"chickadee" poems
Your grandmother wants to be friends on Facebook.
hey you,
can’t recall where or how i know ya,
but your grannie is very kewl,
(we agree on the proper pronunciation)
boldly asked if that included “benefits,”
she heartily answered **** right”
“one man is pretty much as good as the next,
but younger is definitely better, and you a spring chickadee,
at age of sixty years and three,
so many years ahead to share,
your social security bene-fits,
making me swoon
and giving me ‘flashes ‘n fits’
and given your life expectancies,
spousal wud be nice,
even ain’t a necessity,
looking forward to pleasuring your company”
**remind me again,
where do I know you from?**
shoot.
HELLOOOOO POETRY!
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:35 PM UTC
The wood is stacked for winter.
One way out of the mind's limitations
is through other minds' contemplations.
The books are stacked for winter.
Yet even that cannot satisfy.
Failing to hold still for meditation
my teacher smiles, makes this observation:
The purpose of sitting's not to be satisfied
or satiated. Remain hungry,
cold, uncomfortable and counting enemies.
These, and fear, are our commonalities,
and the discipline of not hitting whenever angry.
You'll appreciate dying
quietly at home. Whichever season has been randomly assigned will be
beautiful as ever
as a molecule of water is to all matter.
"In my life there were always too many things."
If there is no time, only change
the linear becomes circular.
Do not say north or south. You're
within the winter range
of chickadees, hawks, owls and herons.
River grapes, rose hips, the cedar waxwings'
repast. Their talk is my reminding
change outlasts endurance.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
Whispering through the tall trees.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
Calling through the sweet song
of the chickadee.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
In the hushed silence of a
clear night sky full of stars.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
In the quiet flapping of a butterfly's
gentle wings.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
In the lazy hum of the honeybee's
flight,
as she ascends and descends upon
blossoms in summer's radiant light.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Can you hear Him?
In the lion's mighty roar.
Can you hear Him?
In the waves of the sea which
crash upon the shore.
Can you hear the voice of God?
Calling out to your inmost soul.
Saying,
"Come to Me,
come and rest.
Receive forgiveness.
Let My love heal you.
Open the door of your heart to
Me .
For I stand at the door and knock."
Can you hear the voice of God?
O weary traveller upon life's way.
He longs to comfort you in His Love.
And chase your fears away.
Can you hear?
Can you hear?
Will you say,
"Speak Lord, I'm listening."
For then...
You will hear.
The voice of God.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:45 PM UTC
Ouch! says the saint as he
Divests himself of the love
Of created objects.
Love! says the hippie
Chickadee dee dee dee!
But when he is bare,
And shivering there
What then? says the hen.
How now? my brown cow.
What is this?
Says the instructress.
A cool snowlocked
Wisdom
Out of earshot
Scream and kiss
Calm? Dead?
A better compost
Than most?
3.5k
she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell
simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs
and so it is - the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas
the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-
and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below
- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-
leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go
the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...
i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -
- autumn, you know?
r ~ 10/6/14
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
What does he do?
And what does he hear?
What does he see?
Why do birds fear?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
The scarecrow sees bunnies,
the scarecrow sees squirrels,
The scarecrow sees shenanigans
of little boys and girls.
The scarecrow sees nothing
because he doesn’t have real eyes.
The scarecrow’s just hay, in a disguise!
The bunnies will stop put to him one eye,
they cannot seem to figure out, if he’s dead or alive?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
And the chickadee and the finches and the wrens and the sparrow,
all want to rest on him but find themselves harrowed,
for his job is to be frightening, fearsome and scary,
…and blackbirds, ravens, crows here-ever are nary.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
You’ll find him quietly scouting the good farmer’s fields,
If you could speak to him or hear from him, what could he reveal?
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Eating your corn, tormenting fields that you’ve sown,
In the evenings or the mornings he’ll always be alone.
Squawking and screaming their terrible dread!
Crying at you, calling to you and filling your head,
Always complaining and shouting at your ear.
That field and its corn, is what they hold dear.
Crow cackle! Crow cackle! Cackling crows!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Protecting the corn fields,
forever in the throes,
Crow cackle! Crow cackle!
…cackling crow!
Who is this scarecrow and what does he know?
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 7:13 PM UTC
Waking breath ghostly frozen, clang of pot-belly stove opening, cedar crackles good morning, sap sizzles, pops, melting. Warmth finds children sleeping, humid air, mouth-breathing. Smell of boy sweat and feet, young women ripely sweet.
Cats purring, stirring, padding quiet down stairs, weave meowing through mom's legs. Dented percolator burbles better days, snap of toast burned haze, molten mush bubbles burst, fade. Birds early on the highway Paradise-seeking, time, flash-burned, fleeting. Cobalt jay mockingly complains, chickadee sings his own name, coyote wails, thin and plain.
Children rise, sleep in their eyes, squabble over bathroom prize, eldest wins, click, locks herself in. Hurry, hurry the bus is coming, ancient driver, annoyed and honking. Brown-bag lunches crinkled running, feet slapping, seats squeaking, lungs hot and bursting. Ride the dawn breaking, hearts aching for more than this, rural bliss.
Stop sign flashes caution, young lovers in the back seat, bodies in motion. Stop, start, sway on down the highway. Engine mimics hot blood lust, accelerated diesel rush, nothing can stop us. You grab my knee - young, carefree. Brakes sigh and hiss, sneak one last kiss. You mouth - meet me later, we'll sneak out, rush to a future we haven't got, ready or not.
The old road at dusk, frog song accompanies us, bike wheels on the asphalt hum, forbidden moonlight run. Feel your heartbeat on my spine, frantic drumming matching mine. Horned owl hoots, forlorn and bleak, a premonition we refuse to heed, reckless with need. In the clearing young love begins, forget-me-knots on burning skin.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:44 AM UTC
There is a blue chickadee
Staring down at me
He is perched above me
To my right
Behind a neon glow worm
And a green ball guy named Ralph
He is unblinking
Relentless in his vigil
The queen of the universe
Did set him there
To keep watch o'er me
Though she will
Take him down from his post
To have him dance for her
On occasion
His gaze is kindly
And knowing
This emissary of the queen
When I catch his eye
He reminds me of her magic
And her care for me
Her loyal subject
And
Did I mention
He's just a cute little blue chickadee
So how could I object
To his watching over me?
After all
We all need a reminder
That
There is magic everywhere
Around us
If only we open our eyes
And take a look.
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 9:44 AM UTC
Chickadee and Neon
Appear to be in love
We noticed yesterday
The way they were looking at each other
They have been staring
Romantically
Into each others eyes
Since late last evening
Who knows what they did
Last night
While we were gone?
They may be different species
One is a multicolored glowworm
The other a blue chickadee
The odds seem to be against them
But true love knows no bounds
Overcomes all obstacles
And, ******
They're just so cute together
The queen of the universe
Is definitely a great matchmaker
Ah, romance
Ain't it beautiful?
Feb 15, 2011
Feb 15, 2011 at 7:08 AM UTC
THE FUN AT EASTER
i feel that easter is the best time of year,
you see we give eggs to all the kiddies
and we play easter egg finding games
and don’t forget Mr Chickadee will run right up
and catch 15 easter eggs and 27 chicken baskets
with a lot of syrup inside it
yeah, what about the chocolate
it is so tasty, as, i love it, you love it, we can all love it, woo
let’s party, let’s party, pop a few champagne corks
and when we finish we throw the bottle on the ground, glass shatters
and the people yell out a big ****
It’s hard to understand why do people eat chocolate at easter
i don’t understand why people suffer with weight gain at easter
i understand that easter is the most desirable time of the whole calendar year
hop hop goes the bunny
hop hop goes the bunny
yeah, mr bunny goes hop
hop hop goes the bunny
yeah mr bunny
the mighty bunny goes hop
you see there are so many people
who wish each other a very happy easter, ****** hell
happy easter from the bunny
the bunny is extremely funny
ha ha ha, the mighty easter bunny is funny
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
No vices, no difference
I have some things to do tomorrow,
I think I’ll just take the wagon
I’m just waiting for something to happen
to help me make up my mind
I always imagine tragic
someone dies and they’re so close
I don’t believe in fairy tales or souls,
but I don’t even want to write their names
for fear I’ll have a hand in why they lost life’s duel
or maybe we’re all just an election away from
anarchic warring states,
where I must defend my beans and cucumbers
from slugs and marauders
If we hold it together, red China could invade
so would I rather be a prisoner or dead?
Perhaps, I’ll just meet some girl,
where I’ll feel “some” as a description does her deep injustice,
because the love will be enormous
Now, I’m courting a chickadee that’s never dull,
but her name doesn’t quite roll off the tongue
Her name is Adventure and she rolls like hills and mountains,
and speed popping truckers with their eyes and ecstatic smiles
If I’m still seeing her, I might be a gat slinging ******* out west
bumming around San Jose or Cambodiay
Hearing all that talk, I think I just want to leave,
and I guess the pay is better anyway
My mind is made up
it’s not something real
It is, was, and is still fluffed up with schooling and the words of persuasive people
their confidence in what their saying is like a lightning bolt ******* into my stem
they jammed us into waiting rooms for something called progress
they even separate the sick people
I closed my eyes to see what was real,
and saw nothing
There is no waiting room at all
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive,
buckwheat, primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage,
snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully
in a way that makes others want to live.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
the drama in a ****** of crows
the clueless jive of the chickadee
the serious expression of the phoebe
hide and seek flickers
overly dramatic plovers
sleek kestrels, scanning the meadow
gulls always headed somewhere
the mystery of owls
robins, Art Carney-like
nuthatches that waddle through the air
an advertisement of goldfinches
vile, surly winged jays
waxwings, safe within their clique
ospreys, fat on minnows
snapshot herons always posing
patient vultures, ever on call
the perfect beasts to rule this world
they reveal personalities
to this lifetime observer
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
I hit a Jack Rabbit going sixty or seventy five,
I turned off the radio,
I was on the road for 18 hours already,
thats when shadows come alive,
I never hit anything before,
never killed anything that big.
When I was 14, I lived in Kansas, Kansas city granted,
but Kansas all the same.
We would go to my friends farm,
he owned enough guns for a small militia,
mostly shotguns.
There were 3 of us, with three scatter killing booms.
We would rake the fields to flush anything out,
crickets,
grasshoppers,
we hoped for ducks or quail
(I only pretended too, I wasn't sure then if my ***** really dropped)
and we would shoot,
Sometimes for the noise,
other times for the show.
I never killed anything.
On the way back home I saw a little chickadee perched high in a tree,
I shot,
and he fell.
"Nice one man!"
I ran over, hiding my tears, and buried him.
I got out of there as soon as I could, Kansas that is,
I was stuck at the farm.
Eight years later and I'm still not sure about my *****
This time I didn't bury him.
I like to think it was male,
for some reason that lessens the pain.
I don't know if I crushed the life out of him quickly,
I imagine it was slow,
toturing myself with every detail as my retribution.
Made a nice thump though.
I could feel his delicate body even through the tire the shocks and the rest of the parts between me and his ****** corpse.
Softer than a speed bump.
Why did Dorothy ever go home.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 11:30 PM UTC
I stood in the garden
In the still of the wet morning
And watched the leaves twitch
From the pounding of tiny droplets.
As if some small creature was racing for its life
From me.
The intruder.
A chickadee found its landing pad
Just in front of me
At my feet,
Unaware of my hulk.
A miracle unto its own.
Crows cawed,
And eagles screed,
Not breaking the silence
But contributing to it.
Rhododendrons,
Astilbes,
And wisps of grass
Missed in yesterday’s weeding venture
Waved in response.
And the only thought I could dare
To bring to my mouth,
Lest my puny effort to describe
This cacophony of beauty
Destroy it utterly,
Was “Amazing Grace.”
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 11:40 AM UTC
Chickadee do
Chickadee does
Chickadee kool
Chickadee hugs
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
Cell phone shield in hand,
the mirror-me peers
into a shoddy, cracked up
dream reflector-slash-protector
as I make amends with
my agitated mitochondria and
attempt to drill miniscule holes into
paper dolls without ripping them.
So screams the wall hanging!
Banshees dance, falling
into cyclical romances as
cream colored microphones peek
out around one-way windows wondering
whether or not the smiles will hold.
Eyes still,
eyes wrinkles crinkling,
spit spray sprinkling.
Connect to the dreamers.
Push your plug into
my cracking wall sockets,
pull me apart at the seams.
So cries the doorstopper!
Knees bleed from
street corner séances
and eyes green grass
that's afraid to ask
where its clover went
but heavens, it's bent for hell.
Pray tell me, burping chickadee,
when did your teeth glass over
with a film of cerulean and
your bones start sailing
through tepid reminders that
you may end this life a failure,
swallowing Uncle Ben's rice packet trash
at the dark black bottom of the Pacific?
So sighs the statue!
Broken walkie talkies
feed red back to nothing
and knick knack hoarders note
the familiar festering of deadly bacteria
in the lungs and on the
tippy top of the tongue.
Space cadets rocket
through concrete jungles containing
apartment after
apartment after
apartment filled with
mannequins filled with
sand filled with
unevenly severed hands.
So speaks the ornament!
So declares the dashboard decal!
Sensual scholarly seekers
seem so totally hip
and read feminist poetry
to dispel the myths
and spit on the irony.
I won't dare to flatter you
with the focused attention of stone
or allow the personable picture frame
to make the secrets of
the microscopic universe known.
So suggests the ship siren!
So recites the repository!
Empty yourself into me,
adopt a new philosophy,
abandon in within two weeks
so I can see and you can seep,
your fluttering robin heart to keep
and glaciers to arrive upon
a salty brown eternal sleep.
Deliver me to the melting shopping mall!
The centennial fire alarm goes off
at the tip of the cliff,
at the end of the hall.
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 3:28 PM UTC
Tiny feathers.
Of black, white,
and softest brown.
Tiny wings fluttering.
With quiet sound.
Loud voice.
Of sweetest song.
Which can be heard.
From miles around.
"Swee, swee,"
calls the chickadee.
Handcrafted by God above,
the little chickadee
is a tiny miracle.
Of His love.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Seven times I told you,
Seventy pins in seventy dolls on seventy dusty shelves in New Orleans backrooms.
Seven times I warned you
Seven hundred aches, seven hundred acres
I run across.
I outrun the burn and I outrun the grief
The witch in me, I race with her too.
Seven miles to run, seven miles behind.
And I pass that playful laugh of yours, grab at it
and stick it in my pocket, shove it deep, deep in my pocket.
And I pass that twinkle in your eyes
and I grab that too,
send it on a paper rocket flying the speed of light into seven universes far away.
I grab that last promise
the one that was slippery and hard to hold onto.
I grab it and hold it tight
And I run.
I told you I would
(you looked so surprised).
I run and my bones hit the ground with the rhythm and pulse of a tribal drummer
He drums out in my head
Run, Run, henny Run.
He drinks my optimism from a cup, then beats his drum. Run, chickadee, run run.
He vomits my clarity at my feet all the while his brown weathered hands drum a ceaseless beat. Run, baby. He loves you not, run.
On the seventh day I run from you and
I find that I am made now from the down of your hair
so I run until I am bald.
I find that I am made now from stalactites dripping from your tongue.
Celtic knot of assurances and reassurances.
I am made up of moments that I didn't make.
I am made up of your indecision. They bounce gleefully "I don't know, I don't know..."
they insist as they hit walls and corners.
They are lazy, I outrun them with ease.
Seven times I told you,
Itchy souls need to find a branch for stratching.
Seven miles between me and you
Seven hundred to go.
Sahn
6/12/14
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:01 PM UTC
Goodnight.
Sleep well.
I love you so much.
See you in the morning.
The house quiet and dark.
We break from our hug and walk to our rooms quietly.
The only sounds are my footsteps and the news going in Dads room.
Just another night.
Earlier that day,
I saw you cry.
I saw your upper lip shake like the ground when mountains fall over.
I saw tears rush down your face and into riverbeds and onto your lap.
I watch you turn the other way so I don’t see you as weak.
The man I have known to be the heatless ******* is the person who needs heart the most.
He needs my heart.
His daughters heart.
His girlfriends heart.
His heart is an endless pit of pain and guilt
but he keeps a firm smile on his face.
He breaks down like the rest of us.
He gets depressed too.
Hell, with what he is going through I don’t know what I would do.
But this man goes to bed every night hoping to see his daughters beautiful face
Hear his sons voice over the acoustic guitar
and the ******* chickadee’s waking him up at 6:30 every morning.
He goes to bed in tears.
Worried,
His daughter’s depression has gotten worse.
His son feels.. abandoned.
His girlfriend overwhelmed.
His heart is black from the ashes of bombs being dropped on him almost every day.
His hands red from slapping destiny in the face and taking his own road in life.
His wedding ring that he still wears because he knows how much it means.
His son,
Worries constantly about him.
He worries that for once more his happiness will be stripped from him like white paint on an old wall.
Painted over and over and stripped only to get a new coat of paint.
The walls are getting tired of this ******** and just want to be left alone.
He worries that one day he won’t be the same.
He worries that sickness will drive him over the wall and into a land he doesn’t want to see.
His father is a strong man.
But he sees the worst things that could happen.
He is breaking down.
Father goes to bed but stays awake throughout the night
Hoping that she hasn’t left him.
Hoping that she isn’t sick.
Hoping that his son is happier than ever.
Happy that he gets to see his daughter.
Truth is,
His son idolizes his father.
He is a true hero.
A decorated veteran in the war called life
and his battle wounds are crippling.
But ****** his feet still work and he can still walk.
He has the biggest heart imaginable,
his son worries about his father.
Goodnight.
Sleep well.
I love you so much.
See you in the morning.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
*Powerful Oaks nurture glistening orbs , curtain call of the Muses , prequel of effervescent , diurnal joy amongst their brethren with abundant ****** melodies ! The Angels of Harmony , melodist of Zion , proclaim from the East ! The woodland duet , song of Brown Thrasher and Chickadee , the acoustical miracles of the Heavenly host , brilliant a cappella voices with thunderous volume , first chair instrumentalist within the symphony of Dawn*
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
When you get there, to the frozen apple’s core,
climb the first hill that you see. Tall one,
floored in rock a-glitter, breaching the noon frost
at the center. Horizon’s white-hot gleaming.
It’s quiet here. A flock of somethings and someones has
built these lines together. Not a barn, nor cathedral either.
The beams vibrate squirrel and chickadee. Be.
Be still in the ice, and their voices will come down
to shiver your pen across a new page.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Follow that burning you feel in your bones. That tingle of pure fire running through your veins
Ignite your soul.
there is so much I would love
to see
These trees
wrap their arms around my blossoming soul; my true home found in the purest laughter of the wind
and the dancing call of the creek
I am you and you are me
we are everything
To be anything. Moment. Living present to recieve our presence. You are only ever here. Now. Embrace the breath found in these rolling forests
our glittering banks
Embrace your breath.
We are freedom. Living simply, living peacfully. We are love. Embrace this moment always.
The sun brushes kisses upon my upraised face
bringing warmth to my soul
opening in delicious appreciation of the wonderful heat that he is.
Everyday. bestowing kisses and asking nothing in return.
What can be more beautiful
then that?
Take this body. Release tension. Breath deep. Breathe to remind. You are anything. Everything. Take your body and live in your truth. Imagine if you did, how free you would be!
My soul is expanding, wide open hugging the earth in all her glory. So diverse, so intricate, so simple. She is everywhere. Fingers of wind running through my hair, salty kisses of the ocean, brushing my toes. The burbling laugh of mountain streams hopping rocks in their journey of release.
There is no search. There is only now, and the enjoyment of the chickadee calling goodmorning to the toes of sun running between the cedar trunks. There is only now. Breath.
I am you and you are me.
we are everything
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 1:47 AM UTC