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annh May 2022
Ducks wrestle doubly
Wet from rain and river flow;
As above…qua-a-ack…so below.
‘Some people talk nonstop, but say nothing. Ducks speak only one word, quack, and communicate everything.’
- Jarod Kintz, Ducks are the Stars of the Karaoke Bird World
Thomas Steyer Aug 2021
I ordered a wheelchair for my mother
The rest of the family was filled with horror
As it might make her feel sicker and look much older

She's weak, no surprise at ninety-four
She can walk maybe fifty yards but no more
She was a ballerina and raised kids no less than four

Cancelled the order but it was too late
When it arrived I rolled her through the gate
Really enjoyed ourselves, luckily she's of little weight

Arriving at the park, she was delighted
Seeing the flowers the ducks, she got excited
She held my hand and we were pleased to be united.
missanthrope May 2021
I love
the sum of
the sun,
the summer.
every bleak winter day
I wait for the sun
to kiss me

but today
her kiss
is unbearable
torching my eyes
blazing past my eyelids
radiating right through my core
extinguishing me from within.

every bleak second of today
I waited for the sun
to go

all I wanted
some more shuttered seconds
some more blissful blackout
some more ducky dreams.
Thomas W Case Feb 2021
You used to search my back, arms, and even my *** for zits.
When you found one, you went to
work at popping it.
It hurt like hell, but I never
said anything, because it seemed to
bring you such pleasure.
Sometimes, I don't even think there
was a zit.You would just squeeze a
freckle or birthmark.

And chocolate, for God's sake, you loved it.
Whenever I could afford it, I'd
buy you chocolate bars.And when I
couldn't, I'd steal them.
You hated me stealing, but you
loved chocolate.

In those golden Summer evenings,
I remember carrying your son on
my shoulders into the pink and
lavender sunsets.
We had story time on the Shelter couch,
your head resting on my shoulder.

But time, as it always does, rages on.
You have your son, your apartment, your job.
I have my river, my writing. and my ducks.
I feed them bread, not chocolate.
And although they wake me up at dawn by
walking on my back, they don't
mess with the zits.

I've trained them to eat bread out
of my hand.Their little tongues feel
like sandpaper.
I'll never look at
zits and chocolate the same.
Unpolished Ink Nov 2020
Calm on the surface
Frantic paddling underneath
Ducks mirror the world
Jackie Mead Sep 2020
We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, let me tell you what we see.

We are going to the river, with a bag of stale bread.
Fighting off seagulls and pigeons as they hover above our heads.

We will pass by the riverbanks where grasses and trees grow tall.
Watching and listening to the river as it tumbles, rolls, and roars.

We will see flowers of different colours.  White daisies, yellow buttercups, blue cornflowers, covering the parklands in a dazzling display.
My Granny says seeing the kaleidoscope of colours makes her day!

We will pass by rabbits hopping about their homes of grassy mounds.
Every now and then pricking up their ears; listening to every sound.

We will pass by geese gathered in a gaggle.
Big bottomed geese walking with a waggle.

We will pass by swans gliding with their necks held high.
Several young cygnets tucked in and swimming by their mums side.

We will pass all these wonders of nature as we make our way to the ducks.
Listening for every quack and cluck.

We reach our goal with a bag of bread in-hand.
Throwing the bread to the ducks who say thank you with a “quack” and a “cluck.”
Before you know it, the swans are there too.  Then the seagulls and pigeons “shoosh, go away you!”

Ducks are the best of the lot you see.  They make me laugh; I think they are funny.
No particular reason but my granny says, “It is because I am only three.”

We’re going on a duck hunt; just granny and me!
We’re going on a duck hunt, to feed the ducks their tea.
Ah, the best days are spent with my three-year-old grandson.  It's the little things we cherish.
Norman Crane Aug 2020
Ducks upon the surface of a lake
Of man-made run off
What great ripples they make
Diving under, flapping their wings
Without asking I wonder
Why for ducks water is water
Glacial or sewer-bound
Backswamp or uptown reservoir
It's not maker but mark which matters
So why is this distinction so profound to me?
Why Nature's acts
     Do I endeavour to explain
Whereas for man's
     I seek firstly to lay blame?
Demi May 2020
I watch a couple outside, they howl,
shove, whip up a tornado that
tears them to shreds.
If only and how and why!

Next day, two ducks land in my
garden. They sleep in tandem and work
together chasing off a sneaky stout crow.  
Under the sycamore,

they exist in this moment,
only this one.
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