Long Sparrow hawk Poems
Long Sparrow hawk Poems. Below are the most popular long Sparrow hawk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Sparrow hawk poems by poem length and keyword.
To the tapping bird
by KateM @ 2015-03-12 – 12:48:21
A bird taps on this window every day,
Frail as flying leaves are in a gale.
But now he perches on the potted bay.
He feels the weather like the blind do braille.
This bird is faithful and I hold him dear.
He's fearless as he pecks upon the glass.
We hope he has a modicum of fear,
For who knows when a sparrow hawk will pass?
I see him like a human soul forlorn
Struggling to discern his fateful way.
For soon he may be taken by a storm
But blithely he will eat, and after play.
The smallest bird has trust in the Unknown
By his example, our own way is shown
A little sparrow flew down to a bush and said, "Please, can you give me a little swing on thee, and the bush angrily said no!
So the sparrow went to a goat, to nibble the bush, but the goat said no!
So the sparrow went to a wolf, to eat the goat, but the wolf said no!
So the sparrow went to the people, to kill the wolf, but the people said no!
So the sparrow went to the Mongols, to slay the people, but the Mongols said no!
So the sparrow went to the fire, to burn the Mongols, but the fire said no!
So the sparrow went to the water, to quench the fire, but the water said no!
So the sparrow went to the ox, to drink up the water, but the ox said no!
So the sparrow went to the poled ax, to chop up the ox, but the poled ax said no!
So the sparrow went to the worm, to eat up the poled ax, but the worm said no!
So the sparrow went to the hen, to peck up the worm, but the hen said no!
But then the hen dared the little sparrow, to go to that bird over there to do what you asked, the little sparrow didn't know that that bird was a sparrow hawk.
So the sparrow went to the sparrow hawk, to peck up the worm, but the sparrow hawk was surprised by this tender morsel and said, you are quite brass and brave, but I do not peck at worms, but I'll have a go at that hen.
The hen saw the sparrow hawk and quickly pecked at the worms.
The worms saw the hen and quickly devoured the poled ax.
The poled ax felt the worms and quickly went to chop up the ox.
The ox saw the poled ax and quickly lapped up the water.
The water felt the licks and quickly went to put out the fire.
The fire saw what the water planned to do and started to burn the Mongols.
The mongols was badly scorched that they began to slay the people.
The people began to hunt down the wolf to kill it.
The wolf who was been hunted went after the goat.
The goat feared the wolf attack and began to nibble the bush.
The bush felt the nibbling and cried out to the sparrow.
The sparrow flew down to the bush and was given swings to its heart content.
Date: 06/16/2019
I dream of magic lines but they elude me.
Chapbook on acrylic tube palette, janus-faced cave in
at the crack of dawn,
crescent moonlight awnings turn to circus of the soul,
images that colour dullard pages leave furrow on my
hayrick haggard brow.
Backwater sonnet form leaning towards some meadow compost rot.
Ghost written silhouettes, shatter fragile eggs on
loop pile Berber carpets,
yolk stain and pale brown chicken hash tags.
Tight rope knot escarpment found in tripod camera verse,
cliff edge heart-stop paen is just another
blue-sky canon over billed by birds of prey.
Poetic licence pointer to a learner permit doggerel,
aspiring metre patchwork but a tapered column
lost in grey day whimper.
Guangdong province text in lychee pink for window glaze.
Fleeting notions dangle at the sparrow hawk crossroads,
while grazing skinny red ballon formations overhead.
Mother of invention please shine your convex beam
upon this wellspring drought abandonment I swim in.
Sudden brain cell drafts a Jack-o’-lantern of disjointed phases,
stretcher bear the legless phrases that leave me
wheelchaired and infirmed in woolly states.
Timeline mainstream woofer whose lagging jacket hemline falls apart,
areole reduced branch slowly bleeds its cactus juice of inspiration.
A rush, a fever, quotidian fever,
no greater longing can us writers have.
There's a feeling of sadness
Mixed with a wistful awe
As we pick our careful way
Across a rubble strewn floor.
An eerie sort of half light,
As though hiding from the day,
Hiding our history until
It's finally thrown away.
This building still stands
Though gutted inside:
I suppose now it represents
A city's lost pride.
Graffitied walls
Fittings smashed
Not much left
Of its proud past.
I can see the lock gates.
Now sealed against the tide,
Imagine an old sidewinder
Waiting patiently inside:
Waiting to land wet fish
That valuable tasty haul
Brought safely on board
From its bulging trawl.
Imagine steel segged clogs
clacking clicking up the road,
Bobbers walking the tunnel
To handball this load.
Seen from a window the old dock
Just a sea of reeds, silted and gone
Hiding a chequered past
As time has moved on.
I sit to reflect for a while
On a broken office chair:
I can feel the past
Flowing through me there.
Such a sense of sadness
Now filling my head
Time to get up and leave,
This building is now dead.
One last walk around outside
See huge cracks in the wall.
How long before the dozers
Finally make the bricks fall.
On the White Fish Authority roof
Children have set a fire
Maybe a symbolic recognition
Of its coming funeral pyre.
The flames gutter and die
As the children run away
And the once proud building
Survives yet another sad day.
This piece of history can be saved
If we don't wait too long
Like so much of our past
Once it's gone it's gone,
Who’ll remember the sidewinders
And their Bell Bottomed Boys
In this place of eerie silence
Once so full of life and noise.
A sparrow hawk stoops
As we walk away
A sort of hopeful end
To a sad and weary day.
I was asked to do a voiceover for an independent Documentary Film Maker, and so had the privelege of entry into prohibited places. After hours of filming over many weeks the project was sadly put on hold with the arrival of Covid 19.
Whenever I’m able I raid the bird table
I snap up some mealworms and go
The nearby house owner a bad tempered moaner
Berates me because I’m a crow
That snotty Rob Robin just sits there bob bobbing
And snaffles as much as he can
He’d better stop soon he’s the size of the moon
But this doesn't bother the man
Those flashy goldfinches are only five inches
But make a cacophonous sound
Like lambs to the slaughter they come down for water
But I’ve called the sparrow-hawk round
But hey what’s point of a crow having brains
If not to get ill gotten gains
Raiding that fella’s bird table is fun
Caw blimey... he’s got a big gun!
24 May 2021
Contest: Personification poem 150
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
The hedge sat quietly on the side street while people passed by on their daily chores
She bathed in spring and summer so sweet as red roses and campion grew by her side watching and listening while family's grew and died
Meandering colours of Persian jewels daisy's and buttercups she shelters sunflowers reach the sky protected from the northern bluster
Sometimes she would get a trim to her sides
As she grew even higher birds made nests or sometimes stop to rest or hide from the sparrow hawk
She would listen to children play and adults talk
Wondering what life would be like to live this way
And when you pass by take a thought for the hedge stands today like her brothers and sisters throughout the globe
And even in the cold of winter refuge can be found
In the hedge