The elephant packed his trunk
ere leaving home with a load
and looked down his nose before crossing
to see what's on the other side of the road
as the tumbler pigeon
be it ever-so humble
when airborne
was compelled to tumble
and the spinner dolphin
without a care
continued to spin
while in the air
yet not one of them did such antics
to amaze amuse or impress man
but only and simply...
because they can
Dangling in the dungeon,
Rigid as a rod;
Hovering above are pigeons,
To feast before I rot.
A wail rises from the dead —
Yet from the dead, I wake,
To walk once more among the living,
And ponder what the graves forsake.
The controversy is ended,
The chase for praise is done;
For excellence, though defended,
Is but a shadow of the sun.
Oh, a punctured life —
Drained of all its light,
Defeated in the fight,
Swinging between day and night.
What vanity is this —
To perish in proud deceit?
For excellence is vanity,
And dust shall be my seat.
Trapped pigeons see sky.
Fly past the dark into light.
Pass the hunter's sight.
Appears a pigeon at leisure
nonchalantly walking hopping from table to table
~ looking for attention and treats
AP: 1st place 2025
As I was walking on the street,
Along stores there was a little pigeon.
It immediately attracted my attention its cuddly way of Walking!
Seeing its little legs crossing one at a time,
Was like seeing the little hips of the baby.
As it tries to walk.
It was a cute aesthetic shower.
The moralists, twenty and two,
Know not what is like to ensue,
When, grasping but smidgeons,
They act as if pigeons;
They’ll probably hate me when through.
By the way a rock pigeon cooed
Deliberately out of sight
And moved me to rise from bed
With my own jingle in heart
And July's breath stills the pond
In its disarming manner
And robs the chimes of their song
And warms the oleander
And the way a cottontail
Sits and stirs among the grass
And a quail stands atop the wall
And doesn't mind my presence
And the storm clouds had splintered
To let a golden haze form dawn -
I can tell that something good
And blessed is about to happen.
Seven pigeons
Counting coup
“you take the red ones”
“We’ll take the blue”
Smaller in stature, yet they are pigeons,
Not as colorful, but still gray, white, brown.
While pigeons thrive in cities, doves love woods,
Though both belong within the same bird line.
The symbol of peace, love, and purity,
Never regarded as pests like the pigeons.
They never dwell near filth nor in clutter,
So doves are welcomed more in human hands.
Timid, reserved, and forming smaller flocks,
Their cooing softer, sweetly resonant.
They show elaborate courtship in dance,
With flight more agile, graceful, and refined.
Unlike the pigeons, bold and unafraid,
A dove will flee before it stands its ground.
Yet still, it finds its way through storm and sky,
A creature born for silence, peace, and grace.
The pigeons of Trafalgar Square
Are feathered, yet lacking in hair.
They'd look erudite,
With wigs powdered white,
But wouldn't get up in the air.
Pigeon
A pigeon (with
baking powder all over her on the
backyard deck chair next to
the pot of
begonias once told me, ‘To
provoke public opinion against or
for anything all you have to do is
press your elbows together.’ A
dumbfounded Oh was
my reaction.
Once, when younger at the beach,
Dad bought us an ice cream each.
A pigeon, alert,
pooed on dad’s dessert;
no more it tasted of peach!
Woody the pigeon
Lives in the tree
Can you imagine
Such a glee
A lifetime partner
To share his days
With eggs to father
That his girl layed
Woody the pigeon
Shared his tree
With beautiful imogen
The girl he needs
The little eggs hatch
Out pops thier chicks
Hunting worms to catch
For his broods fix
Woodys family nest
Up in the tree
Is simply the best
Lifetime for he
My vices and my faults are legion
how I hate that cooing pigeon
pooping right outside my door
i cannot sleep for death entices
promises to end my vices
silencing my painful snore
and yet in vain I blindly struggle
beneath black blankets darkly snuggle
deny my essence to the core
within life's book the battle rages
against the truth of yellowed pages
scattered on the bedroom floor
she isn't here and never was
her memory a flaming buzz
is it the flame that I adore
scorched within and vilified
by endless nights wherein I've died
as pigeons cooed outside my door
the shadow of the swinging loop
the smell of two day old bird poop
it thus will end I'll bear no more
and yet I hesitate in fear
that she may somehow draw me near
engulf me in her flaming core
erase the pain of passion's past
share with me one last repast
a love, both lovers, so abhor
am I but fodder for her soul
consumed somehow yet still left whole
by a love we both deplore
John G. Lawless
©11/27/2023
the pigeon coo cooed
he strutted and bobbed his head . . .
a hundred soon came
Related Poems