"beaked" poems
Lone leatherback cruises up from the deep, pausing on the fragile reef
to feast ancient eyes upon the show, a bright parade laid out below
butterfly couples paired for life, graceful angels in black and white stripe
brilliant clowns and their toxic lovers, a plodding gang of giant groupers
puffers bob like comic balloons, humble gobies on every menu
beaked parrotfish grinding the coral down, in the ears a constant sound
cowfish blowing puckered kisses, sea stars catching fishy wishes
white-tipped, hammerhead, tiger sharks, triggerfish mean bite worse than their bark
untamed unicorns too wild to ride, dogfish snapping, biting alongside
coral trout color-shifting fools, attracting ladies in dull-hued schools
**** headed wrasse rumbling through, thick lips mumbling go get a room
sea horses nod in labyrinth caves, razor-toothed eels lying in wait
if tentacled embrace should be your fate, nudibranchs will light the way
to a place of bliss, none of this can exist, without the builders
coral and algae bewildered, the ways of man egotistical
rising ocean temperatures, carbon emissions, and el Niño
victim of abundant greed, say goodbye to the Great Barrier Reef
so massive is this magical place, one can see it from outer space
astronauts witness its demise, ninety-percent barren, bleached bone white.
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
Banana splits lickedy his spican-and-span throbbing
peninsula clock jar.
The scar from his far faux **** ignited his beating
hexagonal calendar.
Which is used to peruse the jujubees metallic books in the public
libation crazy train station.
His ecstatic adulation exemplifies why diamonds are
a girl gorilla's favorite soap.
His floating cubed boat is on a remote desert
impala growling at the turquoise toilet.
But his spoiled toys are annoyed about the choice between life or
demonstrative sponsored concerts by budweiser.
Woeful razor beaked birds marvel at absurd his Salvador
Daoist Dharma surreal cereal caramel karma flakes.
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
Hydrophilic Am I
Whenever it comes to you
As you carry me on my back
Light as a feather
Willing to go along with you
Because you'll always be there
And if I ever need a reminder
On how much you love me
I just count the waves
For I know the love you have for me
Is deeper than the submerge of a Cuvier's beaked whale
I Do not fear when you carry me ashore
A surrounding I don't know
For I know you were just taking a rest
For the next journey
You're going to take me on
If you were to ever play too rough
I Just swim beneath your tides
Because you'll protect along this rough ride
As along as we're together
We can face challenges
As high as the sky
I want you to be there with me
For every step I take
As the moonlight helps guides new life
Into your door each night
How the lobster and crab tickle you
Or when the sting rays decide to play Hide and Seek
I'll be there to witness the coral reefs decorating your floor
You've been around for years
And all you want is a friend
So I do not fear when you take me in
For it's a welcome like never before
All you want is for me to take this journey with you
For your friends usually come and go
Your shores go from being filled with laughter to the silence of the night
No more picnics or campfires
Just trash to remind you of the times you had
When the Bonze Sphere is no longer hot
No one comes to visit you anymore
it's like they forgot
I see it in your eyes that you long for lasting friend
So just know when I step foot inside your door
I'm here to stay for a little while more
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 3:29 AM UTC
On wind torn cliffs
they hop and bound
these bright beaked birds
diminutive sweet clowns
They are prey to many a Gull
skewers do take them on wing petrol
cute and gentle they look to me
yet never to small fish of the salt seas
See them plunder the shallows
then rise from water cold and blue
watch them in their cubersome wonder
flying and flapping like humming birds
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 13, 2013
Nov 13, 2013 at 9:27 PM UTC
In that age of aged seasons
predating our own's four-square rhyme,
a reasonable jape was hatched
beaked but hairy to a guilt-free Hen
whose humors ran with jaw-slackening
creatures, foul and not at all bird-like.
Soon after its mixed-up cracking,
two prattle-prone Wrens hopped to spread
rumors of an un-chickity chick
and the ungodly origins
of fatherless yowls. Their tittered jeers
found welcome ears, and Mother Hen preened
her babe chased by merciless guffaws.
This Hen was not one to lay
down meekly, and a never stony
tongue rolled out its antidote myth
to a pair of gabby Gulls: "My child
may look not-much, but he's divine
engendered and miraculous born.
Sure he's messy, ah, but you'll see
he'll grow to be, much-much-more than
any feathery tykes your like did bear."
She clucked it so seriously,
who were they to doubt her? The plumed
sniggering ceased. But before another
grateful day could dawn in a hallelujah
glare of right angles, out pecking
up a snack, Mother made eye
contact with an unfortunate Fate
brandishing his lucky-gripped ax.
What of her wonder-why, joke of a boy?
Left alone at straw-pocket home,
waiting for his Hen to return,
he starved then decayed to hollow bones,
and was never thought of again.
Apr 1, 2010
Apr 1, 2010 at 12:43 PM UTC
Sylvia Plath was always my Favourite writer
Ever since i Realised i was Esther in Disguise
with my trembling bambi-legs and great doe-eyes.
Ruined Bloodied Ruptured
by my First Embrace
The rings of His love-bites held me in place;
they looked like Chains of lace.
i look around me and wonder what people see.
Do they see the same girl that i see
Preserved in the amber bud of His eye?
Shrunken Bruised Browned Buried
Under the mountains of His lies
'Here she lies, Esther in Disguise'.
Or do they see the girl that can't ever make up her Mind?
And just won't Decide
Who she is and what she wants to be?
How did I get here, under that same Bell Jar, like thousands of other women before me?
I'm Cut
Off by the Sea.
And in my Isolation,
(On That island of Desperation)
All I can hear are the forlorn Kisses of the Tide
Stifling Suction on a Sandy Shore
Replacing the musing mewls of knife-beaked gulls
"I am I am I am"
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
The little bird landed,
the little tan, brown feathers, and
feet hopped, and beaked head, pecked at specks,
under the outdoor chairs.
I spied with my eye,
the carefree chickadee bird dance,
it may have pranced, while it found food to feed,
outside my window seat.
My chickadee friend would,
move from fleck to chunk, head
turning, quickly with ***** and flit if need be
to find safety, outside the coffee shoppe.
The flock would leave this harvest,
in front of me to the tree branches not too far
from the cars and coffee drinkers, who smoked and
ate the pastries and the breads, crumbs dropped here
and everywhere, just payment for the dance.
Mar 30, 2013
Mar 30, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
Before my eyes,
The sea stretches far;
An infinite scroll of chiffon
Rolling and unrolling
In shades of green and sapphire
In its sedate hours of brooding silence
A calm expanse with feeble waves
As if seized by an uncanny lassitude
Lying in majesty
Swirling in ecstasy
Within this mammoth silver submarine,
How many mysterious live forms thrive!
What curious shaped corals, what all sea urchins!
What wealth of fish, what gigantic mammals!
Between the blue sky above
And the blue sea below
I see seagulls fly,
The long beaked pelicans prey,
Grampuses heaving their huge form
Above the calm surface
And the milky spray
Tossing shiny pearls
Upon the stretching naked strands
I can see a distant sail
And the hull of a ship
Gliding over undulating waves
Leaving a frothy trail of foam behind
With water churning and spiraling around
Where sharks and seals and dolphins swim
Piles of silver clouds move above
And the golden sands stretch below
With periwinkles, ***** and shells
Scattered by the receding waves
Splashing tides, dancing weeds
Rising crescendo, falling rhythm
Oh! What a splendid scene
In the rosy gleam of this evening!
What delectable mélange
Of tinkling sensory delights!
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
We drink wine
As the weary wings of the dove
Labor over restless graves
Weaving between the carnival cruises
Drifting along the red canal
Three hundred cubits long,
Fifty wide and thirty tall
Rivers red overflow
The cypress whip cracks
Licking the ****** hide
With a serrated tongue
Ripped from gnawed ******* Raw
From the desperate lips of brothers and sisters.
Rivers red overflow
With the whimpers of last breaths
Muted by the blade of violent delight
And teeth grinding machines
We sit in our squeaking rubber boots
Cutlery clinks and clacks, saws, severs, slice.
Rivers red overflow
With an anguished unholy
Screeching sound
Deaf are our saintly ears
We drink wine
As the weary dove
Returns empty beaked
Once more to his perch
And preens his scarlet feathers
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
This morning was cold and a foggy one.
It reminded me of a past colder morning,
When the holiday hustle and bustle had just ended.
I was here....at Windwood Park,
My arms squeezed across my chest.
While briskly I walked, a strong wind blew
And by me, a flock of black birds flew...
I passed along house gardens, with Christmas trees,
With angels and stars on their tops still lighted.
Further on was a row of evergreens,
Upright, unaffected by the cold December winds,
High above the Magnolias and Hollies.
Beside the orange-purplish Birds of Paradise
Stood two smaller, obliquely grown pine trees;
Leaning, but undaunted by the sway of the winds,
No angels, or stars to show....instead, I watched as
The Crows approached, and on the tree tops, they alighted...
And then came another group of three,
And then several more followed suit,
And settled
On the nearby trees,
Blurring the tree line...until
The treetops were darkly shaded....
High above, they perch...on the grass, they search,
On the streets, they cross, pick up food, doing
What birds of the same feathers do---to survive...
A group of beaked, footed, dark crescent creatures
On top of those trees, so green with life,
Against a sky pleasantly clear and blue...
The contrasts, the events I witnessed, lingered with the cold...
A small patch of darkness...emerging,
Widening, prevailing, gaining power,
Can eventually conquer a whole world.
The White Egrets, Herons, the Finch,
The Bluebirds, Junkos and the Parrots
Usually grace Windwood Park with their presence...
Only the Blue Jay was brave enough that cold morning,
While a large number of Crows scattered,
And bravely, skillfully scavenged,
Through the wet, verdant grass,
Through the tall cans of thrash...
This morning, the cold brought back these events...and
I thought of the violence and starvation existing in places worldwide,
The prevailing restlessness, the senseless killings...the children....
No more concern for human lives...and
I thought of Nigeria...
And Pakistan,
And Paris, France,
And those that happened before them,
And those that are about to happen...
Sally
Copyright 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
...we never know what we may witness when we step out of our
comfort zones...
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC
She looked over the rim of her spectacles
Wrapping me in cellophane yesterdays
I left the room, did not digest left with right
As my mind yanked my coat from the peg
Leaving tear stained finger prints on the locker door
Wedged between the garden gate a bird sat
Its wings trapped in suffocating feathers
Broken tips flapped its tomorrows into yesterday
Dreamt the belief it could fly with mother nature
Its back eyes spelt fear, with beaked entrapment
I was used to seeing the bird on a wing...soaring
I did not know its fairy tale ending....watching
I saw someone whisk it away, a bundle of cotton cloth
I wonder if it fell out with nature as I fell short
Of 'Miss' with her desire to teach the fan dango
To those that wouldn't learn. The french parrot laughed
In my day dream, as she threw a missile on the wings
Of a near miss chalk board duster.......
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 1:04 PM UTC
The murmuring grove all of a sudden
falls mute, as they enter
listens to their words, love prompted
in the distinct love dialect.
A red beaked parakeet watches her
without batting an eyelid,
the ruddy cheeks and ruby lips of the girl,
all aglow as the golden rays of evening sun caresses;
feeling jealous, the parakeet makes a loud racket.
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 1:49 PM UTC
Tiny beaked alarms mark hawk's return to the steamy marsh for the night
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
“These birds are the most singular of any in the Galapagos.”
Charles Darwin.
Volcanic up swell,
tick mark,
tiny dot in the middle
of a blue map.
Stationary ship,
belly of the earth
like a backstroke swimmer
in a blue-black sea,
where erratic rains run away
while a Cactus Finch (Scandens) has gone
black to mate, so black that shadows cast
blushes back. So black,
more silhouette
than a black beaked bird
Daphne,
on your barred black belly,
this fine breath’d bird, this
penumbra of feathers and flight;
demonstrating divergence and drift,
so proud he sings aloud
the song of the Ground Finch (Fortis).
O befuddled bird
bereft an opera coach,
sans score of Scandens, the bird song
bindery gone bankrupt, loose leaf
scores littered, learning a neighbor’s
second hand sheet music.
Amid the volcanic dreams
of Finches, and bird shaped voids,
singing atop cacti, amid these small
dark commas set against a bluer
than blue sky, he sings the wrong song
but it's been a good year and she comes,
the star crossed lover, Lady Fortis.
And before the rains return, and they will return,
a small clutch of stars.
And when the rains return,
they will return
with long lost letters from London.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
*When travelling, a book
On breaking a journey
“Expresso please”...
thence to wander wondering
window shopping away.
Yesterday, a door opened
and in I went
There, wide of brim
with it’s egg yellow middle
I see, painted upon sky blue
two simple childlike
yellow beaked
pink and pretty birds
ever chasing, just
one white cloud.
Valley destined
bought, lovingly packed and mine
Sitting, cup held full
whence came my thought
to make this a gift
I ponder why
then keep it sound
to sip from, mine
hand painted
and washed
this once
in bright
thought*.
...
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 1:49 AM UTC
An early twentieth century kind of thing
But sometimes my hope feels like
a battery hen, factory farmed
Nearly featherless, since molting makes
her produce more eggs
Crowded so she cannot move
De-beaked so she cannot defend herself
A slow death for about three
years until she is gassed
in a small container
A product, not an animal
a unit, not a senseate being
Hope is a thing with feathers
But when all the feathers are gone
only the hope of rescue remains
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
I knew a girl
Who bathed in the jungle
While I caught tigers on my tongue.
She soaked it in some animal’s ****
I sat and prayed to God.
I played her egg to Beny Moré
Now all that’s left is some Cuban drool.
Swimming, screaming
“Cómo Fue”
I did my naked dance for a baboon.
She’ll take good care
Teaching her fifty beaked ***** friends
How to completely ****** the mood
How to
Shrink me small
As a glance
Eating twisty ties
While I frown.
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
Speak your mind and burn ephemeral,
peace in time, a gem, an emerald,
Speak no more, your words desert you,
deep you bore, perched, they hurt you.
Words are birds, they're always fleeting.
Away they fly, at ev'ry meeting.
They cost no pay, they're often freeing.
Away they fray, from you they're fleeing.
The branches broke, they gave to nothing,
beaked by blokes, you must be bluffing,
With broken wings, you hobbled home;
withholding brings forgotten woes.
You dared to fly, you reaped the ceilings,
at dusk, "Goodbye!" - a tale of telling,
You sold none short, you bought your longing,
no silver tongue - you earned their thrashings.
In shadows, taunted, your aura lingered,
its presence blossomed, incessant it spurred,
Forever haunting, a black crow in turn,
in droves of white doves, "At last!" - you were heard.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
Azure sapphires
Glare like sharpened stone
The raven beaked rapture
Swooped down, to **** and capture
And carry me away to their home
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 11:43 AM UTC
“Mysterious Waters of the Naked and Nervous”
She begins her life
along with nine-thousand seven hundred fourteen siblings
in the shallowest part of the pond,
just four days after being laid as a jelly egg
attached to a fern leaf bent over humid water.
On day seven she sallies to neighboring weeds
using a very circular route
quietly clings to **** watches with terror
as brothers and sisters are attacked
by sharp beaked birds
swooping down to chew helpless tadpoles,
devouring membranes that cover their gills and necks.
One of few tadpoles to survive to day ten.
officially becomes a tiny pitch black pollywog
with continuously wiggling tail and small round mouth
of ***** jaws that scrapes across tiny plants,
searching for something to eat.
She greedily swallows microscopic animals
found inside pond bottom ooze
and slime which clings to pond’s surface.
Devouring a particularly tasty ooze meal,
she is horrified to witness
tadpole brothers and sisters eating each other,
siblings extending their bellies
by swallowing extended family.
Mostly tail with fine stippling of gold,
within twenty-four hours she breathes
from two gills at each side of her throat
as hind legs suddenly sprout
rounded buds that soon turn into toes
amazing her how fast she can propel
away from murderous dive bombing birds of color.
She first demonstrates courage
by a successful attack of black fish that menaces her for hours.,
******* on its fish fins until they are ragged,
not in anger or self-defense
more for tasty algae trapped within them.
But it does feel good to be able to destroy instead of being destroyed.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 8:22 AM UTC
A wolf stands on the everglades, upon the jagged stone
Moonlight shines on flowered tracks, a grey and shadowed tone
Shivers of the full moon, why do I feel alone
The water falls inside my soul, and chills me to the bone
Streams reflect the mountain rock, the image from the ledge
Heartbeats pound into my chest, as I lay on the edge
Is the blood oath my only hope, is this my finale pledge
A glimmer through the old oak trees, past the trampled hedge
I am drawn towards the gorge, where old paths cross and wind
Running across the valley land, I leave the ponds behind
Is the wolf now following, or is this in my mind?
What's beyond those flowered tracks, what am I going to find?
A Raft floats in the harbour, a small child comes in sight
My mind is taken over, by the power of the night
Could my salvation be the blood, before the mornings light
Hunger will be satisfied, if a wolf's fang takes it's bite
Approaching the lake near the bay, a look into the Childs eyes
Am I compelled to cause harm, am I in a different guise
Songs are carried by the winds, when I hear those distant cries
What is down at Flowered Tracks, where the crooked beaked crow flies
A frightened girl is cowering, behind the damp hay stacks
On the prowl of claw and tooth, when the wolf attacks
Does a silver bullet count, what exactly are the facts
Fairy songs are Calling me, I must return to Flowered Tracks
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 10:12 AM UTC
birds take flight on a windowless night
but the crows
continue to gather
nosy beaked
wings, oil-streaked
they have no business among us
watching our eyes
laughter
silences our lies
and the den grows quieter
faster
without the heat
stalking pointed feet
one falls prey
after another
stolen eyes
long gone dry
the widow reaches for her master
gun in hand
sleeping sand
the crows do finally scatter
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 2:28 PM UTC
don't know what to
write
don't know what to
say
whispered words slowly
spirited away
weapons between teeth
saliva soaked blade
slicing tomorrow, tonight and today
wish me luck
the climb may take a while
the mountain you know
you've been there, child
come when there's snow
i'll offer you a cup
wander through the
shadows
my mind turned to dust
mourning sets in
down the mountain you'll go
a jar i'll hand you
fill it with what you need to sow
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
One hunch back hitchhiker,
seeking prehistoric medicine
had a meet n' greet with deadly plants
even in these woods he felt a steady wind,
from history's distant trippy roots,
when he reached out his decrepit hand
same time found he couldn't move
nor breathe, blue beaked
then he grew wings and flew
for what seem like a few weeks
drowning in green blue ridge
mountain beauty, rushing water
leaving plumage useless
the truth hurts
like landing face first
as space-time winds down
the hour glass's last turn: through.
The Crax was eaten up
by Magdalena's whirlpool.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 3:05 AM UTC