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Chris Neilson Sep 2016
Stopping to write words is my impulsive habit
as hopping grey squirrels cross paths with a wild rabbit

Hedge and tree sparrows creating their fun
tweeting feathered friends under a rising sun

Goats and rowing boats resting by a shady tree
donkey rides advertised that don't come for free

Mother feeding baby upon a tartan rug
a passing loved up couple sharing a hug

Ear flicking deer romping up then down
full leafed green trees turning to brown

For who knows a bell tolls at midday
not for a slight slumbering pony anyway

Passing a multicultural horticultural area
spotting an alpaca who's growing hairier

A soaking Labrador emerges from a small lake
brushing my bare lower leg in its wake

Sitting on a bench dedicated to a lost loved one
taking in the views he loved before he was gone

A picture may paint a thousand words long
but poetry captures succinctly September birdsong
It's my fortune to live close to one of the largest municipal parks in Europe (Heaton Park), this is my account of a stroll through there this unseasonably warm September day.
Butch Decatoria Apr 2017
Overcrowded a hollow sound

In the circumference of birdsong

Rising with the Sun

As roosters crow morning

Wake-up calls

There in Cebu / House

Full of family

Pieces of my other me

Feeding many mouths

That overcrowded feeling / not again

A nest that homes

A clutch of poor

Cuckoos

Consuming, so many babies

Paradise islands

Third world poverty

Not so far away

White man and money

A supposed land of milk & honey

Beyond the tundra snow

Bleak / must speak English

The beautiful broken

The overgrowth of crowding

it's called city life

Unlike Manila

Although artifice and hollow

Full of the fragrances

Colored by Birdsong

Oh beautiful life / I am drowning

In the thicknesses of pollutant

Mouths speaking

ill

Humanity misbegotten / Understood

We connect with nuttin'

“nothing is the cure

When nothing was wrong

With you”

Birdsong in twilight

Xylophone-stars across the ocean blue

Teeth of night

The cold chime

Befallen

In the infinite / magic of you

Oh love I let me

Overcrowd

Still this loneliness

Feels so very loud...

Then I hear / halcyon Birdsong

The soft feelings of truth

Oh love!

Oh god!

Oh my!

*Goodness you.
Revised still work in progress
Knit Personality Aug 2018
A tweet takes form:
     He tweets, retweets,
     Tweets & repeats.
He tweets up a storm:
     He tweets, retweets,
     Tweets & repeats.

A birdbrain is
     (He tweets, retweets,
     Tweets & repeats)
A birdbrain his:
     He tweets, retweets,
     Tweets & repeats.

#
Yaya Dec 2018
I want to wake with you each day,
until I rise no more,
with every sunrise shared,
more beautiful than the one before.

I want to wake with you each day,
so you’re the first thing that I see,
and hear the first sweet birdsong
with you laying right next to me.

I want to wake with you each day,
with our bodies intertwined,
so that you will know I’m yours,
and I, that you are mine.
Jolan Lade May 10
You sent me to the ER with a ruptured chest
And my feelings are escaping in protest
Driven mad from being depressed in my heart
Can you hear them?
They are the rain banging on the windows
They are the birds singing out loud
Can you see them?
They are the comely roses
They are the few gray clouds
And they all call your name
In the rain and shine
They call for you to be mine
Being in love is everything, the clouds, rain, sun, and shine
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
The jungle makes its calls, welling up from hollows beyond.
Monkeys and wild things make their way through the spaces in between,
rapping from unseen places on long barriers
and marking their territory.

Sounds of birdsong fill the air calling out to all too few.
Others prowl the paths looking for prey in caves and behind walls.
Packs of banshees laugh as the chorus grows until the final call.
The last bell rings all are free run for home.
All poems are copy written and soul property of Vicki Kralapp.
CA Guilfoyle Feb 2017
These winter trees
cold and shouldering winds
their bending branches unhinge
falling limbs crash and break the snow
further still a secret world of mud and bulbs
that in the spring blooms of tulips and violet mossy lawns
and too, the sun that comes to warm and fills with green the tree arms
this wooded home that breathes with sheltering birdsong.
Birds sing in chorus
Early morning orchestra
Sunbird leads the band
Marcus Lane Mar 2011
Sunshine,
Birdsong
And children drunk on
Lemonade
And laughter.

That Welsh picnic
Has lasted forty years
And will last forty more
In daydream

And nightmare.

The stream babbled
Over pebbles,
Fern fronds
Brushed our sun-browned shins

Till the dead sheep
Slugged us in the guts.

Bloated and bulbous,
The body dammed the stream,
Its lifeless eyes
Crawling with life.

Those pearly marbles were
A child’s looking glass into death.

The rocks we hurled at it
In reckless revulsion
Were the screams
Of violated youth,

And those empty dead sheep thuds
The dawning of our mortality.
© Marcus Lane 2010
The way opened out
And to get through
A bend was needed
Leaning against twig.

So thoughts gathered
Head strong
Across the empty ditch
The company leaped.

The other side was a purple haze
Drifting about above woods
The tops of the trees twittered
And twinkled and fluttered.

The company entered the woods
Lifting lightly their dress
Surrounded were they by
Bird song and flowers
At their feet.

Love Mary ***
Terry Collett Dec 2018
There were reports of gas along the trench,
and soldiers blinded and in lungs drowning, many were writhing and many dying.

You saw men walking in a line, blinded,
hands on the shoulders of the man in front;
rumours spread along the trenches like gas;
anxieties of the known and unknown;
anger replacing the former boredom;
more dead and dying added to the score
of the insanity that some called war.

You fed the guns with shells, or rode horses
pulling the huge guns up to the front line.

You had written home; say nothing of gas,
or where you were or what you were doing,
nor the sights you had seen, nor the sounds heard.

But sometimes when guns were silent, you heard birds.
A man talks to his dead grandfather
Caroline Jan 26
Sometimes I close my eyes,
Just to see the great ocean that rocks inside of me
The rolling tide filling my chest
Cresting over my heart
Spilling through my eyes
And saturating my upturned palms.
I catch your spirit there,
And sometimes imagined scenes:

You and me,
In the half light of dusk
In the light winds of spring
Alone but for the flutter of wings
That is really my heart,
Beating wildly
Against your chest.
Close enough to feel your breath
Along my neck.
Can you feel my tides rise,
My rhythm quicken?
Always you
Stirring these waves of desire,
Churning my waters
Into fire.

Sometimes I close my eyes
Just to hear the music of the sea birds
Soaring and dipping to the surface,
Which is now like glass
Held motionless by your enveloping warmth
Held still by your unfaltering strength
The waves calmed;
The birdsong of my soul free at last.

This ocean is mine
But you carry its depths in your palms
And when I close my eyes
Only you can release
Its power.
Crash with me like these waves beneath the stars.
Close your eyes now.
I am yours.
A poem for the wild seas of passion; for the depth of chemistry between two people. May we all experience it <3
Ormond Feb 2015
.
1
death dirges

Frogs in distance sing  .  .  .
Foxes, herons, join in too,
  .  .  .  A round of croaking.



2
love gifts

Her gift of flowers  .  .  .
Came at night without garden,
  .  .  .  Were picked in bedroom.



3
twins demure

Full moon and she  .  .  .
Beauties without crescent smile,
  .  .  .  Naked in starlight.



4
light music

Before even sun  .  .  .
Gleam opens to paint each day,
  .  .  .  Beauty in birdsong.



5
iridescent

After sun showers  .  .  .
Sparkle of rainbow colours,
  .  .  .  Busy hummingbirds



6
chilling

Hollow sound through trees,
Naked and bare branches sway,
  .  .  .  Old winter creeping.



7
flirting

She wanted a child  .  .  .
Rushed from one suitor to next,
  .  .  .  Clock set to maybe.



8
super villain

Truth once singular  .  .  .
Mucked all up with politics,
  .  .  .  In cowl of falsehoods.



9
casualties

Blood spills in gardens  .  .  .
Naïve worms torn from loose grounds,
.  .  . Red robins, green lawns.



10
stigmata

Each spring miracle  .  .  .
Trees blessed by caterpillars gifts,
  .  .  .  Holey hands of leaves.



11
consecrations

Ripples lead to bows  .  .  .
After fish breaks the water,
  .  .  .  A kingfisher dives.



12
constancy

Steadfast as always  .  .  .
Wildflower in sun and rain,
  .  .  .  Showing true colours.



13
roommates

Chaste lovers wonder  .  .  .
How bodies weather the cold,
  .  .  .  Never knowing touch.



14
swept away

Suddenly we kissed  .  .  .
At beach as tides rolling in,
  .  .  .  Drowning by ocean.



15
seductress

Her red hair so long  .  .  .
Brushing my face, hiding eyes,
  .  .  .  A kind entrapment.
.
Arianna Mar 2
bird

sings lone and late

night after night

i listen



Why

does he sing so free?



is it

the liberty of solitude or

the yearning for a song

of reply

just as lonely

as he?
Heard my little friend again, same time every night. I wonder if he knows I hear him chirping... Hmm. :-)
Yama Day Tinta Aug 2014
The radio alarm is a bit too strong
for his afternoon hangover taste.
He goes downstairs, sets the coffee to brewing,
rubs his hands through the hair on his face.
As he sits and he smokes, he can't quite think of the joke
she once told him about wooden eyes.

The coffee is ready, his hands are unsteady
as he pours his first cup of cure.
He tries to be happy he woke up today,
but whether being awake's good, he's not sure.
Outside it's raining, but he's gallantly straining
to keep his head and his spirits held high.

As soft as the flower bending out in its shower,
fiercer than hornets defending their hives,
the memories of sharing her secrets and sheets
run him through like sharp rusty knives.
He decides that his cup isn't quite strong enough,
takes the ***** from the shelf, gives a sigh.

He goes to the porch to put words to the torch
he still carries and knows whiskey just fuels.
Thunder puts a voice to his hammering heart.
Through ink, his knotted mind unspools,
writing of butterflies and of how his love lies
cocooned under unreachable skies.

From teardrops to streams to winter moonbeams
to a peach, firm and sweet, in the spring,
he writes of pilgrims and language and soft dew-damp grass
and how he sees her in everything.
He rambles and grieves, and he just can't believe
how much he has bottled inside.

He writes how the leaves, when they whisper in the breeze,
bring to mind her warm breath in his mouth,
how when walking through woods he loves the birdsong
when they fly back in the summer from the south
because she would sing too and he always knew
he wanted that sound in his ears when he died.

He writes even the streetlights, fluorescent and bright,
make him miss the diamond chips in her eyes,
how the fountain in the park plays watersongs in the dark
when he goes to make wishes on pennies
and while he's there he gets hoping
there will be some spare wishes
but so far there haven't been any.

He writes that the cold makes him think of the old
hotel where they spent most of a week,
lazing and gazing quite lovingly,
and how he brushed an eyelash off her cheek.
The crickets and frogs and all of the dogs
sound as mournful as he feels each night.

He writes about chocolate and fun in arcades,
he writes about stairwells and butchers' blades,
and closed-casket funerals, and Christmas parades,
then sad flightless birds and tiny brigades
of ants taking crumbs from the toast he had made,
and political goons with their soulless tirades,
old-timey duels and terrible grades,
strangers on  buses, harp music, maids,
the weird afterimages when all the light fades,
the pleasure of dinnertime serenades,
sidewalk chalk, wine, and hand grenades.

He writes of how much fun it would be to fly,
and saltwater taffy and ferryboat rides,

sitting on couches, scratched CD's
pets gone too soon and overdraft fees,

the beach, the lake, the mountains, the fog,
David Bowie's funny, ill-smelling bog,

jewelry, perfume, sushi, and swans,
the smell of the pavement when the rain's come and gone,

and shots and opera, and Oprah and ***,
and tiny bikinis with yellow dots,

stained glass lamps, and gum and stamps,
her dancing shoes on wheelchair ramps,
that overstrange feeling of déjà vu,
filet mignon and cordon bleu,

bad haircuts at county fairs,
honey and clover, stockmarket shares,
the comfort of nestling in overstuffed chairs,
and her poking fun at the clothes that he wears,
and giraffes and hippos and polar bears,
cumbersome car consoles, monsters' lairs,
singing in public and ignoring the stares,
botching it badly while making éclairs,
misspelled tattoos, socks not in pairs,
people who take something that isn't theirs,
the future of man, and man's future cares,

why people so frequently lie
and bury themselves so deep in the mire
of monetary profits when money won't buy
a single next second because time's not for hire,
and that he sees her in everything.

Then unexpectedly, unbidden from where it was hidden
comes the punchline to the joke she had told him.
He laughs -- it's too much and his heart finally tears
as a blackness rolls in to enfold him.
The last thing he hears is birdsong in his ears --
the sound brings hope and is sweet as he dies.
Kevin Dawe Oct 2017
I want to fall asleep to the sound of rain
and wake up to birdsong
feel the chill of morning
the warmth of the day's sun
fill my lungs with the smoke of dusk
then do it all again
Rich Hues Mar 30
Spring has sprung,
Hemlines are rising,
The birdies have started showing
- some skin.
Birdsong is sung,
The birdies are smiling,
Friendly but lightly seasoned
- with sin.
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