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Cori MacNaughton Jun 2015
Listening to birds
our doves and all the wildlings
brightens my mornings
The sixth of nine short poems written before I got out of bed this morning.
c.2015 Cori MacNaughton
scar Jun 2015
The hair falls, blonde and long:
A cherished doll. Birdsong
Echoes through the dale, as
Twilight casts its gaze and vixens wail.
Sparks driven out as spikes driven in
Places gone, things untold; people she's been.
An openness: the silky vapour
Evaporates, yet cannot escape her
Cocoa eyes, wide as the day they met.
He sees her yet. He hears her yet.
Though she says no words, casts a glance
Over her shoulder, flying askance
Ringlets quiver in the breeze,
Yet in the shadow of the trees,
No man appears. And yet she hears
A pheasant's cry: the yellowest canary
Its song a desperate scream, contrary
Muntjacs dance with target tails,
But the *****, ever hidden, wails.
Noor May 2015
A sun, shinning through looking glass
Broken pieces of me are glowing with remorse
Can you tell, how lovely tea leaves are singing
Duets with crows and ravens
Everything shines in glory, shines in regrets
Falling in reverse, crying in reverse
Gone are the ghosts, gone are dreams
How lovely are the birds' beaks
Integrating with the sea's edge
Joining the dead ships and shells
Keeping the diseases, keeping the rain
Low sounds, do you remember how it felt when we said goodbye?
Melodies discharging tears from their eyes like a funeral's crowd
No more remorse, no more regrets
Opening their mouths but the words are trapped like birds in cages
Pills are choking them, stuffing their bodies
Quite was the day, loud was the night with screams from within
Run for your life, or run for your death
Sick were my dreams, sick with my insanity
This birdsong, it's haunting you, haunting me
Under pressure, under which gate is the key?
Vaulted were their smiles, like an ancient city
With sorrow it is, vaulted is the gate to you
Xeroxing my needs, every inch of my pride
You have set my soul on fire, I'm burned to the ground
Zonked out, exhausted by the lies that lingered through your skin, through mine.
Goutam Raveri May 2015
As I was a child,
Unlike the normal mass.
I wanted to be the nightingale
The best in class.

A habit I planted,
In the Garden of Eden.
Watered by the grief of my past,
As it grew taller, the fruit sweetened.

I had sinned,
Profited from competition’s demise.
Stole his talent,
Grew in age but not that wise.

What enables, divine
What disables, human.
Got out of luck and empathy,

In apathy, like an ungrateful yeoman.

Couldn't wash the mirror,
Need to wash my face.
Blinded by my addiction of fame,
Embryonic, falling from the summit in rage.

Now I am a pavement artist,
Pride and sin hath a fall.
Living with and like stray,
Failing my life as the nature called.
Ella Gwen Apr 2015
I walk through the groves and the singing treetops
silence enrobing every sound, in these places where
people lay still living, under the ground,
for here the grass grows the greenest
and the trees all stand tall, yes
they are gone, but they did not long fall.
Grame Rabbit Mar 2015
Attentive student of the songs of birds,
    No beakèd beast hath e'er more sweetly trill'd
A pair of notes or call'd in major thirds
    Or minor with musicality more skill'd.
Adaptive linguist, practic'd in the tongue  
    Of wingèd feather'd creatures, thou hast writ
Into "The Birdsong Songbook" songs unsung
    By birds which yet harmoniously fit.
And though the book began in higher throats
    Diversely tun'd by Nature's artful hand
Ere measur'd were the times and tones of notes,
    (Which often rest them now upon a stand),
Its finest lines (o'er which I now do rave)
Witness thy penmanship on every stave.

^ ^
Grame Rabbit Mar 2015
Where daffodils
Perfume the breeze,
And chirps and trills
Concert the trees,
And nectar spills
From mouths of bees,
I find my thrills,
My fun, my ease.
And though it ills
I rather please
To take green hills
With allergies.
Benadryl pills?
No thanks: I’ll sneeze.

^ ^
Grame Rabbit Mar 2015
In semitones it sang its morning song:
With perfect intonation did it sound
Each pitch-pure shaft of tone to richly confound
The staccato, choppy, chirpy, cheepy throng.
After this phrase of notes sung clear and strong,
A cadence-closing burst of trill unwound,
Shaken out taut and cinching, fast and round,
That lasted to the pure tones doubly long.
More beautiful singing I have never heard,
And yet was I inclined to doubt its worth.
I silenced my mind and listened to the earth,
And this was in the singing of the bird:
If all the world will be the way it is,
Be thankful for the bird that sings like this.

^ ^
The Terry Tree Nov 2014
Topaz dreams and fire flowers
Find their way into
Shadows and streams
In the space between
Our hearts and minds
Seams of alchemy
Blowing stars into birds
To touch our courageous
Sunlit beams
Dripping
Kissing
We

Keep
Running from our light
Praying that we’ll stay
Painting colors oh so bright
In the emotions we display
Flying

We are a painting in one another
A brush stroke full of hope
A paradox of intimately curious
Wings that have found a way to cope
Building a birdhouse home
On the backs of each other
Bones and sacred stones
A paradox of intimately curious
Wild tornadoes

Embracing
We walk in dark we walk in day
With footsteps often clumsy
And telepathy is not as easy as
Psychics will convey

Your hair is made of flowers
Or at least it seems that way
Our hearts are painted gold close to
The way the yellow birds that play
Around us when we stand
Glowing in our space
Exclusively
Beneath the tree
We made
Where Amen’s tears
The sun god
Rain

Around our love
Rushing in rushing out
Breathing in breathing out
Hold me close push me away
Both of us praying the other
One will stay
Kneeling
Pray

We are a painting in one another
A brush stroke full of hope
A paradox of intimately curious
Wings that have found a way to cope
Building a birdhouse home
On the backs of each other
Bones and sacred stones
A paradox of intimately curious
Wild tornadoes

This is our butterfly parade

© tHE tERRY tREE
We are selfish
Why?
Well,
Because we think this world is ours.
It is ours to run
It is ours to cherish
It is ours to ruin
Why?
Because we think that flowers are beautiful
We pick them, we pluck them
As if they bloom for us
Why?
Because we think birdsong is charming
We imitate it
We sell it, we listen to it
As if they sing for us
Well we are selfish
I am selfish
You are selfish
Don't deny it
We are all selfish
We are all human
We are all the same
Aren't we?

— The End —