Rookery Poems | Examples

Her Autumn Kimono was Goofed

Coal tar zombie mouth leaks town gas syrup 
Meat hook telegraphy indicator cameras hypnagogic 
Liverwurst elegy beneath the frosting 
Cinderblock reverie churns with mildew

Manus? Grilled cheese sandwich.

Cantonal enchantress, covered blossoms. 
Necropolis euthanized, springtime salad.
Rhinestone rookery smothers loquat

Pilgrimage

One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city,
above a sea lion rookery.

She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:

“I want you animals to know, open your eyes,
a hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”

She rowed a boat on the spume
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.

When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.

The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.

I'll take the back roads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions
savoring their deep throated funk.

I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salt of my words.

Counting Sea Lions

A man with horn-rimmed glasses
knelt in the sand
thinking: "my office just got a whole lot bigger."
He had just flown from sea to shining sea
to survey the sea lions.

He walked barefoot to a rocky outcrop
to count the creatures (for he was an accountant),
the counting took many days -
he was engaged upon a sea lion census.

The sea lions would dive into the tossing waves
and so deplete the sea lion company or rookery,
other's would arrive with unaccounted-fore friends,
The rest yelled all day long or grunted huffily.
it was a rowdy crowd.

The accountant took off his glasses and wiped his brow.
The sea lions continued to bark at him
while scratching their ears with distaining flippers.

Reluctantly he turned to fly back to New York,
where sea lions are parked carefully
in a funky concrete compound.

Each one of those aquatic New Yorkers
could be counted upon
and they were
as they swam moodily in the small oily pool
generously provided for them.

Pharisaic Shark

You are a lustful Pharisaic shark, who feeds voraciously from the sea of corruption.

You turn your soul away from the righteousness of God's ordinance, and now your head is sick with greed.

Your flesh burns with desire.

Your heart becomes laden with iniquity.

You wear an integument crimson as you let the tide of immorality navigate you to an equable rookery.

You are trapped in a world of get rich, stay rich syndrome.

So, at will, you summon your false devoted mien when you assemble the sheep.

You are a rhetoric genius.

You are brilliant in systematic explanations of the biblical text with theatrics and thematic expository narratives.

With an unpurified soul, you instill in yourself the force to be personable and charismatic as you sink your articulate fangs deep into the throats of your faithful sheep.

You gave birth to yourself and you live in a realm of narcissism.

You live with no prickling stings of regrets.





January 16, 2023

1 Timothy chapter 3 verse 8  
2 corinthians  chapter 8 verse 21

Copse

canopy uproots
lies upon the undergrowth...
breeding rookery

 © Harry J Horsman 2022

Pilgrimage

One day I'll drive there.
On the way
I'll tell my wife about the Modoc woman,
who lived outside the city
above a sea lion rookery.

She taught me a Klamath-Modoc prayer:

“I want you animals to know, Open your eyes.
A hungry man has killed one of you.
One day we will find out 
what happened to its spirit
then we will go meet with it,
for it was my brother.”

She rowed a boat on the spume 
of the wild cove waves.
I knew her, she had the way of truth in her.

When I get to the Redwoods,
I'll visit her clapboard home.
Look for her twelve year old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.

The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.'
Maybe she went off
with that son-of-a- jailbird
who had twice tried to kill her.

I'll take the backroads, getting lost
until we reach the ocean.
When we get to Crescent City,
we'll sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions,
savoring their deep throated funk.

I'll tell my wife I love her,
and she will taste the salty truth of my words.

Evil Willie

He calls me over to the park bench:
Wanna see something?

It lolls from his open fly
partly erect. The dark ,
almost silvery in its salt and pepper
rookery.

Your willies come out Mr.!

As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze.  A monster
only Superman (my other half),
could battle against.

I’m telling mum, I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
all my heroic-powers gone.

Cinqku Mar 15

winter
turns to spring
high in the trees-
the rookery erupts
in noise

NOTE:A cinqku is an 'English language 'version of a tanka with 17 syllables 2;3;4;6;2
no title and last two(or three) lines being a surprise/comment on the first three
lines &was created by American poet Denis Garrison

My Memories

My memories took flight from Spring's rookery,
Nurtured by Summer's warm seas and
Trade winds steady under dynamic skies,
Reinforced by Autumn's harvest and happenstance

Pray my memories remain deep within me like a 
Fortress securely established on a rock mass,
High on golden hills, impregnable,
As Winter's cruel seas and merciless winds approach

Pilgrimage

When I get to the Redwoods,
I’ll look for her clapboard home
above a sea-lion rookery.
I will seek out
her twelve-year-old Ford truck,
her briny patch of hand-reared garden,
her small surf-riding boat.

She’s native,
she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer:

“I want you to know,
that a hungry man has killed you.
We will meet once more,
for you are my brother.”

I knew her by her seasoning.
The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’
Maybe she went off
with that s.o.b. jailbird
who twice tried to kill her.

I’ll take the back roads, getting lost
until I reach the ocean.

When I get to Crescent City,
I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions;
savoring their deep throated funk.
I will maybe say a hunting prayer;
a self-hunting prayer.

A Cinqku Compendium 2

light
frost whitens
the frozen verge-
inert below,summer
awaits

under
the hedge a
welcome haven-
down my neck raindroplets
trickle

dozing
on the lawn
St Swithans day-
large round spots splash into
my lap

missing
in action-
his memory 
clipped to a bedroom
mirror

a kiss
an affair-
separation
drowns into memory's
abyss

the elk
cub misses
the herd's retreat-
a lone wolf howl calls to 
the pack

splendour,
luxury
and much fine art-
in abstentia-the
gentry

a school
of dolphins-
on the starboard
a synchronised swimming
display

winter
turns to spring
high in the trees-
the rookery erupts 
in noise

Roasted
chestnuts on
bonfire embers-
forties recollections
alight

smitten
by a smile
the warmth of love
engaged and now lives on
engraved

five toes
and a pad
imprint the snow-
hunger brings a stranger
at night

The Hum Mew Zing Night Owl

more often than not, a knightly surge
     combs a pawn me,
     especially after the stroke of midnight, when
hermetically sealed in my rookery,

     where bats in the belfry
     flap their wings at the speed
     of sound times ten
thence, this king heads to his counting house

     (which doubles asthma
     Perkiomen Valley bishopric)
     to economize on space,
     especially during tax time

     (as April fifteenth slowly approaches,
     me heartbeat doth) quicken
though becalmed, when imbibing
     idyllic, fantastic, and bucolic kingdom

     Americana paintings courtesy, sans nomen
Percevel Rockwell, thus jitteriness pacified,
     particularly speaking
     on the telly phone with Ken
Burns, whose trademark documentaries,

     particularly War between the States,
     where even roosting hen
got into the frayed scrimmage vis a vis, even
chilly being egged on to surrender as Ben

a fit to this American
     Civil War Yankee incarnate,
whose doodling word
     ya probably don't give a hoot -Amen!

Springtime Meadow

Hark the skylark sings o'er meadow.
Sings or fights to let rivals know;
the robin claiming territory.
Sings his claim, his sincerity.
	A blackbird cock sings his claim so.

The rooks in yonder rookery.
Caw, peck and claw in mockery.
To let their life mate, their proud beau.
	Hark the skylark sings.

To pursue an act, thievery.
A double act of mockery.
South, a copse borders the meadow.
Come the noon, it's all in shadow.
West, east, north, dry stone rockery.
	Hark the skylark sings.

Natural Alarms

The robin sings, the dawn awakes.
Jenny Wren sings so much louder!
All wildlife rises to face the day.

The sun, nights respite, warms the day.
The dawn chorus every soul awakes.
Buzzing bees, all wildlife getting louder!

Rookery rooks set off, they caw louder!
Dawn chorus falls silent, calm now the day.
Sun now warmer, wildflowers it awakes.

Fox calling, awakes louder noises, afore the day.

Farm Life At Dawn

As dawn starts to streak across the sky
heralding in the new born day.
Feisty rooster already perched on the wall
giving forth with all his might, he crows.

Sleepy hens, ducks and geese scat for worms.
Low moos emitting from the milking parlour
mingling with the sucking sounds of machines
as they gather the rich creamy milk in containers.

Banging of impatient hooves from the shire horses
hungry for their grain, tossing heads and stamping, 
loud neighs and whinnies fill the early dawn.
Soon they will be at work ploughing and farrowing fields.

Farmhouse door opens smell of eggs and bacon wafting,
farmer's wife emerges carrying pails heavy with slops.
As she nears the pigsty the grunts and squeals grow
barging, pushing as they search for tasty scraps.

A caterwaul of noise from the rookery deafening,
as they wheel and spin around the yard thieving.
Slowly as the animals return to the sweet meadows
life settles back to normal, until tomorrows dawn.

written 09/15/2013

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