Karen Dick May 2010

Blue winter morning
Still dark.  Two small chickadees
on a snow-covered branch

(c) White Mountain Publications 2009
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015

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.

www.ronnowpoetry.com
jeffrey robin Aug 2015

It's time to cut the bullshit

And take the FINAL PRODUCT


DOWN TOWN !

//

/////

we live in the alleyway under the el - tracks

In the darkest city

Where no humans dwell

                                                            ( just us robotic imitations

                                         In human form   )

||

we fuck like Ken & Barbie

& pretend that Someday

We'll pretend to play       House

//

And that we are real

And that we know love

//

We worship Idols

we abuse  the Sacred

We abuse each other

We write poems about it !

//


//

( which I find very strange  )

::

::

come on

It's time to cut the bullshit

REALITY AINT BAD !

it's that time girl

to take the FINAL PRODUCT

DOWN TOWN !

AndPenny Jun 4

You wrote down
Every time you saw a chickadee
When I saw you
You would tell me about them
Never did I see you as happy as when
You talked about those chickadees
Your deep brown eyes grew wide and bright
I swear I could see the whole world in them
Your gestures big enough to swallow
This universe
And the next
And your head on my stomach
Staring up at the sky
Right where we were supposed to be
But now?
Now your eyes are glassy and cold
Your gestures non-existent
Your head lies on a pillow
Which lies on wood
Which lies in the ground
A part of the earth that I used to see in you
And now
Now I don’t see chickadees
Only mourning doves

Ormond Sep 2012

Fall needles shedding,
Chickadees pecking for seeds,
Shivering larch tree.

CA Guilfoyle Sep 2012

So came the days,
long of summer's winging
sweet the cherry chickadees sang
of June

Grasping leafy ribbons hung,
willowy warm the trees we swung
All the green - the frog soliloquy pond

Fritillaria, frilly forest fronds
grassy mountain meadow paths,
daisy clouds bloomed, swirling past
Wild geese flocked the lake,
dusk too soon alas

August night of seasons end
starry meteors flashed across
velvet black whistling to
a blue moon

Elise Nov 2013

This skin is alive,
but I wish it were rotting
beneath the soil,
roots forming between
my rib cage,
rain draining the blood
from my veins,
birds stealing hair for
their chickadees pillows,
insects burrowing behind
old kneecaps.

This life has no meaning so I give my life to those who could use it.

Twilight Zone Feb 2014

The chickadee flies around a little girls head.
Her hair hangs down her back like a rope.
A blade of grass tied around her braid.
The chickadees cheers for her to sing a story.
She won't turn around to acknowledge
the little token of friendship behind her.
The chickadee combs his claws in her hair.
The ribbon spins down and the party begins.
She stares at the setting sun to make it rise.
Her tank top helps her pretend she's strong.
Summer needs to enter the stage of snow.
Her soul is a bottle where she stores dreams.
All the clouds travel to earth in the winter.
The weight of the world is only winter.
The chickadee is the joy of winter.

Ormond Apr 2015

Rain drops sing from sky
Spotted sounds in moisty leaves
Chickadees calling

PK Wakefield Apr 2014

do not go there are trees and how many who knows the world is round in Spring and fat in Spring is the far wonder of somewhere the chickadees of smooth sweltering dolls with their dulleyed limp mouths and they don't say a "fucking word"

Honeysuckle carrier churning the spring-                                              
river caladium
Easterly shear delight beyond Dresden blue visage
Windy dream mermaid sea , Brown Pelican motion
Harper Chickadees stirring Pineapple sage-
banks of thought
Tempered , smitten , physical piedmont devotion
Pisciform schooners roaming wits damask ocean

Copyright April 6 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Kurtis Cullen May 2013

The race of the Spring is giving way
To the pace of the Summer,
More and more

Bees hover among the flowers, and
Young Chickadees are bigger now
Ripening like fruit on the vine,
Passing the test of hours

And in the lawn grass the Adder lies--
Still, stillness it must keep,
Wrapp'd by a hundred butterflies
Reds, oranges, blues, saffron, whites
All inextricably unique
Save when they rise,
Rising as they do like smoke when the serpent bites
The fang'd body uncoiled, vicious, sheer--

Nothing left in which to hide
Nothing more to make disguise
The Adder is bare before our eyes
The Adder is yielded to scrutinize!
See it before it flies! Spare yourself the surprise!

a poem about the deepening of what i understand about politics, relationships, growth
Pierson Pflieger Mar 2013

Waiting    listening    watching-
senses strain against
the darkness.

Dark gives way to gray
enough to see
deceptive shadows.

The woods stir slowly.
Chickadees speak, still sleepy.
Leaves rustle in the distance

alerting vigilant ears and eyes; inciting hope.
Scanning the ridge and shooting lanes, my eyes- then ears-
lock on rummaging squirrels.  

Cold hands slip back into pockets;
it tries to snow.
Ravens complain        back        and        forth.

Stillness-
then the rise of wind
through the trees.

Around eleven I walk to Dad’s stand.
Quiet talk and hot soup-
no deer.

The afternoon is spent, back against an Ash, with cautious thoughts
comfortable enough to creep forward and linger in the peace of the woods.

This is a poem I wrote on my stand opening morning of deer hunting, two years ago.  Hunting is a family tradition I cherish.  I don't have to see any deer for it to be a successful hunt.  I enjoy sitting in the woods, an invisible observer, alone with my thoughts.  It's also the one opportunity I have to have some candid moments with my dad.
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