the pigeons here, they aren’t afraid
of the feet that walk past them
on this grey street,
they are aware of our stories
the places we go and the faces we meet
they are aware of the soggy tissues
that fall above, from the balconies
they are aware of the life and stories
that live in those used tissues - they examine it,
a tissue for a moment in the past,
they think, I believe, they know and hear the emotions in those tissues that dry and travel around in these streets,
they know the secrets and seen faces, that even our close ones, could not
and so
I don’t mind the falling objects
I don’t mind the speeding cars  
I don’t mind the distant face
that caused these distant scars

these pigeons, they see us from afar
they know my heart, they know your heart

-Kaya

A row of ten pigeons on the edge of
A roof while balancing their perspective
They bob their heads to be more objective
A few of course are at their beaks for love
Two among them resemble a white dove
As they fly my poetry finds motif
On my flower a few are destructive
For few minutes I look and dwell above
Suddenly a crow joins them in the row
I too am taken a little aback
Activities of the pigeons get slow
In the focus of pleasure a slight crack

Both the pigeons and crow in our thoughts grow
It’s good that now the white pigeons are back

Beggars line the busy streets
cup and cloth outstretched
the look of desperation etched on their faces
like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

they don't ask me for spare change
just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
the look of the street.

George Square is busy today
tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
a list of names they will never know
and marvel at the antiquated architecture
to later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
in a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
while they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
to the passing of a woman named Judith
the pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
the plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
like a coal fired power station  in the sunlight
this is where they go for over-priced craft ales
with Sautéed Wild Rabbit starter and £65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
a place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
the half-finished defiance of another £9 packet
that was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
pretending in mime to be semi-OK
that the compadres are running late
and "tell me about the theatre show later"
the misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
while my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
and the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
because I have the look of the street.

The
Drowsy dews
Engraves your name
Boldly amid the thorns of chilled~roses

■
So
Twerk nobly
And roll the blue pigeons
In me for trophies

■
But then
Let's marry together our lips
But to share,a sweet reverend kiss
And tune these red~roses blanch

■
Feel
The stars move
Roundabout my head
And together let's hold the rainbow
Splendour by sight

■
Toll
My hands
For every tender touch
But then,fathom deeply all the blush in me

■
Wrangle
Vanilla your arms around my neck
And rouse me to fear
But jocund,when I look into your eyes
Yet,impregnate me with your celestial desires

■
Civility!

You
Make me wonder
How you solemn calm my sighs
Of which haste in pants

■
Indeed
You are a sober tigeress
Misspoke of your elegant prowl

■
But now
Turn off the lights
And loft me the ranks
Of melting naked incense
And let's depart with a serene~peace

Beginners

©Historian E.Lexano

historianelexano.wordpress.com

Please kindly share

This year was different
or was it me?

same Trafalgar crowds
link-armed-laughing

pigeons
puff-chested gluttons

different air
full of afterthoughts
I could almost touch
fluttering away
like rusting leaves
on winter's breath

I waited
on our bench
dark cold
stark old
wood

lovers kissed shyly
birds squawked
she laughed
eyes wide
flushed cheeks

Valentine's heart pounding
in a fledgling chest

I wondered if she were me
willing me to remember
hugging him close

I longed
to melt inside her happiness

old words, love and burger-boxes
where do they go?

Hanging turtles and
Netted birds of amenity
Dangle from her
Left hip like jewels ‘neath a,
“Ming,” ear as she traverses
Mountains beholden kitchens
And one more rise come setting splendor.
Supper may be atop the right, pelvis,
But opposite and left,
Rests the flask, bitter in chase of sanity.

I’m sure the scant pebble
Rattling in between
Her stomach and sorrow
Was nothing more than
A desperate thirst opposed the
Blister born benevolence,
Thirst opposed execution
And a coin converted spirit opposed,
“Xie xie,” (thank you), a platitude,
As heads clip pavement,
Blood pales a gutter,
Or soon-to-be feast’s final throes,
A bleeding and breeding for other,
Leading jitter-beholden mice to flee,
For they may be next
So future’s victuals arrive
Unhindered.

All and assumptive, assistance and rendered,
She walks away with only this –
Everyone’s emaciated
And the butcher on the street is still a butcher,
A peddler, a savior, and butcher again;
A source, be it left, right or wrong,
In need of a drink, as we all are,
With only the means, “take me to the sip,”
And by dollar come pocket born you.

"If I was a bird, I'd be an owl."
If I was a bird, I'd be a-
"Don't say pigeon! I hate pigeons."
Pigeons? What is so horrid about them?
I thought and feared for my potential existence.
What if I was a pigeon?
What if my feathers were grey?
What if my belly was fat with breadcrumbs
and street scrap?
What if low coos did escape my throat
in efforts to keep warm and draw love?
What if children did push me to fly away?
What if I did choose to sit on trees,
and **** on statues of prominent people.
If I was a bird I'd be a warbler- no, a worrier.
One that plucks its feathers,
be it grey or rainbow-colored.
One that grows weak when flying in the cold,
but makes it south, all in all.
One that doesn't have a beautiful singing voice,
but chirps aways all in its lonesome.
If I was a bird, I'd peck at windows,
only to fly away
when someone comes to open it.
Because I know when I'm not welcome.

pigeons are so unappreciated
being the rats of the sky
they overpopulate the park benches
waiting for a crumb food supply

yet if you look at the bigger picture
isnt our species just the same
over populating social networks
waiting for a supply of attention or fame

and i use the word 'species' quite lightly
is human even an appropriate label
because most of us are so inhumane
compared to pigeons we are the unstable

pigeons just want food to live
humans live to want more
yet we are the ones shoo-ing them away
when they are the ones who deserve to be adored

i mean yeah they seem to be everywhere
but take a minute to look around
we are the ones causing the destruction
stuck on this filthy ground

they deserve this earth
and so do you and i
so next time you call any creature filthy remember
you are stuck on the ground as they are in the sky

There is incessant noise
in the city—as if the blinding light
blocking out the sky was not enough.
They never spread their wings, but oh,
do they spread far and wide; but their songs
are nothing to shake a tail-feather at.
The squabbling and screeching
of fighting roosters, the mimicry
of baby cockatiels finding their voices,
the chattering of gossiping hens,
hawks that stalk the night
only to swoop in screaming
at the first sparrow to cross their paths,
the mourning doves who wake alone
to cry and moan their songs of melancholy.

They remain awake and call out into the night
longer than the old owl in the park.

The ****** of crows bear witness
to the clamor on this night; looking on—
as the Eyes of God—
in disgust and judgment.
These tall, fleshy creatures see fit
to complain of the calls of pigeons and gulls
when their noise is the farthest-reaching plague
that keep all awake at night.