Brooding, I lay on my bed
Never looking down, evading my frames view
The weights I’ve yet to lift lay under my dangling leg
Not a single thought crossing in this head, I am to just lay here
In my nest
Across the room, the nape of the closet
As if folded like wings, returned to its wrapping
The pressing fabric bought with what little crumbs was scrounged
Not a single glance over there do these eyes give or scout, and there it will lay
In its nest
Turned away, leaning on the wall
Reflective glass, preened yet vapid
Behind the surface, here he chirps out slowly
Not a single sound was heard, and there he will remain
In his nest
Lemony sun rose
when creamy clouds were wafting
Noon was mellowed gold
Yellow rose danced feverish
when odd birds sang gibberish
Sunshine rose preened proud
for it was her time to shine
perfumed prettily
Marmalade honey summer
in colors that become her
To Derry, who reached beyond the pen
To seek the sun and fluffy clouds
A flash of green and you were gone
With headdress regal and so proud
Upon the leafy giants, there you sat
To see the world, with little eyes in awe
Behind your home and mirror void
No image within, the seed untouched
Just silence to fill the endless gap
No Derry or sweet song and chatter
What happened to you, proud little chap
Who preened with care those feather's green
Were you lost or pleases to rid the ties
Of human leash and small confine
Feel a freedom so divine and stretch
Those budgie wings to sail away
I hope you're safe and having fun
To swoop and dive upon the wind
And sing your budgie song so fair
That splash of green that soothes the air
I heard a Peacock boast — aloud —
Of Feathers — finer — than the Cloud —
He preened — before the Mirror — wide —
And found — himself — Deified —
He passed the Sparrow — in the lane —
With not a nod — nor hint of pain —
Oblivion — his only peer —
Except — the Echo — in his ear —
He climbed — a Twig — of borrowed Grace —
And shook — when Wind disturbed his Place —
For Pride — is brittle — as a Star —
That dazzles — but — does not go far —
The wiser Owls — in dusky Trees —
Surveyed — his Fall — with silent ease —
And whispered — “Dust — resumes — with breeze.”
Mandarina duck was bragging a teensy bit
Blue jay heard of it, and threw a giant fit
She was speaking of her crest as if it was unique
I have a crest also, Bart the blue jay did speak
Mandarina duck preened, showing off her black and white trim.
I have that too, Bart pointed out to a cardinal named Jim.
Jim flew off, not wanting to get into this turmoil
Mandarina duck made fun of the jay; his anger now on boil
I am the most colorful with my browns, rusts, and copper colors.
Bart the blue jay was told of this bragging by his mischievous brothers.
Mandarina duck has the ugliest beak, it is such a dull blah red.
These enemies held on to this grudge until both were dead.
They might have been friends, if they had tried even a bit.
But she was such an opinionated duck, and he was a bit of a chit.
‘Most of the dandelions had changed from suns into moons.’ – Vladimir Nabokov
The humble dandelion Earth bequeaths.
Oh, golden bloom which ancient lore bequeaths
that fortune ‘s woven into bridal wreaths.
The dandelion turns from sun to moon.
A dandelion morphs from sun to moon
for wishes cast so young and old may swoon.
The Shepherd’s Clocks are pacing march of time.
My Shepherd’s Clock is marking march of time
as day would turn to night with stars sublime.
The moonlight whispers capture early twilight
of moonlit scenes betwixt erstwhile twilights—
a transformation silence cloak the night.
The fairy clocks now spent, they dream of sheen
of mornings when they shone, showily preened.
You found your plumage
In your feathers
When the sun was on your wings
And when the thermals bore you on
Your heart burst out in song
You roared in flight
You scorched the sun
You sang the song unsung
And in your plume your feathers burned
You plunged; your song undone –
You found your solace
In your feathers
When the gloaming preened your plumes
And when the moon was on your wings
You dreamed of other things
And what you learned of darkness
And what you learned of light
You learned the day you burst into
The heart of heaven’s eye
Burning out in flames of youth
Your plumage blazing bright –
Oiled and preened
Plucked and tucked
Everything as it should, no
As they see it should be
Plied with cloths of gold
Piled high with gems and stones
Their shroud of protection being more like a weight of confinement.
Taking all your strength to place a single foot in front of the other.
None left to flee
None left to even turn away.
As they force me to take those last few steps
I now know what this was all for
Its not a lavish wedding, filled with drink and high spirits.
Its my wake as I am to be traded for lands and titles.
Why would they lie?
Did they not know I would sacrifice all, if just asked?
Then I see them, the one I am to be traded to.
Hollow eyes.
Stiff back.
Not a sign of a smile.
Yet gilded in gold and encrusted in jewels.
What thing did they sell me to?
Will I be tormented?
What must I do to be free?
I must be weak, I heard them say.
So weak that I’m looking for escape before it even begins.
But didn’t they know, the torment started the second they lied.
.
Ginger waves
Preened to glister
'Long mine frame's
Length
attached by
lover's sweat
She peels hern glory
Almost strand by strand
From mine scaffolds sheath
her coy
cauzing mine innard's
pant
If i were painting by numbers
1 would be her ginger
gracing mine canvas' mass
10 would be hern flesh
blushing with each
mine deliberate stroke's
press
A friend and I had a rousing argument
around the supper table the other day
He said when them old fashioned poet would write
‘twas hard to understand what they had to say
I told him it wasn’t so much what they said
but how their words danced within meter and rhyme
The art of words is like painting a picture
'stead of a museum it hangs in your mind
I'll tell you all that my friend’s a true cowboy
he prefers actions instead of using words
Thinks people should tell the true worth of a man
from just watching the way he handles his herd
Says he’s pretty sure that any ole nimrod
can scratch pretty words on some paper with ink
If you’re trying to tell a cowboy something
just get on down to the meat of what you think
Stop prancin’ and dancin’ around with your words
just come right on out and tell me what you mean
Don't dress it up like it’s going two steppin'
it don’t need to be all gussied and preened
That’s the day I learned a very good lesson
bout how poetry was really meant to be
Words written down simple and straight to the point
is the real meaning of cowboy poetry
Carving nature at the joints
the scalpel glistens clean
Motion severed night from day
all stillness duly preened
Slicing creation half by half
its essence caught between
Feasting on marrow dripping free
—trapped inside a dream
(Saint David’s Pennsylvania: May, 2023)
Sunrise shimmering on your hair
Strands rise and wavy like mane of a mare
Soft and silky when stretched
Preened like feathers, not wretched
Hair cylindrical or long and blonde
Or tailed-black hair, straightened and tanned
Your scent till evening that sends affectionate waves
Pet I adore with perfectionate craves...
You are mine!
two birds meet under a tree
preened feathers, standing so free
chirping with glee, wings of plea
praying together like Thee
OLD AND NEW 3 : COURTROOM
On a throne sat a vulture
feathers preened in paisley silk
eyes red and drawn
heart tightened by trauma
skin thirstily drank almond oil
Ghosts in black gowns stood
around remembering privileges
past the ruffles, insulated by
a myriad rules crying ink
spilling verbs on cold
corridor benches
White rhino horned a metre
eyes flecked hazel fear
buttocks rippled castrated power
in Versace pants pressed by
servants underpaid, yet dancing
Blood numbered endless doors
coffee machine broken, judge
pasted a smile borrowed
from law school decades ago
onto a hand-painted t-shirt
Another drama of new estates
I wondered where the freedom
fairies were ?
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
Waddling in like a drunken shadow,
my portly belly cannot pass unseen.
And once spotted, I meow my hello
regal-like, reaffirming I'm their queen.
I'm finicky and won't use my litter
unless it's paw-print deep and freshly cleaned.
And yet, though somewhat slow, I'm no quitter,
keeping myself meticulously preened.
I'm attended by my subjects, my two friends,
who have pampered and groomed me from the start.
And I trust they will until my life ends,
for we have bonded, heart, to heart, to heart.
And when one brushes my ebony fur,
I snuggle in their lap and purr, purr, purr.
(Personification/Sonnet)
06/06/2022
Personification- Pets Talking Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
1. your pet now
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.