"birdseed" poems
You write 'Love' on her wrists
And watch it fade and blur through the tiny cracks in her skin
Until it's washed away in the bathroom sink
And all that's left is a featherlight kiss of ink on porcelain fingers.
She's rather like a sparrow, you see -
Your love is lost beneath her thrill of flight,
And the only way to keep her grounded
Is to tie her to this ring and cage her.
You don't have the heart to hear her sing for freedom,
And not the mind to set her free,
So you spread your lies like birdseed
To keep her interest that much longer.
But before you hope for too long,
Know that birds can only eat so much
Before they fly to their winter homes,
And come summer's end,
She may be feathers on your pillow.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
when he died, his jackets all went
to the grandkids (world-war-two-chic was
en vogue), his medals to his sons, and his
meticulous preparations for any far-off
hurricane, blizzard, fabled connecticut sandstorm,
power outage, overheating engine,
skinned knee
to the big and elegant dumpster.
his wife in her heels-for-every-occasion, in her
quiet knowing
languages and recipes and birdseed
loved him even after she forgot his name
and hers.
they built this house bare-handed
and in the shade of the trees
and spiders and cell-phone towers
it will stand as ever
it always has.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Five hundred feet from Terrapin Point the Birdman stands with his bicycle. His face as flat as the quarters he begs for, glares at foreign tourists. Two boisterous parrots, Larry and Mabel. They smell like tourists and change, and are footcuffed to three brass chains connected to his backpack. A Muslim family approaches. They want a picture. Birdman places the birds on the hands of the smallest boy, and his mother takes a picture. Mabel squirms. Larry squawks. Click. A reward for their posturing, Birdman places birdseed on his tongue, and the parrots peck away, ignoring his birdbreathe for an evening snack. The tourists clap and laugh at Birdman and toss him their spare change. Birdman stands. Waits. For another family to pose with his birds.
Mabel licks her wings
and Larry says, "Picture pic."
Birdman stands alone.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Rejoice at Morning’s Miracle,
For We are here again.
The Grim Reaper
Has let us live another day.
God’s Grandeur shines upon us
As, again, the clichéd golden sun
Pokes her head through the Eastern clouds.
An orchestra of chiming birds
Greets the day
As again I say
Rejoice!
I repeat: Rejoice.
Time to check the temperature outside
And scatter some wild birdseed.
Time for breakfast
And the early news.
Time to have a pub-lunch,
Then a game of tennis
Or table tennis
Or snooker.
Morning’s time to meet my Muse,
And listen to her lyrical tunes.
To get composing,
No more dozing:
Broadcasting words
Throughout The Milky Way.
Enjoying the day
I look forward to
Some cloudless skies
So I can sit
And watch the stars.
Paul Butters
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
8:30 A.M.
She wakes him up with breakfast
on the night stand.
Two eggs over-easy and lightly burnt
on the bottom so the yolks don't run,
two pieces of sourdough toast cut
diagonally, and a cup of coffee /
no sugar, no cream / brewed
at 8:15, two hours after
she got up to clean the house.
She mopped the floors twice,
tied the trash bags and set
them at the curb. She tested, dusted,
and retested the stagnant ceiling fans.
She vacuumed the rugs and wiped
down all wood, granite, and steel
surfaces.
She lemon Pledges allegiance to him.
While he's at work, she cleans his laundry.
She clean-presses his button-ups, making
sure to cut any stray threads and neatly
mend any loose seams. She irons a firm
crease in his pants and shines his all-black
wingtips. She doesn't use Kiwi. Something high-class
that I've never heard of.
When he comes home and sets his briefcase
near the furnace vent to sulk in his leather
chair, she consoles him. She pulls the lace hem
of her sundress to her waist and ***** his ****
until he comes to his senses.
*You look like a billion-dollar, gold-plated
monument feeding the world rosegold birdseed
from your immaculate palm binding my hair
like a Dutch Warmblood's tail, darling.*
She dabs the corners of her mouth trying
not to smudge her lipstick, straightens
her dress, and hurries off to wash
his car.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 2:53 PM UTC
announced itself
all around a tiny
quaint white
birdhouse
nestled inside
the lanky lilac shrub
that towered above the roof
of our ranch style
rental home
with a profusion of light purple buds
their heady fragrance
no perfume could really capture
these technicolor memories
of the two New England
Springs spent exploring
on walks along the woods
while chattering squirrels scampered
on branches
arcing over our heads
fingers crossed
we’d missed the bears
that ransacked
our birdseed feeder
earlier that morning
as our blind hound
delicately sniffed
our neighbor’s
blooms
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 6:09 PM UTC
The Phoenix King
To the tower
The rogue watcher
With skylight eyes he climbs high
Passing his fears and the lies of civilization.
How I wish he had my comforts
Of warmed Herbs
And Turkish pillows
And Lanterns rumbling with the purrs of lions.
How I wish I could walk with him
Through portraits long-forgotten
To get lost in love
Found by her brooks
Of magical kingdoms, fern-laden.
But he wills to climb higher
Than the rest of us wingless-beasts
His eyes gaze out into the sea
Perked to warn of the coming storm
Those that wait below his feet.
He is not the Broken King
He is the Robin’s egg of Spring
A seed sprouting wings of lace and crystal blue.
He has soaked up the Star shine
He collects every drop of dew
And scatters these diamonds from his pencil-tower
Like birdseed for pigeons
Granting every falling wish
-Its truth.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC
The sky looks bruised tonight -
a strip of battered peach flesh.
I'm sure my mouth is getting smaller.
I see it now all pursed up but
it used to be Jim Morrison's
proportions. She licked like
Ms Jolie. This miserly look
***** my eyes inside themselves.
The pigeons look ****** off,
all ******* up ***** of bog roll
lobbed in gummy globs.
Someone give me something.
There used to be a man who handed
birdseed out to all the kids
outside the library gardens.
Share and share alike. I guess
he was a ********** or whatnot.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
fragile white crystals crushed by cold feet of twigs and fallen birdseed
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 10:52 AM UTC
Missed a step of the stepping stool
smacked the sidewalk with my face
felt like a blithering fool
what happened to my grace
First parched earth of drought
now we’re so soaked with rain
the birdseed’s begun to sprout
dare I holler or complain
I think I need a change of scene
boredom cries for the next valley over
to smell the new scent of green
hear honey bees buzzing clover
They say hearing voices like yours
can be soothing and cozy
but too much harmony bores
and I think a little stink can be rosy
Living life in extremes
isn’t for me and isn’t sound
maybe it’s about stretching the seams
but not to be unbound
I don’t know if balance is my fate
Yes, equilibrium has its uses
but I like a tune that syncopates
and enough spice to excite the juices.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 9:38 AM UTC
Diamond Dibs
Eccentric to the Chili Peppers
Birdseed Stains on Rock of Gold
Hard Headed Boston Mama
Glass Stains on a Rough-Hewn Mistress
Holy Tomati and Sauce
Westward **
All About "Chuck"
I'll Name You
How Dare You
Icy Breeze on Static Type
It's Hot in Here
and finally
Ghost of a Chance Too
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
All afternoon, sat in my vitually empty room.
My love mutt curled up beside me like a snorting fire free dragon.
Every so often, she will spring into early summer action, telling the garden birds to sod off.
After her crazy mouthy attack, she curls up and goes back into a deep sleep.
I peep at her chest, it's rising comfortably now
Most, of the moments I spend with her are just mellow,chilled.
Watching the garden birds flitting freely.
Those birds, ignorant in their sundance.
No rhyme, no reason.
A brief divebomb of sorts, snicking at birdseed in a metal tub.
Mrs Mutt,
She toodles out for a twinkle.
No birds about now,
I guess they're skipping out.
Unused to the enforced tranquility.
"Praise be."
Dem boids be free.
Our time it shall come again.
For now, indoors we must be.
Must stay.
Creativity and passion,
Without exit, so it must be.
LIVVI X
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 2:23 PM UTC
and i spent some time remembering
the way your fingers met
the soft beginnings of your palm
i'm not much better
than the words echoed
on a night with the stars
scattered like birdseed
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC