Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mustafa 1d
I look at the tree standing tall
It's just standing there in rain and shine, and wind
It doesn't move,  it doesn't talk, not a sound
Sometimes I wonder, what is going on inside of it

The tree is there to serve us, asking for nothing
No rent is charged to the birds that make it their home
No sitting charge, no waiting charge, no matter
For how long you stay on its branch or under its shade

Apart from that, the tree is giving us flowers and fruits
It produces them for the birds and animals to consume
It consumes none of its output, only gives it away  
To come and take as much as you can FOC

I sometimes wonder, is this tree for real
How can you give, give, give and only ask
That you leave it alone to do its work
It's work of serving you wholly and totally

I salute you, O Tree, and I salute your creator
For all that you do, for all that you do
For the birds, animals, humans, and even insects
Thank you, O Tree. Thank you, O Tree
This poem is an ode to the trees on our planet. Trees give us so much, yet humans have no appreciation and mercilessly chop them down. The result?Global warming and the gradual destruction of the human race
A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red
in the maple's crook she's hiding.
Her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

A carmine blaze upon her breast to mark the place she's bled
like a penitent confiding
A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red

The purple splay of sunset now reveals a fraying thread
in her tiny breast subsiding--
her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

Beneath her injured wing, she hides her tawny head
as the sun is lower gliding
a crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red.

The summer grass, soon bereft, would take her place instead
except for circumstance dividing--
her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

The presiding night has finished; the ceremony said--
her new master toward the threshold swiftly striding.
A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red--
her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.
Wood pigeon, wren and linnet call
chaffinch, greenfinch, welcome all
dine with me, come pull up a seat
sing soft on the fountain, watch me eat
drink from a day that is near to ending
all fierce promise dulled and blending
At times of extreme stress poetry keeps me going
Bekah Halle Jun 21
I hear "the birds"
outside calling —
but at zero degrees
I am sorry!
It's like Emily's phrase:
"When [even] shadows hold their breath" --
I will enjoy you from the inside
and warming,
There were doves.
Amongst them was a raven.
The doves did not treat the raven unwell.
The doves treated the raven the same as they treated other doves.
They did not look at the raven with disgust.
They did not look down upon the raven.
They are all birds, after all.
The birds treated all each other the same, as an equal.
It didn’t matter what one looked like.
It didn’t matter what parts one had.
It didn’t matter if one was a male or not.
Why should they treat one like that?
After all, they are all birds.
They help each other fly.
They can chose where they want to fly.
They can soar high and low together.
They grow from their strengths.
They grow from their weaknesses.

The birds befriend other animals.
Dogs, cats, foxes, wolves, and many more.
They befriend a little human girl.
The human little girl wished she was a bird, but the little girl said that if she were to be a bird, she’d be locked in a cage.

‘Why? Why is that?’ We birds asked.
‘Humans. That’s why.’ Replied the little girl.
She said that she would have limited freedom.
She said that humans would control her ability to fly,
Humans would control where she would fly.
Even if she wanted to go the other direction.

‘Why would humans do such a terrible thing?’ We asked.
The little girl hung her head low, ‘Humans want to take advantage of others. They tie each other down. They cut off each other’s wings, and rip out their feathers so they cannot fly. They put each other in cages, where only they are in control of one’s freedom.’

Humans don’t fly as one. They never will. Not even in millions of years.
To be as one is something humans only hope to achieve. Something humans only dream of achieving something so simple.
Just because one is different, they are not treated the same.

Even birds are different.
Birds sing differently.
Some sing higher.
Some sing lower.
Some sing better than others.
Yet they sing in harmony.
Even though they are not the same, they treat each other the same.

Why can’t humans fly as one bird? Why do some have to fly lower and some fly higher?

Each day the little girl visits,
she has to be home by 5:00 PM.
Each time, before she leaves,
she says that she’ll come again the next day.

One day, she hadn’t returned.

Oh, how sad.

She was only just a bud, in a field of full grown flowers.
Yet they picked her for decoration.
Living decoration, never lives very long.

Oh, how sad.

She was only a bird,
that had her newly grown feathers, plucked.

Oh, how sad.

Just like a butterfly,
When those wings are broken or ripped,
They will vanish within the earth.
Becoming one with the earth.

Oh, how sad.

Children are supposed to fly. Not fall.
Children are supposed to grow. Not sink.
Children are supposed to be brought/taken under one’s wing. Not to have their wings stolen, so that one could fly higher.
They are supposed to be taught to help others fly. Not fall. To be taught to grow and not steal.

Oh, how sad.

Now we sit upon her rock, with her name engraved. Lobelia Anemone/Verbena Anemone.

Oh, how sad.

The raven, weeped the most.
The little girl and the raven were closer than others.

Oh, how sad.

The rock was covered in feathers and flowers, that was only left by the birds.

Oh, how sad.

They left flowers that were just like her name.
Other flowers were left too.

Oh, how sad.

You couldn’t be one with your kind. So now, you can be one with the earth.

Don’t worry dear child.
A bird doesn’t live very long.
We will see you soon again someday.

I am sorry.

Maybe one day, you are reborn as a raven.

Maybe one day, we could all fly together,
As one.

Maybe one day, we could all sing in harmony together,
As one.

Something a human could never achieve.

I am sorry, my dear friend.

If only you could fly.

I would be there.

I am sorry, my dear child.
A free verse and elegy poetry by me: Maderina Waruka
Daniel Tucker May 27
The annual avian ****
storm-troopers and
Luftwaffe have attacked
allied fortresses
of our smaller
fine
feathered friends --

    Chickadees
       Finches
            &
       Wrens --

and have taken
many of their strongholds
this spring here in the
Far North pillaging
needed and perhaps
unneeded sustenance
from our allies
storehouses leaving
nothing in their wake
but an avian version
of empty nest syndrome.

    These black-clad
     Heckle & Jeckle
    Grackle Gestapo
with their click click
       machine gun
   sputtering sounds

think we don't notice their
clever tricks as they
nonchalantly hop
downward from branch
to branch and shuffle
side-ways on our fence
whistling as they move
one way but their
manipulating gaze at
food supplies plans
another.

But our smaller brave
fine feathered friends
hold their ground to
fight the good fight of
faith propagating
their species as the
human species also
struggles with and
against the odds of
blind and partially
blind instinct.
© 2025 Daniel Tucker

Notes.
A day in the life of my backyard --
The continuing battle of
US & THEM in man & beast.
MetaVerse May 29
My ****'s wet
With buttsweat,
My *******
With nutsweat.
I bust ***
With swamp ***
That bubbles
With swamp gas.

The cuckoo's
A-singin';
The bees are
A-stingin;
The thunders
A-drummin;
The sumers
Icumen.
The Outlet May 28
To love is human,
To be loved is a human need,

But the same is true,
For being free.
I long to fly out of this cage,
But I will clip my wings each day.

Each feather falling,
Is one step closer to you,

Every feather drifting away,
Is a single piece of my heart.

I must fly free,
Amongst my avian creed.
Birds in flight,
black and white
synchronised motion,
sweeping wings
skim the ocean
Mustafa May 26
Who am I in this vast, open earth of different species
A species of the human race created from a clot of blood in the womb of a woman
One of a billion or more humans all created in the same way
But why was I created, what is my purpose on this vast earth
For surely nothing was created without purpose, otherwise why create at all?

So I was born in a hospital somewhere and there was happiness all around upon my arrival.
A new addition to the family someone to carry on the family name
I came into this world crying and all around me people were laughing with joy
If my arrival brought happiness why was I crying so much?
And so begs the question who am I and why was I created?

Like all humans, I was given a name to identify and make me unique.
Different cultures have different ways and different ceremonies to name their newborns.
But how come of all the species on this earth only human beings have names
Why don't animals, birds, insects who also produce offspring don't give names

So why was I created and what is my purpose on this earth?
I am still trying to find that out, just like a billion other human beings
After all, it cannot be that we were just put here on this earth
Everything that is here was put here for a purpose, a reason

I am sitting at a roadside café relishing the taste of freshly brewed coffee.
The waiter who brings me my coffee and croissants knows why he is there
To ensure the food and drinks I have ordered get to me on time
The right things are delivered to the right people at the right time

I also know why I am at the roadside café sipping hot coffee and enjoying hot delicious croissants.
I am searching for the answer to my lifelong question
Who am I?
I gaze deeply into my coffee, hoping to find the answer there
But all I see is a hot brown liquid with a fresh sensory smell
This Poem Is About The Question Man Has Been Having For Time immemorial But Upto Now No Satifactory Answer Has He Found.
Next page