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Kristin 4d
A piece
of a ouija board
sits in the Los Angeles River
as the inky crows squawk nearby

I pace
along this polluted trickle
of a river
as the crows flutter by

a runner darts near
without his mask
I shudder

we all
fall down
Tim Morris Nov 12
i wonder why that group of crows, that ******,
burst forth from the treetops
of that tiny patch of woods
next to the city park -
silent, except for the beating of

sixteen pairs of wings -
an oddity if you know crows and their penchant
for jibber-jabber.
i wonder what it was that frightened them so,
and am unnerved by their silence.

unnerved by the knowledge that something
so sinister could be lurking so close
and not hiding behind a pulpit or badge.
the sun sets earlier and earlier these days,
and the news is always on.

Jonathan Moya Oct 28
The cairns are mothered
by murders of crows—

four stones as black as raven eggs,
others sky blue with specks of black,

pointing this way to heaven,
pointing this way to hell,

or is it to Tecumseh’s grave,
the bones of all buffaloes?

But then crows are great tricksters,
erecting spoof vortexes, medicine wheels.

They see everything at ground level,
the new landscape under their feet,
the old air lifting their wings.

They revel in the unbalancing
of everyday things

the sun, the moon,
the earth, the sky.

They will flip flop when all are asleep
and flop right back in the waking dream.  

Crows know the cairn formed
where Cain and David’s stone’s fell,
where Jesus dare not cast the first one.

They know what happened to those
who stole the middle stone
causing the soldier to come,

the ones who rose when
their gravestones were removed,

the ones that mark where
the things of life are buried,

even the feather cairns that line
to the final game jump.
Francie Lynch Oct 24
Two ebon crows got drunk last night,
Pecked their way into a fight;
Feathers flew as they clawed and cawed,
Till the losing crow pulled a gun in spite.
The other bird flew off in fright,.
Returning with a murderous flock,
And circled the gunner, a fierce gamecock.
They fluttered and feathered in a spree,
Then flipped before two crows winged off.

They returned with hair from a dead man's chest,
And proposed the two should build their nest.

They fashioned tools from human fingers,
Framed the nest with human femurs;
Used two green eyes to glaze windows;
Make a two car garage from the nose.
Are these not two of the smartest crows.

Next they laid out the toes
As hinges to swing their doors closed.
Each crow brought back an ear,
To hang on hinges, front and rear.
They peeled off lips, once used to talk,
And paved a route as their sidewalk.
They  yanked out teeth like skilled SS,
To tile bathroom and kitchenette.
Lastly, they peeled back the skin,
And wallpapered their nest,
And lived within.

See what's achieved by two drunk crows,
Who settled their scores
After crow blows.
Betty Jun 28
Crows eating roadkill
Feeding on the speed of man
Snatching life from death
practicing haikus
Broken mirrors
Broken hearts
Broken minds
Like shards of glass
The patterns forming a work of art
Shrouded by demons of the past

The black cat saunters over
Tipping salt as he alludes
To the bad luck I can’t dispose of
Rubbing salt into my wounds.

I see an Orthodox priest
A ***** blonde with blue eyes
The people murmur as he passes by
Garlic, they cry,
To fight the psychotic presence
In order to eliminate
This demonic essence.

He blessed an expectant mother
In flat #43
He doesn’t recognise her folly
And leaves her in glee.

A young soldier
One among 3
Died after his cigarette was lit
From the same matchstick
As the clock struck 4
A constant reminder
Of its incessant tick-tock
In spite of the woe

The woman- pregnant no more
Comes to the cemetery threshold
Wishing her late husband
And stillborn boy cheerio.

I look at the sky
There they glide, the harbingers of evil
Thick billed ravens and crows
A symbol of one’s sorrows
Flying over the dead
In search of a feast of despair.

Leaving my new shoes on the table
I kiss my love’s forehead
And point at the rainbow outside
While thinking I’m the luckiest woman alive.
Modra Galica Apr 29
She sits and stands, dances and spins.
Laughs a bit and then cries the saddest tear,
no fear in her eyes, a puzzle unsolvable.
And she knows she is capable of anything,
she can do magic and pull any string.
Sometimes a bit empty, in her thoughts she would sit,
every bit of her skin hot and wet, on the edge of the world.
Her glance deceives without you knowing,
her eyes going far while she disappears
to some other loves, never fully happy
curiously lost, those dark and wild things...
and she can stare at clouds for hours,
at rain, black bird's wings...
And then she slips out my hands,
once strong and now weak as spiderweb.
And she sings, what is life but a dream, deception?
Then I admire her, and want her for myself
to hold on to her for another moment.
And as the sunset watches us, I know
I am the one being left without her, alone.
As she seduces, as she chants and sings,
she is my maiden, my God, the black bird's wings.
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