"bluejays" poems
Some love to watch the sea bushes appearing at dawn,
To see night fall from the goose wings, and to hear
The conversations the night sea has with the dawn.
If we can't find Heaven, there are always bluejays.
Now you know why I spent my twenties crying.
Cries are required from those who wake disturbed at dawn.
Adam was called in to name the Red-Winged
Blackbirds, the Diamond Rattlers, and the Ring-Tailed
Raccoons washing God in the streams at dawn.
Centuries later, the Mesopotamian gods,
All curls and ears, showed up; behind them the Generals
With their blue-coated sons who will die at dawn.
Those grasshopper-eating hermits were so good
To stay all day in the cave; but it is also sweet
To see the fenceposts gradually appear at dawn.
People in love with the setting stars are right
To adore the baby who smells of the stable, but we know
That even the setting stars will disappear at dawn.
9.5k
Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.
Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.
It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.
Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.
Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and ***** fingers.
So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.
What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.
The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the ***** gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.
No one saw.
Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.
You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 6:47 PM UTC
*Afternoon octaves from a Raspberry arbor ,
streaming with Honeybee delight , fledgeling
Cardinals hopping from branch to branch ,
Rubies pause then pose , streak away in zig-zag
flight
Bluejays crack acorns on cobblestone drives ,
Red wasp , Swallowtails and Cuckoo bees dance
in warm light , Cinnamon coated fawns dance
the forever fields of soybeans , Sugar Magnolias
stand tall in Purple clover dreams*
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 2:43 PM UTC
it's snowing in april and
the bluejays have abandoned their nest to
welcome the newcoming of spring;
we have no furniture, sweetheart,
but we do have time. last night i
held your cheek in my tiny palm and
asked if you wanted me to rest
in your arms forever -
"of course", you soothed,
and i brewed cherry coffee in the morningtime
to remind myself
that this life is good.
we have no money, sweetheart,
but we do have time. we do have time.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 9:46 AM UTC
Remnants
of a plastic world
haphazardly dropped
in the duff of pinecones and bracken
litter this redwood path.
Our thoughtless leavings -
shiny mylar strings
and red straws -
must sadden the bluejays
watching from hidden branches.
Oct 24, 2011
Oct 24, 2011 at 10:53 AM UTC
Nothing is more chilled
than slanted sunrays through pines
trembling with want
Nor nothing worse than
the young cardi’nals trilling
out to the white trees
Voices unfalt’ring
answered only by echoes
of forgotten spring
Cold, thick powder snow
blithely reminds us of the
small, white spring hen eggs
that, forever lost,
cracked among the shit-strewn straw,
oozing into earth—
and I think of you,
whispering back to the birds,
just as lost as they
waiting for pre-spring
dew to unfreeze from the grass
that you may lap it
with painful blue eyes
like black-stripped and impish jays,
looking down on all.
Nov 8, 2016
Nov 8, 2016 at 3:18 PM UTC
*I'd always wanted to go to Paris.
Pah-ree, some people say.*
You smelled like dust and honey,
like you'd been shot down and shelved
one winter afternoon and forgotten,
but we all knew you'd stay
golden, waiting
and waiting for the next summer
to come along
*- and you said you'd never
leave me up there
like a book unloved. *
You sounded like a sleepy cello,
like the sky when it's tired from
painting, painting
fire and gold behind clouds and
tall iron towers, and I
could hear jazz music and
bluejays twittering
to the thump bump of our
unsynchronized pulses
*- you laughed when I laughed
and asked what time
I wanted to fall in love with you. *
You were the promise of
talking quietly in little back-alley cafes
on the wrong side of the river,
wearing black berets like we knew
what we were doing, you sipping ***** and me
drinking hot chocolate
because I thought coffee meant
I'd meet the dawn without dreaming
*- but you told me my eyes
were bright enough to dream
while open. *
Some people say they
believe in love at first sight and I,
well, I,
I suppose I fell in love
when I saw Paris in your smile.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:06 PM UTC
When the battle beneath us beckons me home, and my brittle bones break,
Be sure to bury me in a black blouse with blue begonias and blame those ******* bluejays for the blatantly bad things. But always be brave and believe in the betterment of beauty for there will always be blasphemy and bitterness in the blank book. But be sure to balance brains and beauty for all the earth to bleed.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 1:41 AM UTC
Here I am
Walking softly through a lake of shale
Slipping down a hill
Tripping the pieces against each other
Tearing my feet up
Reaching scraping and stratching arms and legs
Over the berry bushes
Stretching for a few ****** drops of **** sweet juice
Wetting my lips and staining my fingers
Robins and bluejays flying overhead, a soft grey bird
Shyly quietly watching
Watching the fracas of the bejeweled and gaudy birds
And their screeching cries
Watching and listening with quiet fearful timidity
Much like me
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
Entertainment comes in many forms
One without Nielson ratings
presents daily shows
below the garage gutter
Weathered leather shoestring
strains under the weight
of unfilled feeder
long exposed to wind
and air until
it's original surface
contains only flecks
of it's original varnish
When filled, squares of suet cakes
fitted between wire grids
entice chickadees
early in the day
before nuthatches, wren
and downy woodpeckers
peck and feed on the
nut, corn and protein
snack. Bluejays struggle
without success to
hang sideways and gather
specks of nuts from the tallow.
Other large birds, cardinal
and red-bellied woodpecker
show-up the jay as they feed
with ease at the suet rack
Each day suet sinks
slowly descending until
little is found by
winged visitors
Begrudgingly he rises
from his chair, tramps to the
garage to find a new
insert for the feed box.
Hands, weathered like the
pine of the feeder
unpack the next cake
to refresh the lure
as the scenery of wild birds
return to their feeding
and refill his soul
Aug 27, 2016
Aug 27, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
I see the varying yellows and reds
of leaves dancing to the ground
after a slight wind
I see bluejays, cardinals and robins
jockeying for position on the birdfeeder's step
I see deer walk across the field
as I peer from the kitchen window
they seem at home in their freedom
I see the distant mountaintops fading as the Sun yields
to the approaching night
I see the emerging stars and the glow of the moon
as it begins it's nightly watch
then I see you
secure in the maple frame
I gaze endless
until the call of sleep awakens me
my home is wrapped in beauty
but all the beauty I see
begins in this frame
in this face
so far away
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
i met a man upon the road
who carried his mind in a thicket of thorns
bluejays nesting in his thoughts had built it
one thorny troubled thought at a time
untill he staggered as he walked from the weight
of this contraption of the mind
like a drunkard in the backstreets of seaside town
he would sit by the small cafe or coffee house
and sing for young lovers such songs as ballads of old
or ones from folk singers and childhoods fancy
bright songs of good cheer
at the end of the long summer day
as the cafe and coffee shop would shutter their doors
he would gather his coin
and bid the day fare thee well
would climb slowly the flower strewn hill
sit under the great oak tree
and prune his thicket of a mind
with pinking shears and a hacksaw
with a farmer's plow and the beekeepers glove
a thousand fold bluebirds moving as one
with a terrible sound of wings upon the air
a soft beating of wings like a hearts dry thunder
each carrying a twig to add to his thorny thicket
which was now larger than the man himself
he would wrestle with it all the long night
till sleep overtook him there under the great oak tree
so he lingered here by the sea for years
at the whims of romance by lovers in the coffee house by daylight
and the light of the moon that lead him to dance
in a maiden hayfield at night
he would sing ballads to the star light
and to the wisps of clouds flying the night sky
they buried him with his thicket of thorns
at the top of the hill
below the stars that weep even now
he asked me why once
why none helped him be free of his thicket of thorns
why not one took pity and took his hand to at least comfort
and i told him that the world had
in bluebirds that kept him company
in coffee houses that loved his songs
in me that came to know him at long last
not as a man with a thicket of thorns
but as an empire of bluebirds playing in the skies
just at dawns first light
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 9:10 AM UTC
Fluffy bunnies how sweet is that
Hoppity hop in sweet candy land
Butterflies dancing in the breeze
Bluejays singing as happy as can be
Oh my gosh ders dat nasty man
Hunting wabbits oh let me be
Then out of no where..pop...boom...bang
An anvil and hammer bops nasty bad man
Sniffing and eating....the grass merrily
I watch carefully at dat nasty bad man
Looks likes he is out for the rest of the day
As I hop on merrily on my way to play
In our fairy wonderful candy land
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC
Across the reflective fields of Hill Country grass begins to escape its icy enclosure ..Black Angus leave red clay impressions bound for green pastures ..Mourning doves wail their somber retreat as first light exposes the prequel to Heaven .. Blackbirds and smoke from morning bonfires alight , the promise of daylight is scented with Oak and Hickory as fields of cotton appear to ignite . Tin roofs begin to glow , church bells awake villages on the horizon . Golden waves pan Eastern skies , Sycamores sequester abundant sunshine ..Sparrows , Chickadees and Finches gossip without end , Bluejays and Brown thrashers command the fence line once again .
Barbed wire enclosures divide the landscapes , dancing scrub Pines act as reeds , filtering the breeze with the music of natures continuity ..
Blacktop drives ribbon the lonesome acreage , goat herds graze the property frontage . Quarter , Morgan and Appaloosas quietly graze against the backdrop of nineteenth century farm houses .. White silos and red barns , gourd birdhouses , dug wells and smokehouses ..Bantam roosters and hens sift through acorns beneath two hundred year old Water Oaks ..
Jan 16, 2016
Jan 16, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
The wind blows but I know it means well, not to sneak into the crack of a sleeping baby's window, but to tickle the trees, and to give me a peace I can't find in anything else.
And what I can't grab is how it dances, because I could never dance like it and if I could I would grab at the stars and be one with the clouds because thats what the wind can do
I would sit on the tree tops and have picnics of falling chestnuts
I would pet the backs of squirrels and give life to the wings of the birds and everything would be okay because I would have no broken home to go back to, but a field of flowers waiting to sway with me and hear my songs
You know when the birds sing? Yeah, well they couldn't do much without the wind, it's a mere imitation of it's beautiful sound.
The wind means well
Let it carry your hair an inch from your face and close your eyes and you may fly like the bluejays it lifts
Let it blow your clothes in a rhythmic pattern like waves on the sea and feel the ocean beneath you as you glide above it, as you fly
If I were the wind I would laugh as I bounced from kite to kite making the young ones at the end of the string happy
I want to be wind
To do all of these things
but mostly to be able to touch all of you at once
Apr 23, 2011
Apr 23, 2011 at 3:06 PM UTC
Under a blue sky,
Bluejays eating blueberries
Then away they fly
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 7:57 PM UTC
Crows, bluejays and pigeons
talk this morning. Closest we come
to wilderness here. Autos screech
and sirens scream. Only 7 a.m.
My fat belly and possible cancer
worry me. With a few months
to live, I'd search the wilderness
for some wisdom I missed. Or
plain beauty of natural randomness.
Knowing that, why do I remain
in health? I must devote my
present to my future existence.
The bluejays complain long after
everyone else is silent.
Love and friendship need the body
and society. You belong, you want
to belong, three days in wilderness
and you gladly return to
lovers' arms and plumbing.
But one day you die. And this
is the ideal independence you sought.
This death is the pristine aloneness,
the untouched wilderness and
freedom from necessity! And
it is certain. You do not save
for it. You do not worry that
you may miss your opportunity.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
My Bird cannot fly
My Bird has no song
It sits
And watches the Sparrows
Robins
Oreoles
Bluejays
Hummingbirds
And Doves
Dance and play
From the shadows
Of the magnolia tree
But still my bird waits
My Bird doesn't sleep
During the warm summer nights
Eyes watching the stars
Beneath the soft glow of the moon
As the fireflies join Orion
Suspended and flashing
My Bird watches
And dreams
Alone he may be
Perched in the magnolia tree
Apart from the calls of Sparrows
Robins
Oreoles
Bluejays
Hummingbirds
And Doves
That carry in the wind
Still my Bird sits
Because in a way
He is free
For one day
All will see
His vibrant colors
Hidden within the leaves
Of the magnolia tree
Jul 27, 2017
Jul 27, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC
my chest is an aviary,
hundreds of caged birds
flutter and shudder and whistle
soft songs and incomprehensible words.
my ribs as bars,
and my heart as feed,
and the birds all hum,
and we all have needs,
including birds, including me,
digging my hands, into my chest,
they peck at me, my insides,
to rip me open, we try our bests--
i scream and writhe and cry and whine--
i tear and pull and carve and break--
they sing and sing and sing and sing--
half-gored, i give in, stop, shake--
an albatross in my chest cavity,
the canaries' screaming pitch remains,
the robins and bluejays and wrens and larks,
all choir my unending pain.
i want to be free of them,
and them, of me,
but my ribs are bars, and my heart is feed,
and in my chest they will always be.
Jan 31, 2019
Jan 31, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC
the dusty repetitions dull and flashing
down, down the far descending paths
what became, what became of the
fiery gaze piercing through thickets
stifling, words shuffled upon hesitance
as the last foot falls echoed through
the quiet lands, where the grass
grew into golden straws and once
tranquil heavens now streaked like
a zebra's hide, wispy clouds flashing
of terrible lightening strikes as
fireflies rumbles across the morning skies,
bathed in the slant of yellow light I step
far into the past where the hands were still
unspoiled and now I rejoice with the bluejays
and dashing salmons fighting a rigid tide,
don't, don't I know what may transpire to see
of the days which my breath can release
without the weight of a helpless fear to seize
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 9:28 PM UTC
Ah, I remember her well.
She used to roam the woods brandishing her scepter of sticks
Commanding the creatures of the forest
The blue jays loved her, all the animals loved her, but, especially those blue jays
They brought her gifts.
And accompanied her on all her adventures
And watched her from the branches
In return
She gave offerings of bread and warm milk
And wore their feathers in her hair
Oh my,
her hair was a wild mess
Sticks
Pebbles
Feathers
And Braids
And somehow
That wild tangled mess
Made me smile
She made everyone smile
She took a particular liking to me
I watched over her
but
in reality
she watched over me
Imagine that
a little girl
pep in her step
and sparkle in her eye
taking care of a scarred man like me
We had a trade
a weekly occurrence
A story for a story
A tale for a tale
She would whisper a story filled to the brim with
fairies and trolls
and trees with purple blossoms
and golden roots
I would hand her knowledge about the world
She saw the truth in people
called them flavors
said mine was a cup of hot chocolate
spiked
with peppermint
I once asked her what her truth is
asked her about her flavor
Frosting and moondust
she said
with a smile
Now don't look at me like that,
She had her flaws
Even the most magnificent paintings faded with time.
What happened you ask?
She grew up
And everything changed
The winds didn't carry the scent of honeysuckle
And the crickets never sang.
She cut her hair.
And her smile was guarded
Weighted down by a heavy stone.
The Bluejays observed solemnly from the dead tree branches
As she withered away
The forest no longer hummed
And the town never felt so lonely
Even I lost a piece of me
When she got on that train
Without a wave goodbye
Maybe one day
The creek will chuckle again
And she will come back and
Finish that story
About the king and his butterflies
And I will tell the tale
About the origin of the moon.
But, perhaps that is just an old man's wishful thinking.
~
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 7:07 PM UTC
we sailed on cream
and aster—
where bluejays
toss
air into air;
where frogs
curdle
mud into milk;
where blackberry
roots
skyline into horizon—
(we sailed)
Jul 6, 2018
Jul 6, 2018 at 9:04 PM UTC
There's an old house up on Jennings Street
In a yard so overgrown, you can't see your feet
A vine grows up the side and a shed near the back
With a door that doesn't meet the frame and track.
A hole in the roof, houses a family of Bluejays
Who chirp and play as the world passes by
Babies jumping off that same roof, learning to fly
Untaxed by the society seen in people eyes.
Some say it's haunted, others say just condemned
But inside those cryptic walls is a place few have been
Once you've entered, time stands very still
Every creak tells a story and the air is thinner with a chill.
Musk and dust cover where a family thrived,
Before this technology that made us so unalive.
I wouldn't dare to move a single thing
I bring only what my eyes recall.
This place was not my place, not even my time
In a body I only borrow, who am I to call anything mine?
Others blinded by greed, believe they are owed this history
So as I left this house I locked the door, to save the mystery.
There's an old house on Jennings Street
Leave it be, it's perfect.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 2:43 PM UTC
7/14/2015
"I mean I just don't get excited
anymore, you know?"
but even that
statement drains all the life out of me,
grabs a spot in my ribs, twists it, pulls it out like a dandelion ****
I decide walking on 3rd avenue in
a Brooklyn neighborhood that I don't
need energy anymore
or, I've been doing well with the scant
supplies I have of it.
The day before, blow dried hair sticking to my neck because the windows are locked,
I had listened to the radio
Billie Holliday: oh lover man where can you be?
I know **** well where mine is,
unfortunately across the hudson
but I think I am happy for him because
any sane person would be otherwise in
princeton after a while
I count and recount the oaks and pines outside my house and the cardinals and bluejays and mocking birds, try to find something, don't find it,
Read a book, and I yell to myself:
"'That’s funny! there’s blood on me.'
- Frank Ohara."
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 11:08 PM UTC
This poem is for:
Bluejays that love the blues.
Tigers, not liars.
Beggars, not leapards.
Dogs that walk without leashes
and their human friends
trying to get rid of theirs.
Well rested trees in April,
and all birds....
even penguins.
This poem is for
people who don't take life too seriously.
It is especially for
the ones that
do.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 2:33 PM UTC