a deep breath in, and giving a soft breath out, his first sentence was
“The animals know better than us.”
Canada Jays
Four seasons ‘round, Canada jays are found,
Perched in tree branches, safe and sound,
Resting after flying throughout the North,
In the Canadian boreal forests.
Heard and not seen unless it’s their intention
To disturb the silence, making known their presence
By confronting intruders in the area
With shrill barking, expressing displeasure.
Their shaded greys of feathery plumage bests
Darker on the back, with lighter puffed breasts.
On a round head adorns a snow-capped crown,
Endowed with dark eyes and a sharp, short, pointed bill.
They have feet equipped with talons to grip the limb tight,
While long, white-tipped tail feathers fan in flight,
Which serves the robin-sized creature well in this climate
And adapts the songbird to its environment.
Then, it’s off scavenging, preparing for winter
In territories established by mating pairs,
Who swish food in their mouths to coat it with saliva,
Ensuring successful seasonal survival
By hiding the sticky boluses in trees
And memorizing the local scenery,
As marauding eyes spy on the jays’ commotions
To steal morsels from the clandestine caches.
During cold weather, they fluff up their feathers
To stay warm and hide their feet from exposure
And twist their necks to tuck in their beaks
Under the wing flap joint to maintain body heat.
Sometimes, they snuggle for companionship
And share warmth during winter hardships.
The birds, confirming whispers to their mate for life,
Find comfort in their labours, making it worthwhile.
In early spring, when the air is cold and the snow deep,
The male selects the south side of the tree for a nest site for the sun’s heat,
Building the nest with dead twigs, bark strips, and lichens,
With caterpillar cocoons for reinforcement.
The cup is feather-lined for the female to lay,
Who does not leave the clutch until the eggs are hatched.
The male feeds her throughout the incubation period,
Then she joins him in the raising of their offspring.
*Image of A Universal Star by Private Stock.
A Penitent Soliloquy
It is in junctures like these that I encounter myself
traversing a meadow of spring colors just yon the lea
where purples and pinks contest further
plus blues delivering pursuit for an actual take.
In the completeness of the stretched out rivalry
as its foremost spectator wavered I in gratefulness
for its breathtaking rainbowed exhibition of magnificence
existed through our ambitious custodian in heaven.
Reluctantly, yielded I to my reason for it lay
just round the bend farther than the footing of
lowly chaparrals fronting the forest boundaries
like sentries of some consecrated hearth.
Unexpectedly, a window of circumstance burst
open from the back of me and as slightly revolved I,
beaming rays shot back hosting a flurry of blue jays
landing within the shrubs thrashing about till only a chorale of tweets were heard.
Again, found I a pensive motivation rallied to fruition by song, nonetheless, the journey must I and the pathway didst return me towards shallowed trees until giant redwoods rounded themselves about me.
A laden rock, the purpose of me being at that spot, was a makeshift altar stone where cometh I to pray, amidst the ambiance of consolation, the serenity of solitude and isolation factors in profound deliberative candor.
All that I've seen and heard this day, truly believe I to bear witness of your awesome omnipotence, your overwhelming omnipresence, and your omniscient being overall, I come humbly before you in supplication.
On penitent knees, I beseech you oh heavenly father as I look upon thy countenance I pray, forgive me of the iniquities that shamefully bore I and give me the strength to shed off the wiles of evil so that I may be your good and faithful servant, unto you, Lord the Father, Lord the Son, and Lord the Holy Spirit, I pray, Amen and Amen!
2022 January 29
*10th Place*
Repent and Believe
~~Regina McIntosh: Judged 2022 January 30
When I wash dishes
I look out at my bird feeder,
noticing which political species are best at cooperating,
easy democratic process,
remaining focused on collective nutritional energy gains,
"we're all in this together" feathers of kin kind
And, which are more elitist,
not so good with sharing a modestly seeded pot;
blue jays predatively pecking,
crows taking over with raucous self-appointed authority,
ganging up against non-supremacists
preferring win/win democratic health.
But, this morning's meditation
looks over at a nearby large bush,
now January cold barren brown
camouflage, more than shelter,
for local birds of all species
waiting their feeding turn,
frightened by my neighbor's cat
or a hawk flying ominously overhead
or human noises leaking through my windows.
This small bird sanctuary,
Or is it an asylum?...
Perhaps both, depending on the bird,
harbors those waiting,
patiently, impatiently,
How would I know?
for their turn at their nutrition tower,
their seed Commons,
their energy media feeding station,
local source for economic and political exchange,
gossip,
social busyness.
Each bird flies back and forth,
some dressed in drab everyday,
others more business-ready flashy,
but all conjoining waves of flowing energy
in-between asylum bush
and open season feeding sanctuary.
Sometimes listeners and watchers,
and then short-flight toward feeders,
communicants
receiving sacred wafers,
seeds,
investments in cooperative multiculturing futures,
gifts of a generous green Earth.
Then,
suddenly,
they are gone.
The feeder Commons
abandoned.
My meditative hiding
and curiously waiting medicine bush
bereft of waving winged energy
breathing in and out,
feathered wings up and down.
Time to go back home
to more private nests
thoughts
feelings,
or, perhaps
to visit my neighbor's cooperative feeder,
another decaffeinated sanctuary
outside his own warm interior asylum.
Poetry is tangerine and other potent or poisonous colors.
It is the breath you feel at the nape of your neck and
the strong caress of flesh on flesh, defying death.
It is most certainly Spring with petal flutters and jays
flittering about. Melodies come alive…words almost too
ravishing to versify…like brilliant diamonds and crystal lines.
Poetry is rhyme and not…it is time well spent. The clock
doesn’t give a hoot. It’s cuckoo to stand on your head
to get just the right angle, the geometric high. Likewise,
the adjustment on a thin wire, with ink blots to examine.
But a poet does, again and again, pounding at raw meat,
to settle a matter…but we never settle…there is always
one thing more. Death, maturity, seasonals. Let’s dig
up that grave. First we jump in, holding onto leaves dyed
in various tinctures. Often we swing over, on our trapeze,
thinking we are invincible - we don’t see the six foot ravine.
Not feeling trapped at all, until the Ice Queen shows up.
We paint that buttercup white, as if it were virtuous.
She vividly holds up the scales to weigh our slights,
to slow us down…now,
we dribble upon the page…drivelling every nuance, as if
our kids (our words) were leaving home and we need to drill
just one more thing. Sadly our words will hang
and slowly scroll away…our scribbles fondly remembered
by a few for a while (and our smile)
Paint giraffes ouside the line, and gaffes - keep them in time.
Don’t be afraid to annunciate or not…to be literate or
alliterative…to be silly…oh do be silly…to be human…
to be common or uncommon…we all have our place.
We are the apostrophes, colons and periods. We stop
in mid-sentence a lot. We throw the hammer down
with an exclamation point or dot. We write run ons
or put out briefs. We admire awe. This is just a small
treatise of thought…a mud pie, but certainly not
a prize…but I say, the prize is in the beholder’s stall.
3/13/2023
The feeders were empty, dejected, forlorn.
The lady who filled them had suddenly gone.
Her time here now ended, she wakened no more:
Gone from her gardens, departed her door.
This little much mattered to birds on the wing,
With winter now over, well into the spring.
All busy with nesting, caught up in new life.
No hunger in summer, no cold, bitter strife.
New homes to be built: sturdy and staid.
Songs to be sung and eggs to be laid.
Sheltered and nurtured; the young ones appear.
A sure rite of passage in the spring of each year.
Fledglings near grown will be taught how to fly
And soar past the tree tops up into the sky.
They will learn of the hawk and its hunger for flesh:
Of wicked, sly felines that hide in the brush.
Then late summer grows weary and tired of play.
It goes to bed earlier and earlier each day.
The fall time all golden and valued the more;
Birds sense coming peril past winter’s cold door.
Those who remain for new season’s sharp sting,
Grow restless, uneasy, not choosing to sing.
Old feeders hang empty, no seed to be found . .
Below only barren, forbidding, cold ground.
Blue jays and the doves, all the species of finch,
Chickadees, titmice, now feel winter's pinch.
Woodpeckers, nuthatches, cardinals and crows,
Will all group together to face winter woes.
Then a morning arrives with white flakes in the air.
Frigid and stark; the day reeks of despair.
First jay to arrive at the earliest light,
Gives out a sharp cry to all others in flight.
There's someone out tending the feeders below,
Tamping the snow where the cracked corn will go.
And filling the hollow in that old rotten stump:
Sunflower, suet, dried fruit and some nuts.
Bleak landscape has kidnapped the scene down below,
But all’s right in the hemlock, as well as the snow.
New feeders abound, where old feeders once hung
And with someone to fill them, let the new winter come.