"buzzard" poems
*here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty*
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Snow Mountain
I walk alone these darkened hills,
can see my breath and getting chills.
My party left me long ago,
they didn't like my altered ego.
Snow blowing in my face,
they said they needed space.
Feet and hands becoming numb,
never have I felt so **** dumb.
Found a cave and there they were,
me freezing, them wearing fur.
Never has a fire felt so good,
not sure where they got the wood.
Then I noticed a very distinct odor,
they were burning our guide, Schroeder.
On the cave wall, I see four more dead,
eating the brains from their very head.
I yelled, What the **** are you doing,
couldn't believe what I was viewing.
They said, Shut up or you're next,
I got on my knees and paid my last respects.
Spinning the body just like a pig roast,
I'd be happy with just a bite of toast.
As I watched them eat the bodies,
if I had a camera, I'd make copies.
Days went by and I got hungry,
the human body tastes so chunky.
Finally something that didn't taste like chicken,
my body was getting stronger and beginning to thicken.
We never did get discovered,
ended up in hell, getting eaten by an evil buzzard.
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 1:17 AM UTC
with an Apple Macintosh
you can't run Radio Shack programs
in its disc drive.
nor can a Commodore 64
drive read a file
you have created on an
IBM Personal Computer.
both Kaypro and Osborne computers use
the CP/M operating system
but can't read each other's
handwriting
for they format (write
on) discs in different
ways.
the Tandy 2000 runs MS-DOS but
can't use most programs produced for
the IBM Personal Computer
unless certain
bits and bytes are
altered
but the wind still blows over
Savannah
and in the Spring
the turkey buzzard struts and
flounces before his
hens.
9.8k
Birdsong melody
woven into morning mist.
Snowdrops, buzzard. Life.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 12:31 AM UTC
the buzzards have found my gut.
hello again, and welcome back.
let's stretch this day out, me & you, together.
I'll ignore that ****** up sensation,
that all my feelings are being eaten away,
if we can grab some coffee,
if I don't run out of cigarettes.
the buzzards have found my gut,
hello again, and welcome back.
we know I spent this weekend hiding,
living on a borrowed pack that's running low,
packing bowls I knew would soon be empty for awhile.
but they couldn't find me, not in that bed.
yet they pace the staircase outside my door, and guard me.
the buzzards have found my gut,
hello again, and welcome back.
so we have lunch, and I smile across my last meal,
pretty sure that I would've preferred the cash,
to spend on something that could spoil my lungs.
but it's the thought that counts, it isn't the end quite yet.
and they wait for the scraps I toss beneath the table.
I wonder how no one ever notices me feeding my demons.
I wonder what each emotion tastes like,
I wonder which ones I'm giving away, 'cause I can't look.
I wonder what's left in my body.
the buzzards have found me hiding.
the buzzards have begun to swarm.
they are coming to give me back my emotion.
they are coming to let me know I'm wrong.
hello again, and welcome back.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:39 PM UTC
In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself
The buzzard never says it is to blame.
The panther wouldn't know what scruples mean.
When the piranha strikes, it feels no shame.
If snakes had hands, they'd claim their hands were clean.
A jackal doesn't understand remorse.
Lions and lice don't waver in their course.
Why should they, when they know they're right?
Though hearts of killer whales may weigh a ton,
in every other way they're light.
On this third planet of the sun
among the signs of **********
a clear conscience is Number One.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
© 2009 (Jim Sularz)
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, by wagon, train or foot.
Days not all that long ago, in tall ships made of wood.
“A gold rush struck in’49, all quite by accident.
A burning fever that cut men to bone, in a sea of dingy tents.
Day and night, they toiled and tolled, many headed home without a cent.
But some packed out bags of glistening gold, and made a stop at "Buzzard’s Breath."
"The town’s mud logged street, deep with horse manure, bubbled like a shallow grave.
With a Sheriff’s office, a livery stable, and a church for souls to save.
And a fancy house, on a grassy knoll – sign read, “Madam Lil la ****
With soft, curvaceous ladies who mined for hearts – and gold of a different sort.
Didn’t take long before easy gold, was extremely hard to find.
And burly miners, tough as steel, moved in to hard rock mine.
With bloodied knuckles, dented hats, they blasted at a furious pace.
To find the gold, called the Mother Lode, yellow blood coursing through their veins!
The mine they worked was called “Long Shot”, the men thought that name a curse.
But the miners hankered for the handle, "Buzzard’s Breath”, and the mine’s name was reversed.
As luck would say, they held a royal flush, when they hit that horse-wide vein.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found, this side of the Pearly Gates.
Eyes wide as saucers, they were all in awe, everyone was filthy rich.
The miners should have all retired and should have cashed in all their chips.
But a man’s hard to figure, when his blood is yellow, and he’s stricken with a gold fever.
“Eureka! Boys, *** the dynamite and a whole lot more mining timbers!”
They mined that vein to the bowels of the Earth, and the heat increased by day.
"Buzzard’s Breath" became the hottest place, to Hell – the shortest way.
And then one day, the men never came back. – Hell must have jumped that claim.
Of the purest gold, yet to be found – that’s where the Devil mines today!”
Quiet mounds of yellowed tailings and dead weeds whisper low.
And proud rusting relics telling tales of striking gold.
The rush from East, from North and South, died a slow and quiet death.
Along with days of tall wooden ships, and the ghosts of Buzzard’s Breath.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 5:46 PM UTC
Motorway Lamppost
Buzzard with his Evil Face
Watches the Rushhour
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
Bitterness seems to be the ego of my tongues taste buds
The story of life never really begun
The future is torn by what we have become
I still stand proudly holding congratulation balloons and chewing gum
I pop the bubble as I hum a song
Not noticing the buzzard telling me to move on
The ghost seems to place himself next to my feet
whispering with every step he sees
Trying to show me my deceit
Although I walk careless or maybe hopelessly
Encouraging myself the future is still bright
When in reality it is only fake highlights
Held together with dead ends and a burnt head
We have no other opportunity
Only a possibility of being the lucky one
I lose my fun as I sit here popping my chewing gum
Nov 12, 2016
Nov 12, 2016 at 3:22 PM UTC
montana yellow dress, the highway looked bitter sunday fit.
she knew the land given,
land taken,
thunder walking west.
met a friend. stopped to talk.
he was a holy kid or dog, both songs of kindness.
trickster cool mountain calf
waiting for the water promenade.
deep creek good old boy swimming smiles,
rose up
and shot like bang with the buzzard sioux feathers.
truth is low clouds flashing, dreams burst
in the earth room.
doused sheets of chaparral and canyon grass
a pretty laughing bird.
wet things watch the water-log, and a frog spits whiskey.
charter bus barefoot leather and a father says kids, smell the hammer,
see the hammer touch its words into the world.
work-tale living, fools bled.
river gal cut, oh
fishing.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
there was a little elephant he had lost wayhe was trying to find his mum he had searched all daythen a friendly buzzard saw him in distressand decided he would help to try and solve his messthe buzzard he took off high up the skyand saw the elephants mother standing near byive found your mum he said not to far away just follow me and i will lead the waythe elephant he was happy he had found his mumhe was going home and no longer was he glum.
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 6:12 AM UTC
**Buzzard, eagle, falcon, hawk,
Tiger, cheetah, lion, leopard,
panther, cougar, wild cat
intense all these predators are,
in carnal love and the war for dominance.
Each has characteristic hunting ways,
in day time prowling, plain beasts, they remain,
at sunset , each springs up, party time starts.
Birds of prey in silence watch from above
and find the right target, at a time that suits.
No endearments, in love or in games,
only body speaks of desires or warnings
Swift expression of demand, quick strike,
overpower and make the other surrender.
Throaty growls hurting silence of the forest
double as their sparse love language.
Hunters can never be lovers, their actions speak,
they demand, commandeer, force to surrender.**
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 9:13 AM UTC
In long
September light
Knocktinkle viewpoint draws
elastic shadows over rocks
and minds
Buzzard
like a hyphen,
a golden-feathered pause
between these eyes and everything
they see
I have
no thoughts up here.
They stayed below, waiting
while I saw sunset stripe the hills
with gold
This land
tells tales to those
who have not lost the tongue
But I, a stranger, look with love
and guess
A glen
where witches danced
and weary hunters trod
tonight rolls peaceful down towards
the sea.
Sep 19, 2011
Sep 19, 2011 at 4:43 PM UTC
O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams!
There time and life move lazily along.
There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams
Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song,
Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,
Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies,
And swarthy children in the fields at play,
Look upward laughing at the smiling skies.
A breath of idleness is in the air
That casts a subtle spell upon all things,
And love and mating-time are everywhere,
And wonder to life's commonplaces clings.
The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees
And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers,
The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,
Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours,
The sea beats softly on the emerald strands--
O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!
1.9k
I am not yet defiled; O hear me.
Let not the crazed hornets or serpents or ophidian or the
buzzard bee come near me.
I am not yet defiled; console me.
I fear that the snake charmer may with rhythmic body clocks clock me,
with predatory hissing paralyze me, with authoritative power anger me,
on wicker constraints constrain me, in bamboo-patches pierce me.
I am not yet defiled; provide me
With beauty to free me, dressage to cover me, silence to come
to me, souls to save me, charmers and angels
in my wandering existence seeking fights to waver the war within me.
I am not yet defiled; forgive me
For the provocative glances in me, my presence when womanity holds me,
my mythological beauty by deities beyond me,
my head held high when they slay by means of my
crossbow, my addiction when they poison me.
I am not yet defiled; rehearse me
In the dreams and the prayers I must take when
art interrupts me, material disturbs me, splintered souls
gaze at me, smiles fade at me, the knifes edge
stains me and everlasting scars pain
me to shame and the shames taints
my skin and my heart abandons me.
I am not yet defiled; O hear me,
Let not Perseus who is warrior or who thinks he is King
or a rival to me.
I am not yet defiled; O fill me
With gasoline against those who would inhabit my
bones, would sink me into empty caverns,
would make me a prisoner locked, a monster with
blood dripping, a monster, and a passer of dis-ease
who would execute my self, would
flush me like ***** oozing and
***** and ooze and *****
like alcohol seeping in the
pores would drown me.
Let Poseidan not make me defiled and let him not **** me.
Otherwise **** me.
© Sia Jane
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC
dear immoral,
salt
seed of
s
la
ughter
enticingly, affably, salt
compassionate psychic stimulates
the pigheaded exclamation
compassionate osculation stands
glove
gives callously
equally, nonetheless, equally
quarrelsome loving glove
a persnickety longshoreman
each persnickety biochemistry
is the
longshoreman cancerous?
A ambiguous certification
a stupid symphony
leads a wizardry
a road worker.
No content,
j
us
t web,
you
r bright face
is suffered with an imagery.
Bridge operator:
agile
computation
today, randomly ordinarily
ah! A
trembling
je
we
ler
confidant loves increasingly
languidly, sociably, spontaneously
Look! A poor ***********
perpetual on my
quick
bible;
my psychotherapy roves
into a
bleeding seashore.
Oxygen
tickles beautifully
boisterous, antisocial, odorous
Look! A quivering predisposition
the
psychoanalysis's
preferably quick
psych
otherapy-
how
ebbing it is!
It has the the depression snowed ordinarily.
It repels the grin into the seashore
a
punishing scream.
Cataclysm predicts perfectly
stupidly sensually noncommittal
unchanging rambling cataclysm
in t
he
unharnessing camaraderie
a perfect board
overshadows
his youth
so
that it is contemporary
grin
quick psychotherapies
I repel quick
this punishing kennel.
The chore
into appreciated camaraderies
psychotherapies rove in it.
A ink stick:
into appreciated ca
mar
aderies
psychotherapies rove in
my own gossip.
Dogmatic, unrealistic cliff
grip
of firefly
realistically, subtly, cliff
Situationist
on my quick bible;
my paralysis roves
onto a crazy seashore.
Situationist on a
journey;
my
paralysis ambles
onto a
crazy hotel.
A equality
onto procreation kings
paralys
is
amble outside of the kings.
Buzzard: omnipotent nullification
extraordinarily, perfectly, saintly
that buzzard is ambitious
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 12:12 PM UTC
Find me Medusa, wrap her
snakes around my waist,
they nestle into, the buzzard bee,
form skulls, refusing my escape
hornets haven,
seeing the, ringlets form, I
am reminded of those,
serpents you took from,
me
all for your own gain, shame,
pass me the apple, tainted
love to wish upon despicable
me
my head caught, clouded
feathers fuss, entwine with
those branches carrying,
devils food, just one crunch of
that apple, killing
me
bearing forbidden fruit, exorcise
the red demon, succulent, free
shoot me with, those golden
spun, oppressed, distressed,
eyes of an angel, wilting within
me
or am I the, enslaved
a figment of myself, I
view daily, without, marking
my skin, to know I am
alive, is this
me
rosary beads, pray to a,
Holy Spirit, keep the memory
form a rosette
a noose,
around my neck.
© Sia Jane
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 1:19 PM UTC
A minnow that's forgotten it's in water
A buzzard who's forgotten it's wings
A primate with no hands and feet
A star with no mass
©2024
Jun 25, 2024
Jun 25, 2024 at 9:16 PM UTC
humming buzzard
your
self. and
me me me me
being open
this is living!
flying over people
it does not matter
if you don’t breathe
as long
as you
are with
your wings & teeth
masticate their
songlets.
your
self. and
me.
humming buzzard
fly
ing.
Nov 22, 2012
Nov 22, 2012 at 6:57 PM UTC
wedded that day, on their way
to El Paso, for two nights in a grand motel
with TV, and AC
they would splurge,
for profligacy was not a sin at such times
and a fat steer was sacrificed for it
the radio filled the cab
of the pickup with Tammy "Why-not"
singing D-I-V-O-R-C-E
they sang along, changing the letters
to M-A-R-R-I-E-D, creating one cheerful
cacophony in their shared space
when the next tune started, he hit:
a greasy buzzard, wingspan wide as a fence post was tall
black as an oil slick
the old windshield was no match
for the vulture, and it was a vengeful one
that crashed through Ronny's side
glass, bone, feather and flesh
tore into his sweet face like a chainsaw
his blood blinding him
Ronny turned so hard on that wheel
the truck rolled, twice, landing them on
the passenger side in an arroyo
where he lay on top of her,
gasping, his blood dripping generously on her
"Ronny, Ronny..."
her legs were numb, and she felt a warm
liquid crawling down her back, one she knew
was from her own head
which smacked the roof
so hard she was surprised her skull
hadn't popped
or maybe it had, for she saw double:
two steering wheels; two setting suns; two mangled birds
and two crimson faced Ronny's
who then had stopped gasping, and only
slow breaths came from him, like a warm whisper
on her cheeks--but only until the song ended
and she knew, he was gone--and old verse
came to her, from Psalms, from Matthew, and she knew,
she was sure, someone would find them
and make her whole, and resurrect Ronny
for the good Lord would not do this to them, on this
hopeful highway, before they consummated
she harbored such a notion until
her own eyes closed, and other dark birds came
to find them, still, under her God's closed eye
(1968, north of Marfa, Texas)
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
the carrion birds
squabble over red roadkill
greediest bird, more dead meat
( he flew up late
so met his fate
fast karma )
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 1:16 PM UTC
You sit at my table
And eat of my flesh
Do my entrails warm you
Of the cold outside?
Viscera visions of death
Erodes my mind
While you lay bare my bones
Does it amuse you
To watch me suffer so?
For even a buzzard
Shows pity
My heart pumps no more
From whence blood once flowed
A river
As dry as sand
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 3:44 PM UTC
There’s an old saying that Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world someday. Well it’s an old saying of mine but I can hardly believe the world ending without Texas swallowing a great deal of it considering these canyons, mountain-eaters, big enough to hide every cowboy snake and buzzard that don’t know any better.
The thing about Texas is you can’t see the end of things here and people call it big. The thing about Texas is everybody calls it something big when it’s really something stretched. Texas took a turn for the worse, warred with Mexicans in 1836 and never recovered. All that revolution, rusted muskets, wormwood, spilled into and on golden-brown cattle land, turned it dry-blood red. All that red, and Texas, she blushes. Texas, shy, ravaged, stretched. 1836 and she’s reaching for the Gulf and the East and West coasts and Montana and if we don’t fix it someday Texas just might swallow the whole ****** world.
One Spring I myself kicked around a little dry-blood dirt. By Summer I had my fill. There’s an old saying the only way to leave Texas is dry-throated and drenched, brokenhearted and better if you swing it the right way . 4 O’Clock Texan Suns scream thirsty yet we leave the place drowning if we make it at all. That’s the thing about Texas, though, it sneaks up, an axe and a smile and you can’t trust anything about it and you fall in love too easily and the thing is the axe doesn’t bite so much as knowing the handle came from the same forest you never questioned, where step 1 is breathing and you actually did it; the thing about axes though is that breath might still be inside the handle and it’s just sitting in there dead dead dead and heavy Pine.
Austin at night becomes a family of burning eyes in the desert.
Sun and trees, and it’s green.
I do not think these trees grew naturally.
I think these trees were put there.
Feb 15, 2012
Feb 15, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC