"caws" poems
a parhelion forms with
the sun’s peaking out,
irradiating your eye
in crown.
there is a sanguine wonder
to your cigarette as
you drag your lungs
across the floor.
citrine is your smoke
crawling across
the bed.
light moves.
a nanosecond passes by.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
The lizards crawl
on the walls,
and the crow caws,
like the cow
that bows
to the crowed
the queen being crowned
cry’s out
to the plight
and the fight
for the knight
continues on
till the break of dawn
don’t stop,
don’t ponder,
continue to wander
through the fields
nothing yields
the words that you feel
so carry on
till the break of dawn.
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Hats and Hooves and Humming Birds,
Moulded cheese and strawberry Nerds,
Oh, Good Gracious Paper,
You are this poems maker,
The Lion kills, Gryffindor's dead,
the snake bites him, Slytherin lies on the bed,
The Raven caws, Ravenclaw is upset
The badger has a cold, 'Hufflepuff takes him to the vet."
"I am the Lord of the Rings", Says Mr.Frodo
Then Sauron comes out from Mordor
Gollum Screams, "Smeagol the Lord."
Boromir kills Saruman, using a sword
All ends bad, as is bad
Denethor in his house goes mad,
he burns himself and leaves Gondor sad,
Bilbo beats the old took, all because of that footpad
There is havoc, everywhere
Voldemort challenges Sauron to a dare,
Voldemort has the Elder wand,
Sauron wields the ring and jumps into a pond
They duel right there, wand and ring,
Sauron things Voldemort's a dumb thing,
Sauron wins and Voldemort flees
then Sauron boasts about his good deeds
harry's happy but Frodo's sad
and Bilbo is weeping over his lad,
Sams works for Sauron's evil garden,
and pippin lives in a barn with a hen
thank you, oh paper,
This funny poems maker,
unfortunately, I didn't write this poem on you,
I wrote it on a computer screen, nanana poopoo
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 2:39 AM UTC
Creeping crawling
Waiting stalking...
You sit there in wait
As if a planned date
Of which, I do not know
Why are you staring little crow?
You sit and watch beating hearts
'Til the harvest starts
I almost tune out the evil laugh
That you bellow from deep within your wrath
And almost forget where you reside
That is, within me, deep inside
Your jar of souls collected slowly
You take your time being unholy
You go into hibernation away from the watchful cavists
You do not mind though, for winters calm brings great Spring harvests
You feast and feast devouring bit by bit
You take piece by piece encouraging me to submit
Fighting the pain,
Fighting in vein...
Tearing me down, nonstop
As if I your crop
Little crow caws in joyous evil song
Release me from your grasp, I beg all night long
You come and go
And reap what I sow
Taking my strength and will to fight
Chomping down into flesh throughout the night
Released once more, you hide away again
I almost forget, but you have written it in permanent pen
You wrote "Never forget, sweet child, I am you keeper.
Sincerely,
The Soul Reaper."
Jan 10, 2019
Jan 10, 2019 at 10:42 AM UTC
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
i must be some sort of permanently exhausted pigeon;
claws clinging to the telephone wire
drearily blinking my way through
the morning meeting of the aerial acrobatic society.
i am a seagull swarmed
amongst the chirpy conjecture
of these early birds;
and my soul caws an honesty,
a wail, a howl, the truth.
i am a tainted swan
grittily paddling myself through the marsh
we call this world,
a lone observer of the acrobats,
the stickiness of my feet keeping me
flightless.
and you are a swallow;
redbull wings migrate you to warmer climates.
you hear the seagulls
but listen to the pigeons.
you notice the swan
but her murky shallows are too icy
for your liking.
and you are a chicken;
blind beyond your own free-range vicinity.
you catch the pigeons as jet planes,
and the seagull's whisper is alien.
you don't know miss swan.
Nov 24, 2016
Nov 24, 2016 at 8:02 AM UTC
My lips are still blisterin,
From all that whisperin, that
Made me kinda sick, so I
Search for my chapstick, but
Find in it’s stead,
A pen, orn’ry and red,
That chooses to be used,
And true to my cue, I
Seclude and intrude
On each and every muse-
-ic, -ing, -ment, of my peers.
And its clear I have seared
Every page I have seen
And heard of my herd,
Pulled apart at the seems
Teeming with teams
And half-assessed dreams, that I dreamt
But have since beheaded like queens.
Yet who is the jester? The joker? The fool?
It’s me from your world, your country, your school.
It’s me who coos uncool, and caws too rawly
And so rarely, Even I’m a bit scared of me
No! No fear or fervor is necessary, tremors and
Heartstrings tremble headlines on the Daily.
Oooh, calm, soothe, my tongue, my soul, my lips,
I’ll cool them off but remember all this, or else you
May be blistering, and searching, for my lost chapstick,
But be lacking in trust, ‘cause I used it all up,
Quite a long time before you even lusted that luck.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:04 PM UTC
the hours struck off
faint whispers
within an empty room
nothing im not used to
I lay in bed
the walls began to consume me
slowly closing around me
breathing gets harder
I choke for air
its no where to be found
a pressure
begins to sink upon my chest
theres no easy way out
I look
for an explanation
and everything
suddenly is okay again
a raven
caws in the distance
another soul has been stolen
am i still alive
was it my soul?
I float above my body
maybe I finally fell asleep
and this is only
a wonderful nightmare
my silver thread is gone
I look up
theres no light
i am doomed for eternity
to wander aimlessly
among this god forsaken planet
an hope someone
anyone
will stumble upon
my now decaying corpse
after all I chose solitude
I chose to be forever
lonely
within these wall
and now
it was my fate
no chance
to ever change
it"ll be more peaceful this way
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
.
In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.
Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes. Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.
In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
.
Feb 26, 2022
Feb 26, 2022 at 9:41 PM UTC
We are not scarecrows.
We know this, and yet
we can be mistaken for them, on
dark nights when legal actions ****
We are not scarecrows, because
Scarecrows are used to scare crows and we
are used to scare someone - ourselves - into staying silent.
We are Not scarecrows, but someone passing by would see
both in an equal light, not quite human but trying.
We are not scarecrows, because at least we can
Vote where scarecrows only stand but Scarecrows are not told they
Can't serve their country or use the correct locker room.
We are not scarecrows because scarecrows can't hear
Slurs and whispers behind them like caws of a bird who only needs to survive.
We are not scarecrows but maybe we are,
Reduced to sacks of lifelessness that may as well be hay because it's a lot harder to find a story with me in it then a story with scarecrows.
We don't want to be scarecrows.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 5:48 PM UTC
Life stagnates as people start trickling back to their houses. Some look forward to the expectant faces of their children, while some others dread their churlish wives. As they saunter along doggedly, the day’s events play like a broken record in their heads – a mimicry of sanity. A crow caws somewhere as though lovesick. Streetlights come on and fireflies hover in a daze. Bicycles, cricket bats, and skipping ropes are lugged back home by children who are repeatedly beckoned by overbearing mothers. Almost in a trance, the buzz of the day fades away as a feigned tranquility descends.
molten skyline…
an earthworm buries
itself deeper
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 6:35 AM UTC
washing on the shores,
the rustling winds in
the palms, the caws
of birds and scuttling
of ***** the silence
in the mornings, and
the quiet in the night
echoing, soothing,
playing, evolving
the sounds of the ocean
sound like some ancient
composers song
there is life in this music
human life, animal life,
plant life, sea life, life
of the air, life of the
earth, life of the tiny
and life of the big
we feel it more than we
hear it
and we smile
the bass hum of the trees
the melody of the seagulls
the harmony of the wind
the crescendos of the waves
it is the song of the sea
the music of the ocean
the soundtrack of life
I feel my muscles unclench
and relax
Apr 3, 2011
Apr 3, 2011 at 5:49 AM UTC
If it is sunny in Europe
The Dutch caws of misunderstood will hallow my pestle and mortar skull to round tinnitus into song;
The French Fries will come with mayonnaise in a Bruges cafe,
Light lines tracing dust in cycled prose.
Light lines tracing medieval footsteps on a Roman road.
Bonjour, old world.
Mon nom est Kyran.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
He twirls and whirls with supernatural speed
His usual blue eyes, with smoky black gleam
In the midst of a battle, sword in hand
Master to master, friend to friend
A metal, black, that no-one knows
Owned by one associated with crows
His messenger, his ally, his beast of burden
Caws and calls his silent song of death
A mercenary, bounty hunter, with just cause
To right the wrong and return what lies lost
To defend, apprehend, to defeat the Kursed
A story riddled into my verse
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 7:05 AM UTC
12 BARS
Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.
Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:
12 DREAMS
... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;
... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;
... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;
... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;
... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;
... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;
... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;
... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;
... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;
... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;
... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 8:28 AM UTC
rising up from the dust
a single shoot,
green with new life,
jumps from the ground
and bounds with the sun
it grows,
quickly first,
changes noticeable daily,
but then slower
as years wear on
and the thick bark develops
on this youthful sprout
after time seeming infinitesimal,
a monkey scurries up it’s side
and as he peaks his head out
of the top of the leaves
he caws that he had conquored
the greatest of all things
so it was then that the tree of life blushed
never knowing the greatness it apparently was
Dec 11, 2010
Dec 11, 2010 at 7:07 AM UTC
it is not butterflies you placed in my tummy,
but large ferocious birds,
with wingspans fluttering against the inners of my
lungs,
beaks prodding my intestine,
their necks snarling with my esophagus.
their caws pulsate in and out my pores,
and these birds want to fly, fly, fly
towards you.
but i bite with anxious molars, and their blood tastes like
cranberries.
choking up red soaked feathers,
i wonder if you have birds
too.
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 3:04 PM UTC
the seagull wildly ***** its wings
soaring in the heavens above the sea
the vivid blues and whites and sparkling lights
are blurry as my eyes follow the shadow of it
the bellow of the rumbling machine,
the soft hissing of the salty water,
and the caws harmonize altogether
seemed to comfort you in your slumber
your face holds a soggy, reddish, unknown look
and brows furrow in an almost single line,
as the rays of the searing sun graze on your skin
in a place of ever-moving and constant waves
you are still, stagnant, and at peace
as if your world has stopped; ours has not
May 13, 2023
May 13, 2023 at 11:34 PM UTC
**** it up,* they'll say
and sit up straight.
But don't you see that we cannot simply do as we are told?
Our generation as a whole is the sweaty gym sock lost between lockers
and the confusion between the zebra being black with white stripes or white with black stripes
and the fine print on the advertisements that reads "for entertainment purposes only"
We, as one, are towered over
underpowered
piled upon with high pressure
and the balloon has to someday burst.
You can be whatever you want to be is the number one statement that the Statue of Liberty cannot hold for her hands are too high and the meaning is written in a frequency too low.
We are are the glass bones that will shatter on wood and there is no carpet or cushion below us and we are tumbling down in what we think we love and what we know we hate.
When the scissors cut crooked, think of us.
We are slammed while we slam and try to create a steady beat which goes stray within the car horns and crow caws.
Small and underestimated.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
BASTARD! In my mind a hundred times a day it caws,
A black and flapping creature hopping awkwardly
Across the even furrow of my love.
Dining on the choicest seed, uncovering the rest,
Making sure no crop will ever flourish here,
As I stand and gaze,
Too weary from the endless days of planting all alone,
Too hungry from the meals I've missed to care,
I turn into an ineffective scarecrow
Who just watches.
LJM
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
I'm awokenby the near-deafening sound
of the lighthouse fog horn,
as if the sun sent me a wake-up call
so that I could rise with it simultaneously.
Through my open window
the fresh salt air
is pushed into my nose and lungs
by the winds from the breath of the ocean.
I hear what sounds like a low murmur of pre-movie theater chatter of seagull caws
outside my window.
I look out over the water
and see the waves of high tide crashing against the jetty.
As the perfectly blended colors of the sunrise flood my vision,
I smile because I know that I am home.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 10:21 PM UTC
The godless set fire to the redwoods
before marching us to the hills.
Black birds wake on jacarandas
without wings.
Their caws raise Lazarus once again.
A young girl's skin wrinkles into birch,
and suddenly trees surround me.
The eyes in the bark
denounce my flesh and limbs.
The mulch tries to swallow my feet,
but my wings lift me.
I'm dancing among fiery ashes
above the boulevards of igneous rock.
Particles of light halt into white heat,
cleansing me of flesh.
All that is left is spirit,
quiet and unknowing,
lost in whatever's between the stars.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 6:22 PM UTC