¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ cock-sparrow ¦¦¦ on a green tree,
¦¦¦ he chirruped, ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ so merry ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
A ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ boy came with his ¦¦¦ bow and arrow,
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ to shoot this ¦¦¦¦¦¦ cock-sparrow.
"This ¦¦¦¦¦¦ cock-sparrow shall make ¦¦¦ a stew,
And ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ pie, too."
¦¦¦¦ no," says the sparrow "I won't ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ he flapped his wings ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ he flew.
(Blackout of Boy And The Sparrow by Mother Goose)
Don't light a wick that will not burn
I only ask that your shadows stay dark
for willing I am not, in want of a turn
to howl as a wolf or a dog's baying bark
To spurn you, who has not known touch
would chill flowing of blood in any soul
Without ardor in moonlight as a crutch
a body has no will of its own, nor control
Virginal and insipid is an innocuous mind
No guilt flows through its virtuous marrow
A body can waltz although sight is blind
as much as joy is found in flight of a sparrow
The nest is naked
Crass and cruel
It is not for sparrows.
Any berries I eat
Taste like acrid ash
Spilling out of my beak.
Above, are haughty eagles
Claws full of meaty mice
Swooping high above trees.
My marbled eyes can only stare
Hungry, so hungry for belonging
And not even the branches hold me.
A fall, a tumble—
All it would take to dive
Deep into the Earth's clay.
Would it be as cold as this?
When the rain beads off my feathers?
When the wind frosts my lashes?
I am certain She would spit me out
A carcass of plastic bird bones
To be reborn as the same sparrow.
Pip the sparrow was very
thirsty on a hot and sunny
summer day.
He spotted a pitcher with a
little bit of water at the very
bottom.
He dropped small pebbles
into it until the water rose so
he could take a drink.
Small bird on the branch
Scouting what it came here for
Lost upon the breeze
Flickers in the mind
Like leaves falling from the tree
Gone before nightfall
sparrow sits in tree
cooled off by the fanning leaves
as summer heat hits
The sparrow tells me that being alone is my chance to sing
That the time it took for the baby bird to rise and fall out of the nest
Hitting every branch and bough on the way down
Is as expected and revered as the wind that blows bits of grass to build the nest
You tried to pad the bark with kind words and encouragement
To soothe the cold rainy nights with feather and food
Hoping that when the time came, the fall would be softer
The truth is that we all fall
I’ve been waiting for days to find the words to say
When are you coming back
The rain tells me, in time
Unlike the sparrow that fills the sky with a song of his own
But what do I do with the present
I sit and watch the earth winds slowly blow the branches
While the other baby birds are just starting to spread their feathers
Needing food and warmth, comfort
What can a mother do but keep building the nest up little by little
Sticks and leaves, bits of hair and dried flower, so that when she is needed, she is ready
The flowers are forgiving, they wilt from lack of water
Then raise their heads again when it rains.
Sparrow in the sun.
He shakes off the night's horrors,
"Good Lord! What a dream!"
Sparrows bob and weave.
They flit across the blue sky,
"Stay away from her!"
I don't believe it. It's entirely absurd -
the most preposterous thing I've heard,
but I know and feel it in my marrow,
hearing Edith, the little sparrow, -
to think, a woman singing like a bird.
aphrodite songs
nesting in our feathered grass
feeding young in eaves
____________________
Love is like a tarantula.
Stop this slow decline!
Bring on the buffoons.
We can’t stop now.
This desolate, tune-less narrow.
Though there is a single sparrow.
I know it’s name and it lives within me.
It’s name is Skip.
And if I get too excited
I skip to my loo.
The thunderstorm has passed. A sparrow at the birdfeeder under the tree tilts its head, catching the morning sun, deftly snatching up a stray droplet as it is shaken loose by a breeze. The chicks are impatient for their feed.
twice rain
under the peppertree
stained slippers
I have stood beside the broken bread,
felt the ache of every soul that knelt.
Yet never once have I wept for my own hunger—
For Love fills what flesh forgets.
The sparrow falls, and I do not mourn;
It's a small death that teaches flight.
In the frost of another’s sorrow,
My hands remain warm with prayer.
To serve is to vanish quietly,
like incense into the light—
not out of loss,
but out of belonging.
O Lord, let me be the branch that bends,
never the heart that complains.
Pity is too small a cup
to hold the wine of grace.
And when my breath becomes the last amen,
I shall not say: I have suffered,
but only this:
I have loved, without self.
The Sparrow
by Positive Mark
Torch-burnt quills never offer apology.
Scorched earth policies revive a dead polity.
Force fed intellects give rise to economy.
Those who don’t fit, I advise you to follow me.
First, let’s pay homage to walls that were climbed.
Put in the time, and you’ll shine like Coach Prime.
Kill or be killed at the devil’s insistence.
If you lack fortitude, strike from a distance.
Fiery orators once fit the bill.
Now, they’re a hallowed list of confirmed kills.
Dead at the podium.
Dead on the balcony.
Genocide rhymes have become the new alchemy.
Armies of men show their butt on the street.
Reeks of an old auction, selling Black meat.
Honest comedians cancelled for jokes.
This is the new definition of woke.
Now higher frequency thought has been shattered.
Shirts weren’t printed when Black lives still mattered.
No reparations for cultural rape.
Modern day poets ain’t bustin’ a grape.
Torches on quills that were once burning arrows.
Who watches you, when his eye’s on the sparrow?
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.