"beak" poems
824
[first version]
The Wind begun to knead the Grass—
As Women do a Dough—
He flung a Hand full at the Plain—
A Hand full at the Sky—
The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad—
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands—
And throw away the Road—
The Wagons—quickened on the Street—
The Thunders gossiped low—
The Lightning showed a Yellow Head—
And then a livid Toe—
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests—
The Cattle flung to Barns—
Then came one drop of Giant Rain—
And then, as if the Hands
That held the Dams—had parted hold—
The Waters Wrecked the Sky—
But overlooked my Father’s House—
Just Quartering a Tree—
[second version]
The Wind begun to rock the Grass
With threatening Tunes and low—
He threw a Menace at the Earth—
A Menace at the Sky.
The Leaves unhooked themselves from Trees—
And started all abroad
The Dust did scoop itself like Hands
And threw away the Road.
The Wagons quickened on the Streets
The Thunder hurried slow—
The Lightning showed a Yellow Beak
And then a livid Claw.
The Birds put up the Bars to Nests—
The Cattle fled to Barns—
There came one drop of Giant Rain
And then as if the Hands
That held the Dams had parted hold
The Waters Wrecked the Sky,
But overlooked my Father’s House—
Just quartering a Tree—
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Feathers glimmer and shine
As though covered in fish oil
I lubricate the brain
As I slip through the sky
With a frictionless flicker
My lightening wings
Brain waves rapidly fluctuate
Perfect balance held
Between left and right
Each wing a hemisphere
As they beat and beat
Accelerating into hyper speed
80 to a hundred or more
Beats per second
As though injected
With a sonic speed
Synapses bursting and exploding
Exponentially connecting
Blistering wing speed
I become electric
My circuits exploring
Rippling and flickering through paper
My brain comes alive
Flashing multicolored lights
Like the cities nights
But still spaces collect around me
As I am buffered from the world
Perfectly still though standing
On an invisible ledge
I hold my mind in place
While I hum in space
Head down I drop my beak
Into a funnel of concentration
As I tunnel into trumpets
Penetrating deep I flower
In new knowledge
Polar aspects of mind
Released through coherent communication
Set free with coordination
I seek to marry chalk and cheese
As I hold the balance
Between two worlds
Flashing synapses firing
And combusting
Against pointed concentration
My mind juggles two *****
Expanding into their fullness
Expressing vibrant color
My slippery slender beak
Slips and slides in
As I flutter through pages
I discover new unexpected surprises
Problems solved, Startling adventures
And puzzles completed
I find the sugary syrup
The delicate delicious sweet spot
With the thrill of falling domino's
Spilling and cascading
Many ripples fanning out
Through my mind
I find freedom
Each ripple massaging my mind
I am catapulted into outer space
I dance from fact to golden fact
As I am propelled forward on stardust
My momentum shoots me forward
I bounce and bounce
My mind becoming unbounded
I enjoy this great Hummingbird delight
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Cardinal
Oh, Cardinal
You great scarlet bird.
You hop along my porch rail
But you don't say a word.
Defiant
So Defiant
Of nature's camouflage.
There is no way to hide
Your bright red entourage.
Orange
Bright Orange.
Your sharp pointy beak.
Gathers the worms and the seeds
All the meals that you seek.
Feed
Feed her.
This mate that you court.
Such a noble young man
You dance and cavort.
Sing
Sing sweet
You and your friends
I'll love your songs every morning
'Til winter comes 'round again.
Babies
Your babies
I'll meet them come next year.
When in the Fall, they'll alight on my porch
And bring my morning's cheer.
Cardinal
Oh, Cardinal
I'm so glad you're here, you see.
I knew your parents and now you have come
Singing just for me.
Mar 14, 2018
Mar 14, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
i had a little parrot all he did was curse
as he was getting older the swearing it got worse
i covered up his cage but this it made him mad
the swearing it got louder the language really bad
so i tied his beak up to put it to an end
rude gestures with his feet he began to send
then i tied his feet up he fell down to the floor
the parrot he is dead now no swearing anymore
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
i saw two little love birds sat up in a tree
very much in love as happy as can be
they would kiss each other with there little beak
then cuddle up so closely touching cheek to cheek
it was nice to watch as lovely as can be
i sat there a while wishing it was me
then they flew away up in the sky above
flying side by side so very much in love
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:46 AM UTC
My parrot is emerald green,
His tail feathers, marine.
He bears an orange half-moon
Over his ivory beak.
He must be believed to be seen,
This bird from a Rousseau wood.
When the urge is on him to speak,
He becomes too true to be good.
He uses his beak like a hook
To lift himself up with or break
Open a sunflower seed,
And his eye, in a bold white ring,
Has a lapidary look.
What a most astonishing bird,
Whose voice when he chooses to sing
Must be believed to be heard.
That stuttered staccato scream
Must be believed not to seem
The shriek of a witch in the room.
But he murmurs some muffled words
(Like someone who talks through a dream)
When he sits in the window and sees
The to-and-fro wings of wild birds
In the leafless improbable trees.
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Birds are flyin' south for winter.
Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north,
Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin',
Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth.
He says, "It's not that I like ice
Or freezin' winds and snowy ground.
It's just sometimes it's kind of nice
To be the only bird in town."
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Never think that dead leaves cannot speak.
Words can be uttered without mouth or beak.
Come in heard to hear and they'll remain mum.
To hear them in solitude you need to come.
Loneliness and silence are their best friend.
You can listen only if truth you seek and intend.
If you've mind and heart to listen, men of clay!
Words more worthy than living they can say.
If your heart is strong and if you have no fear.
Then in storms they are very loud, very clear.
And if your heart is weak in breeze come near.
Truth of this life they will whisper in your ear.
Nov 5, 2014
Nov 5, 2014 at 9:22 PM UTC
it landed on my shoulder
and chirped in my ear
your voice
i closed its beak
but it rang in my ear
its ignorant eyes blinked
vaguely back
i had made you up
once again
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:20 PM UTC
When Crow was white he decided the sun was too white.
He decided it glared much too whitely.
He decided to attack it and defeat it.
He got his strength up flush and in full glitter.
He clawed and fluffed his rage up.
He aimed his beak direct at the sun's centre.
He laughed himself to the centre of himself
And attacked.
At his battle cry trees grew suddenly old,
Shadows flattened.
But the sun brightened—
It brightened, and Crow returned charred black.
He opened his mouth but what came out was charred black.
"Up there," he managed,
"Where white is black and black is white, I won."
10k
people **** people
with nothing but fingers and hair
and their very heavy breath.
their breath like a crow beak
before crucifixes of straw. like a tightening banishment of a lung.
remember when we would blow it
onto our car window and create that
consistent mirth of fog to
begin in?
the bodies riddled with bullets that flank
the highway are no such thing.
the schoolchildren lying face down in the corner of the closet are no such thing.
they are just winter coats with schoolchildren to fill them
for the time being.
no amputation of what’s mine
will aid them into the grave.
no mass communication grief. so
why would you call it a mass grave when in truth it was just a pit i dug to fill with crowds of people who died under the pretense that they had previously done so,
that nothing was new under the sun.
and when people **** people like people
do with their instruments
as ways of extending themselves into the world and into the marrow of our body
obliterating organs of people with their stretching of the muscular rib, shoulder.
one eye closes firmly.
it’s nothing but a hand gun
as if to say a hand eats the gun
and makes it whole.
as if to say the reinforced metal door
exit plan for people who are being killed by other people clicked shut and locked
15,000 years ago and i can’t quit slamming what’s left of me into it.
your kid is very dead.
but then again so is mine.
suppose they killed each other.
suppose they both made the mistake of dragging their small, stupid bodies through the trajectory of another body in the first place. in the chip aisle of a gas station maybe. in theaters this christmas.
in the midst of a good song that began playing on the lobby radio
just a minute before,
oh yeah before,
things really got going.
i saw people killing people
on television the other day
with their
whole bodies,
devouring themselves like surgical gloves
slick with oiled consumption
and bleeding out
and i could do nothing.
some kids died just because
and they told me so and i was told nothing could ever help them because they were just people and they were dying.
“breaking news” ended up just being people again.
in those moments, i was eating breakfast.
our houses were very quiet and needed me in all of them, grandfather clock over CNN, clarifying what has already been
committed and committed again.
the cipher was others lost blood.
Dec 9, 2019
Dec 9, 2019 at 12:24 AM UTC
I will love you no matter how many mistakes I make when trying to reduce fractions, and no matter how difficult it is to memorize the periodic table. I will love you as the manatee loves the head of lettuce and as the dark spot loves the leopard, as the leech loves the ankle of a wader and as a corpse loves the beak of a vulture. I will love you as the iceberg loves the ship, and the passengers love the lifeboat and the lifeboat loves the teeth of the ***** whale, and the ***** whale loves the flavor of naval uniforms. I never want to be away from you again, except at work, in the restroom or when one of us is at a movie the other does not want to see.
I will love you as we find ourselves farther and farther from one another, where we once were so close that we could slip the curved straw, and the long, slender spoon, between our lips and fingers respectively. I will love you until the chances of us running into one another slip from slim to zero, and until your face is fogged by distant memory, and your memory faced by distant fog, and your fog memorized by a distant face, and your distance distanced by the memorized memory of a foggy fog. I will love you no matter where you go and who you see, no matter where you avoid and who you don’t see, and no matter who sees you avoiding where you go. I will love you no matter what happens to you, and no matter how I discover what happens to you, and no matter what happens to me as I discover this, and no matter how I am discovered after what happens to me as I am discovering this.
I will love you as a drawer loves a secret compartment, and as a secret compartment loves a secret, and as a secret loves to make a person gasp, and as a gasping person loves a glass of brandy to calm their nerves, and as a glass of brandy loves to shatter on the floor, and as the noise of glass shattering loves to make someone else gasp, and as someone else gasping loves a nearby desk to lean against, even if leaning against it presses a lever that loves to open a drawer and reveal a secret compartment. I will love you until all such compartments are discovered and opened, and until all the secrets have gone gasping into the world.
I will love you as misfortune loves orphans, as fire loves innocence, and as justice loves to sit and watch while everything goes wrong.
I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.
Strange as it may seem, I still hope for the best, even though the best, like an interesting piece of mail, so rarely arrives, and even when it does it can be lost so easily.
Life will never end when you are in it.”
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
**squinting up the leaves of the bountiful tree
i espied a mango ripe and soft with goodness
as the sun came gently filtering through
aloft the wings of a little fellow with a long beak
and a brisk song to celebrate dinner found
my feathered visitor hovered above the vintage prize
and as his thirsty proboscis drilled the succulent mango
the warm enticing juice, natural and healthy as ever,
drip-settled in the base of my hungry open eye
i thought i heard a flourish in the triumphant bird-song
such as one at the fall of a big wicket; and
in that slow-motion moment, i knew: the mango was his,
and it'd now be eat and let eat, till the last delectable mango**
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 10:19 AM UTC
Observing Raven feather-full,
A gleam of blue on black.
The beady eye could look at me
And widen every crack.
Mocking with
Hollow call.
Watch! Don’t let that feather fall.
Promises it’s not hole.
The Raven whispers thoughts of doubt,
Insides sobbing “let me out!"
A thought indeed bizarre
But one can only think that...
“Maybe these birds are?"
A glooming sense of winged wisdom,
Although black and beady eyed,
It would not come as a shock
That their little birds, they never cried!
One cannot help but wonder
If they can see indoors?
Of course it may not seem so
but they always come in fours!
Look out the window frame,
Take a peek!
Observe the Raven’s coarse black beak.
*Just mind he doesn’t watch you back,
Or he will widen every crack.*
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
Across the leaden sky
A gull shooting a cry
Hurried to his task
Before the sky puts on his mask.
Nobody knew what his task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hurry because
From the open he had to retreat.
The bird knew this but he was wayward
Swimming in the airy wave, beak forward -
Skating, flying, but always eastward -
Heedless of the dark, like a poet.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:37 PM UTC
Somebody is shooting at something in our town --
A dull pom, pom in the Sunday street.
Jealousy can open the blood,
It can make black roses.
Who are the shooting at?
It is you the knives are out for
At Waterloo, Waterloo, Napoleon,
The **** of Elba on your short back,
And the snow, marshaling its brilliant cutlery
Mass after mass, saying Shh!
Shh! These are chess people you play with,
Still figures of ivory.
The mud squirms with throats,
Stepping stones for French bootsoles.
The gilt and pink domes of Russia melt and float off
In the furnace of greed. Clouds, clouds.
So the swarm ***** and deserts
Seventy feet up, in a black pine tree.
It must be shot down. Pom! Pom!
So dumb it thinks bullets are thunder.
It thinks they are the voice of God
Condoning the beak, the claw, the grin of the dog
Yellow-haunched, a pack-dog,
Grinning over its bone of ivory
Like the pack, the pack, like everybody.
The bees have got so far. Seventy feet high!
Russia, Poland and Germany!
The mild hills, the same old magenta
Fields shrunk to a penny
Spun into a river, the river crossed.
The bees argue, in their black ball,
A flying hedgehog, all prickles.
The man with gray hands stands under the honeycomb
Of their dream, the hived station
Where trains, faithful to their steel arcs,
Leave and arrive, and there is no end to the country.
Pom! Pom! They fall
Dismembered, to a tod of ivy.
So much for the charioteers, the outriders, the Grand Army!
A red tatter, Napoleon!
The last badge of victory.
The swarm is knocked into a cocked straw hat.
Elba, Elba, bleb on the sea!
The white busts of marshals, admirals, generals
Worming themselves into niches.
How instructive this is!
The dumb, banded bodies
Walking the plank draped with Mother France's upholstery
Into a new mausoleum,
An ivory palace, a crotch pine.
The man with gray hands smiles --
The smile of a man of business, intensely practical.
They are not hands at all
But asbestos receptacles.
Pom! Pom! 'They would have killed me.'
Stings big as drawing pins!
It seems bees have a notion of honor,
A black intractable mind.
Napoleon is pleased, he is pleased with everything.
O Europe! O ton of honey!
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.
O
o o
O
O o
O
•fill our beak-
er with un-
told chem-
icals•com-
patible so-
lvents that
fizz... with
bubbles•m-
ix them in to get
the most homogene-
ous of solutions•introdu-
ce heat in the likes of passion
•never a clean reaction, there will
be residue• never right the first time,
failed attempts will be a few......• but once
distilled from undesirable impurity•........then
handle the mixture with utmost sensitivity........•
you'll get a result that can't be bought with money•
because this love in our hearts is the product of
pure chemistry•
.
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
I am your bird of prey
Caught between 2 posts
And a glistening fence.
Neck broken,
beak to the ground,
Half way trapped inside
your field of green.
I am your bird of prey,
Wings on a wire,
Still soft and light,
with feathers gleaming
where promise of flight,
newly broken, fell to earth.
'Twas passion that lured me to your
nest, where the cloud kissed Sun
with time
turned ashen my listless frame.
A testament to nature's seduction,
there was no escaping
your embrace
As the warmth
slowly left
my still
beating
heart.
May 11, 2017
May 11, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC
Across the leaden sky
A gull shooting a cry,
Hastens to his final task
Before the sky puts on his mask.
No one knew what his final task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hasten because
From the open he had to retreat.
This the bird knew, but he was wayward;
He swam in the airy waves, beak forward,
Skating-flying, but always eastward,
Heedless of the dark - like a poet.
©LazharBouazzi, 2017
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
My beak will tear and rip and pull,
And feed on memory's corpse,
All is food to the one who calls,
And walks the dusk and dawn,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds lost things that none could find,
And brings them home with me,
The babbles I seek I will always take,
To decorate my nest,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Up mountains so tall that no one can climb,
But I can fly so high,
Across endless plains no on can cross,
But I can fly so fast,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
Across endless seas where all become lost,
But I can fly so strong,
Through dark woods so dark no one can see,
But I cam fly beyond,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
And finds the secrets among all our thoughts,
And finds out all there is,
The paths I fly no one can go,
The treasures are mine alone,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
I am the Raven of Dreams,
Who wanders the dreamscapes of yore,
I pluck the thoughts and memories,
That aren't remembered no more,
Shiny things in thoughts and dreams,
And babbles of treasure lost,
In memories long faded away,
In dreams that will live on.
~I am the Raven of Dreams, a Poem of Candlemas by Bethany "Lorekeeper" Davis, February 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 4:04 AM UTC
Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The ****
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that
His hair long and plausive
*******
************ a glitter
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
6.2k
I’ll split the hairs, I’ll split an atom
And never leave the bedroom.
I most identify with December,
Not because of the crushing temperature
But the lack of cosmic dawdling
Is no more mesmerizing than a frozen phoenix.
And as she arrives by train from Phoenix,
I study who she appears to be, the atoms
Composing her auburn hair with dawdling
Authenticity shout “Take me to the bedroom!”
While the wedge of geese in this temperature
Head to the Southern Hemisphere’s December.
The common chill of this morning in December
Prevents us from rising from out the covers like a phoenix,
And our blankets like ash defend us from the temperature
That stills the vibrations of the atmosphere’s atoms.
I curse the insulated walls of the bedroom,
Trapping in heat and discouraging our dawdling.
A rafter of turkeys outside my window are dawdling,
Printing their runes on the documents of December
Between the thickets surrounding the bedroom
While the sun, golden like the plumage of a phoenix,
Awakens in my bones every dormant atom,
Instilling in me courage to brave the temperature.
I follow her, dressed, from the bedroom
And her footsteps serve to punctuate the temperature
Like the smoldering beak of a phoenix
Too busy being risen for dawdling.
She leaves, by train through the chill of December,
Me daydreaming of fission. The splitting of an atom.
I’ll split an atom daily, safely within the bedroom
And sleep through December’s pitiless, hollow temperature,
Waking only for dawdling until Spring is a phoenix.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 10:16 PM UTC
1059
Sang from the Heart, Sire,
Dipped my Beak in it,
If the Tune drip too much
Have a tint too Red
Pardon the Cochineal—
Suffer the Vermillion—
Death is the Wealth
Of the Poorest Bird.
Bear with the Ballad—
Awkward—faltering—
Death twists the strings—
’Twasn’t my blame—
Pause in your Liturgies—
Wait your Chorals—
While I repeat your
Hallowed name—
6.2k
Did I notice little birds early in the morning,
Flying and hopping, chirping and tweeting..
Different families of birds chirping..
Brown, yellow chested, black with long tail and orange beak, house sparrow too,
Hens and cock's crow too...
All are busy talking
Do they ever listen too??
**
As a child I remember,
**
I Came back from school and twittered about my day,
Each evening my family sat around each other,
And all had to speak at once,
None of us there were listeners..
So what one could hear was lots of twitterati..
My mom just said hmm and hmm..
Never really heard my endless stories..
My brother was gem...
He always heard..
Don't know how much.. Though
Each sentence of mine ended
on
.. Is it not bro?... And yes said he always..!
From those carefree twittering to this day,
Life has moved so much..
**
Life always moves, one always grow,
From constant chatter to a deep silence.
And so
**
I wonder do birds ever become silent..
From Cuckoo to Wisdomed Owl
From experienced Eagle to the chirping house sparrow..
Do they too grow silent when old??
The early morning chirping,
Is it from young birds??
Are the old one just saying hmmm
Are they listening ?
Or are they talking?
Ever wondered what happens in birds world??
**
Though nothing much changed now in my house..
**
We still speak at the same time
We hardly have ear for other's stories..
But now we don't speak our heart out..
We are not those chirping type anymore,
We speak about our performance,
We speak about our achievement
We speak about the praises we receive..
We give our Wisdom,
We give our advice..
**
But we hardly speak about ourselves..
**
Sometimes, I still long to be that child again..
Twittering my tongue constantly..
Till my mother yells "Shhh! keep quiet"
And my brother says.. I am listening.. you say..!!!
**
Alas, life moves on, life always make one grow..
**
Sparkle in Wisdom
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:15 PM UTC