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Belle Mar 2018
A raven flew along, it was a cold winter day.
The black bird soon spotted a struggling bird on the ground and quickly landed nearby.
The raven greeted the fearful animal.
A small, shaking finch responded.
"Oh Raven, you must help me. For I am so alone and I cannot find my way. I will never live through this winter"
Clearly the find was in distress.
Sighing, the raven quickly looked around.
"I will aid you to be stronger, but you must promise me one thing."
The finch perked up, as the raven responded, "you can't give up."
So the birds took to the trees and the raven taught the finch how to fly. For the first step to anything is how to get back to your wings.
Then they went to the grass, and pecked for worms. The raven taught the finch that at times, it is okay to let your guard down, you are safe with other birds around.
And finally, how to make a home. A nest for the winter. They gathered all the twigs together, but the finch grew tired.
"Raven. I must rest."
"No finch, there is no resting until you build your foundation. You must continue."
"But I am tired."
"It does not matter. If you give up now, you will give up all." The raven handed the finch even more twigs.
The finch groaned, but painfully continued.
And they built the most beautiful nest.
In the nest the finch had both comfort, and sustainability.
"Raven, thank you. I now have the tools to be a strong bird. I can now, survive the winter."
"Finch. All you must do for me now, is never give up."
And with that, the raven flew away, in search of others to help.
The finch, awaiting the morning sunrise
lifts its beak in proud anticipation.
Darkness. The sun has forgotten to rise.
The finch waits for it in desperation.

To sing, to wake the world in glory’s song!
Why night, but for the finch to greet the day?
But dawn forgot to come; something is wrong.
The finch is lost, hopefulness fades away.

The sun causes the song of spirit freed,
his morning song in praise of all beloved!
The finch had grown accustomed to this need.
He’d never had to miss being so loved.

The finch misses the only thing he knew,
yet missing dawn less than I’m missing you.
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing To Life” at
Justin Griego Nov 2011
Heard a murmur through the slats
so I opened my blinds and saw a finch
brightly colored and full of song
singing tunefully in the dreary dawn

Found a cage, gold and large
I showed the finch and beckoned gently
the finch gazed into the golden room
and then he sang me another tune

  Thank you, Thank you, the finch sang
  but I must decline the shelter you offer and
  for, you see,
sang the songbird, I fly free
  you are a kind soul, and that is plain as sand
  but the open skies and seeds of spring
  is where my heart wants to be

Saddened, I shut the cage door as the finch flew away
I offered food and endless love
and all you had to do was stay between my walls
but now I sit wandering if you're singing under an eagle's claw.
Another Insomniac Poem
Lauren Ehrler  Jun 2016
Lauren Ehrler Jun 2016
The little finch wanted to fly
High in the sky
So he did

The little finch whizzed past the clouds
High above any crowds
He soared

The little finch flew up to a home
High past a dome
He dove

The little finch saw a reflection
High past rejection
He smacked

The little finch hit the window
He bounced off the pane
Too scared to feel pain
For the little bird who hit my window. Thankfully he flew away. Hope you are safe little finch...
"Introduction to Edgar Finch"

Edgar Finch was a man,
Was a man was he.
Edgar Finch couldn't stand,
Couldn't stand to see;

His same old life,
His same old way,
His same old wife,
Each and every day.

Into his head,
He decided to live,
Though if you asked,
The truth he'd never give.

But truthfully,
Quite youthfully;

He found better accommodation,
Within his imagination.
Check for the collection, The Collected Poems of Edgar Finch, to find all of the poems in the series.
CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Sarina Siegel Apr 2013
We may all seem different,

but at the end of the day,

we’re all the same in lots of ways.

No matter where we’ve been,

or who we’ve seen

The consequences of our actions

ultimately add up.

It’s not just a dream.

We must not fear,

And if we stand up,

the goodness within

will overpower.

This is enough.

We may have different beliefs,

labels and signs,

But if we are true to ourselves

it will all be just fine.

And when we reach a point in our lives

when it’s time to say,

stop crying,

I knew it would happen anyway.

Accepting and loving,

this is my virtue.

Open and honest,

I hope I have taught you.

Overcome your prejudice

and make ends meet.

You know I always say,

don’t do it in your home

if you won't do it on the streets.
The amateur poet  Jan 2013
The amateur poet Jan 2013
He sings a song
To me
For ones love for another
Should be known

But words so carefully
Written and sung
Can never be interpreted correctly
By one

What do they all mean?
What is he trying to say?
Or are the words he sings all part of a game...

The motive he has I do not know.
But tomorrow again I will go
And talk with my sweet finch
Trying to unravel his feelings.
Without scaring him away.
Gleb Zavlanov Feb 2014
Oh, faery finch, whose golden form does climb
    Athwart the starry bays of poesies, sweet,
I hear your voice, and drown in slumber’s clime,
    As I sit, pond’ring in my woolen seat.
My quill spills no sweet word or sweeter song,
    For my heart such cloyed passions cannot game,
And doubly more lies speechless my sore tongue,
    And triply even more, my soul’s the same.

As hours pass, upon these pages, bare
    I stare as if no passion stirs to fly.
To mount into Eutrepe’s mystic lair
    I couldn’t, ‘till your tender lullaby
Had touched my ear, and from my breast awoke
    Some passioned fire, hearing such sweet voice.
Of Heaven’s bells and Heaven’s harps. Out spoke
    Your lilting charms which, magically employs

All of the Muse’s finest strengths and spells:
    Eutrepe’s mystic hymn, Erato’s grace
And Calliope’s trance which softly swells
    In finest verse, and in such verse does trace
Vast time. Oh, finch, were it not for your song
    Nor for you visiting me, worn with age
No words would spill from out my stricken tongue
    And writ wouldn’t be to you, my own homáge.
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
Third Eye Candy Jul 2013
Rod Serling In The Blue Finch Foie Gras
went peacefully when the proper Authorities arrived
to escort Him from the Pate' to the Patio
but was overheard trading barbs with a flat foot
florid with Aqua Velva; both eyes -
without Harps, Utterly.
Sitting, still.
Still sitting.

Upon a dull chair,
Behind a dull desk,
All the suited workers,

there was one,
More than the others,
Hopelessly still,
Almost done.

Within his head he was hiding.
Lost in Imagination.
His time he was biding,
His mind, a fortification.

From all of the world,
and his troubles too.

A man said.
"Take your lunch.
Or you can work instead."

Edgar Finch, motionless.
Mind running fast.
Free, free at last.

Brought out of his mind,
By this man,
And just in time.
He left as fast as one can.

And sitting on a bench, beneath a tree,
He watched the birds,
Wondering what he might see...
The next poem will be about what Edgar sees while he watches the birds, and what he thinks... just in case you needed a reason to check back later.  Hope any readers enjoy the series!

— The End —