"clucks" poems
the hens
have raised their fowl fists,
protested the pecking order,
debated the Cuckoo Clucks Clan,
and started a coup in the coop.
they have a bird's eye view from their fort,
truly an eggcelent perch to reside in while they gather resources and
duck when enemies fire.
joining is a nestcessary evil to end the corruption.
so, my dear,
please don't chicken out.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
Soft light and fresh sense,
cooling air descends.
Lungs expand more gently at ease,
apprehension slides with death.
Breathe in to converse with greenery
as the day now dips and sets.
Though the clucks and clicks continue on,
colours no longer reflect to bounce
the burning image of a molten head.
Nevertheless we're not done yet,
tomorrow's bound to come along
with new problems until we're laid to rest.
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 12:14 PM UTC
When I push the pedal to the metal theres no limit I **** space...
my movement never constant just can't stay in one place...
So I zoom zoom through the poom poom...
leaving ****** scenes in bedrooms..
given girlies the boom boom...
Explode...As i unload...
round after round clip after clip...
as their bodies shake and twitch lick after lick...
Sounds of *** remind me I'm some ****
And why the **** Im i even sittin here doin this...
With no remorse in my eyes..
I **** em until they die...
pound after pound
clap sound after clap sound...
pelivis agianst *****
we know which is the meanest..
Wit no protection Im at war..
with criminals who only *****
Thier war crimes they get paid for...
then the death toll I get blaimed for..
As i leave them slayin to rest...
Some label me the best...
others just another *** that clucks at all the hens..
Can't read my metaphors that means ***** alot of women...
The reaction is i get a lot of practice so i can be to half bad..
So dont sign up for tryouts get cut then get mad...
because you haven't had the amout of practice i had..
See I know all types of tricks..
lights skin, brown skin, dark skin, i got a whole lot of picks.
The ins and the outs..
when to drive in and when to pull out...
Squirting your insides against my stomach...
you panic..
instantly proclaiming to your maker...
that Iam your ******
the one who drove to fast that your waves decided to crash...
all over me..milking your sweet nector...
as you lay life lessly twitching..the side effects of a killing..
so i place the pedal to the metal i tend to burn rubber...
one hand around the neck of the wheel and the other around my lovers...
Apr 4, 2012
Apr 4, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
he told me the secret to life
was faking it
he said that no one will be able to see the cracks in your skin beneath
the makeup i'll put on you
look in the mirror, he said
your reflection is flawless
and that girl is absolutely
100%
you
no scratches were visible
from the night i tried to claw my eyes out
he trimmed my nails short and said
they looked prettier that way
my formerly bloodshot eyes
and ratchet hair
had been replaced with contacts
the mane, tamed down into a tight little bun
i wasn't a girl who hated herself
i wasn't the girl who tried to hang herself
i was the girl who loved herself and thought life was just grand
i was the girl who was afraid of death
the screaming voices in my head were replaced
with condescending mama hen clucks
he spun me around once more and said
darling
look at your beautiful face
look at
you
yeah
look at me
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
Intense
Existence
Always
Ignores
All
Ignorant
Oracles
Sep 6, 2013
Sep 6, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC
The lady that used to wait aside the wings
and sing to all
to let us know the show was done
has gone.
Moved to a farm in Saskatchewan
where as a second wife to Edward Stone
she inherited another life
another home
and she's much slimmer now
you wouldn't recognise the girl who used to sing
and bring the curtain down.
Three pigs,two cows,some hens and sows
and she just loves it so.
She wonders why she didn't go much sooner
why she was slow
and time was quick to take advantage of her looks.
She cleans and cooks but does not sing
for fortune has it that
might bring bad luck.
And clucks,how
she clucks among the hens
throws the corn collects the eggs
pecked once or twice upon her legs
all part of her new day.
She's glad,
she wouldn't have it any other way.
And Edward's such a lovely man
five foot eight
broad shoulders
and he usually sports a tan.
In Saskatchewan
the lady never sings.
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
Rooster in the hen house
always wins.
It goes to
show
It doesn't matter.
When the hen gives in.
Make the Rooster happy!
To keep the peace with in.
It goes to show.
It doesn't really matter,
to this hen.
When the lights go out.
That's when it begins.
It may be real or just
pretend.
It really doesn't matter
in the end.
Why go down the road?
Said the hen!
When it's not far to go.
It's just to the next door!
To the rooster with in.
Cock-a-doodle-doo
once again.
See it really doesn't matter
To the hen.
There are other birds
of the same feather.
When the hen
doesn't give in.
This hen looks for attention.
Something to sip on,
could be 1 or 2!
To stick out her chest.
A couple of winks
does the trick.
Maybe get a new do!
The tail feathers will
go up soon.
She's a free rein hen.
If it really did matter
To this hen,
towards you.
There would have
been some clucks.
Like 2 or even 10!
To whom, that thought
it mattered.
It was only pretend.
For the Rooster on
The outside.
That's the way
it has been.
If it really did matter
to this hen.
That rooster would
be out.
This one
would be in.
It doesn't matter to her.
Like it's been said.
It really doesn't matter
Because, she's not
your hen.
The Rooster in the hen house.
Will always win.
Simba
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 12:58 PM UTC
it seems Prez Grinch, has a job to commit
it's that time of year, we have to admit
turkey pardoning is indeed a big thing
Prez Grinch just loves it as he thinks he's a king
the turkey is chosen and brought to the garden
it struts and it clucks and Prez says ”Your Pardoned”...
Brian Hill - 2020 # 322
Nov 24, 2020
Nov 24, 2020 at 10:37 AM UTC
I’ve piled my books high.
Stacked them against the window.
He pecks
And he clucks.
He’s the greatest company!
I blow dust off the hardcovers.
He must think they’re sand dunes.
I’ve mountains
Of heaps
Over which he bounces and skips.
“Shoo! Shoo!”
He’s attacking me.
He seems plenty cross.
I guess he’s lonely.
But hey! So am I!
I haven’t been outside
In forever.
He hasn’t been outside
Since he flew in.
He must, like I do, like it here.
I read him a book.
He likes the tale;
The one of the windborne bird.
He seems not to like the one, though.
The one about the caged singing bird.
I read a book.
About sunlight
And moonlight
And about windows.
For that’s how they come in.
And I’m curious.
Curious enough.
And so I set about
with him flitting here to there,
picking, unpiling, unstacking.
Most books I shove into a trunk.
Some even manage to fit in the bookshelf.
I use it mostly for things.
Many things.
And a book or two.
The window.
This solitary window.
I open.
And there’s a flutter.
He’s gone.
But when I leave the apartment,
I always come back.
I always come back because I’m tired of walking.
So, I imagine that he will come back.
Yes, he will be back,
When he’s tired of flying.
Dec 7, 2019
Dec 7, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
You! The center of solar system, main source energy of living and non-living, consumed great heat, considered the brightest of all stars, I summon not you but your power. As the earth rotates and revolves around you, dividing night and day, in the land where your light casts on the east, showing its glory, I implore you - shed not just your light but also your heat. Hearing me pleading you, your eyebrows if you have will surely raise for my sudden approach, as the rooster clucks, in the air so still and wet. But you, from afar we can feel you, even to the moon you have shared yourself, wondering why I called in this time. Though at times I question, your high presence makes trees go dry and land quench for water, but this time, my lips continuously utter, as I work with my clothes in bubbling water, running for the clock, oh great Sun, listen to me. Let no cloud shed a little tear, show who’s the most powerful, our Sun, I invoke you, for no machine can please my clothes, and air cannot do any better. Cooperate with the wind, cast the clouds that hinders you, reveal your shining glory, and may my clothes experience your majesty.
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
Look over my shoulders
Problems big as a boulder
So I peep from s distance
Scavengers coming for me
And my ****** family
Tricked us into slavery
And no one cares to find us G
So I gotta fight with every instinct
Cuz my brother n sisters of my color
Almost extinct
New breed turn pink
Like the pigs eating slop n ****
Nothing but mess but I don't stress
Five hundred years of pain
And still get an arrest
Mad cuz I drive clean cars
And I don't wanna be the star
Just look at the nine in my hand
This Is the diary of mad man
Dear diary I can't help that I'm a rebel
I'm takin poetry to another level
Devils
All around me
But somehow they can't find me
Even to myself I'm a stranger
Filled with anger
Approach with caution or else face danger
Face to face with death
So I take a deep breath
My hearts steadily pounding
Sound the war chump
And bring on the violence
Been cut many afore
But I don't bleed easily so set up yo fort
No witness to survive
So bump out all that jive
I see trump in hibernation
Much luv to folk and disciple nation
Chicago standing they ground
Look how Manu brothers surround
The city with many weapons
Myself I gotta auto matic weapons
Just incase bloods gotta be sweep
No longer standing on yo feet
Rebirth of nation back again
It makes me proud to be a black Hebrew man this is the diary of mad man...
So what I dig deep from my guts
N don't give a **** about a ****
Or another *****
Tryna Chase figures but don't see the
Price of the real picture
****** is all I read
Cuz I'm the last of the dying breed
Enemies plotting against me
Neighborhood ****** ain't catchin me
Swift my moves put the needle to the grove
And watch how all the suckers move and prove
I got an art of war mentality
Learned How to **** from my great grand pappy hair *****
Loving it much as ****
Cuz I just don't give a ****
Making bucks from the clucks
Don't matters wither it be drugs prostitution or use vain profanity
In my rap sheets
My definitive is far from complete.
So go ahead and try to compete
But you get ensnared at crossroads man
Cuz this is diary of mad man!!!!
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
She noted, grimly cognizant of though unamused by the irony,
That her likeness, or something akin to that,
Appeared on the poster—a gray-clad strong and vibrant woman
Reaching, in concert with her comrades
(One woman in a white coat, a man in overalls and requisite cap,
Still another androgynous figure in a futuristic ensemble
Resembling some cross of a Western science fiction movie
And some cheap Petrograd-made tin foil)
Toward a hammer-and-sickle adorned moon
Soon to be conquered by a similarly festooned rocket ship.
She is no scientific apparatchik, no technically gifted party functionary;
It is her job to feed the canine occupant of this mission to the cosmos
(Two mutts from the Moscow streets, she confides to Ilysa,
One of the few co-workers who can be trusted with such a statement.)
The dog, she notes without any trace of rancor, eats quite well,
Better than she does in truth,
But it is a series of last meals for the condemned,
For there is no secret as to the dog’s eventual fate
(Poor cur, he has no idea he is doomed,
One of the scientists clucks sadly,
Though she simply shrugs in reply,
Knowing a test or a trap when she sees it,
Though she thinks to herself He is far from alone)
And, after she has cleaned up the remnants of the dog’s dinner,
She heads back to her one-room flat on the Yaseneavaya Boulevard,
Noting ruefully, as she ascends the crumbling, unsteady steps
Leading to her blocky, faceless building,
That the omnipresent klieg lighting of the street lamps
Serves to obscure any trace of the heavens in the night sky.
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 9:49 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Grandpa and the Kid
Grandpa gives his boy a toy truck
Or better yet a clanking army tank
Or maybe a plastic shovel and pail
Or a real Roy Rogers cowboy hat
And the little boy’s hovering mother clucks:
“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me!
Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!”
No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!”
[Extended Form for Certain Feasts and Seasons:
“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” Amen.]
And Grandpa smiles and lights his favorite pipe
(His daughter rolls her disapproving eyes)
She sees tonight’s bath in the sand and grass
But Grandpa sees beyond this time and place
His boy builds a road, a fort, a castle, a corral
And Grandpa thanks God for his little pal
Mar 16, 2021
Mar 16, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC
First know this:
In my peoples’ history,
an old evil, revived,
a real pretend
a”new” enemy, but
merely a derivative of a-prior,
old name, same hatred,
irrational and raw,
rising up in every generation,
under cover of a ‘philosophy,’
lies buried a purity of motive,
purity of hate for hate’s sake
<•>
For my people
and their beliefs
Our secret to our
survival is manifest,
you may have heard it called,
A Secret Chord (1)
Tears and Laughter,
Tears Behind Laughter
intertwined, or else,
we would not indeed be
the long going on tribe
studied by curious
historians & idiots
me?
still crazy, after all these generations
Grandparents & Parents
chased by ‘professionals’
from places well known to you
(hey! we somehow got away
with huge luck, and courageous daring)
Not requiring your sympathy
not asking for a special empathy,
not rejecting your clucks,
but we manage
though tears aplenty
that we mask under a guise
via self-deprecating humor
I would love to tell
the Bible and the liturgy
is full of sly winks,
cutish double entendres,
bartender jokes,
but it ain’t necessarily so
don’t ya know
if the bible had made
gentle laughter at/of/
angelic & human foibles
and maybe
even God laughing at
all too human characteristics
but that’s a very big ask,
not sure He’s up to the task,
making fun of yourself
when you’re the
top of the chain
requires
humanility
which’s not a master’s
first calling
but should have been its
first blessing
*so that’s up to us,
we irreverent creatures
of his design,
and why we are the absolute tgw only
species that cries
to express
sadness-
and mockery maker
of ourselves
the oy in
oh vey beings
Still crazy after all these years
Dec 23, 2024
Dec 23, 2024 at 9:35 AM UTC
Now it's time to crucify the *******
Burn em with fire throw em in ditches
Like the district attorneys
Tryna play me but didn't know I was boss
Took a lot hard hits but no yards lost
Gaining multiple positions we go for everything
Didn't have a team so I built my own dream
Get rid of my old crew and hang with a new crew I'm a black Jew
Stuck in the wild a real problem child
Ain't my fault nigguh ?
Born in ******* now I'm tryna fight
Back nigguh
Real friends turn to bustas so jealousy keeps me strapped
Shootin' game like life's full of craps
Testin lucks enticin' clucks to my duck
Cuz I got that mad flow cash flow
Never failed had no choice but to shed hell
Livin' in a jail cell
Kin to the reaper this **** creaper
As I stroll in my drop top hot as a ************
Rushin' the late night hour like I'm Chris Tucker
The stash is gold bold weak nigguh fold
And ***** ******* to haters get the black glock
Since my homies roll deep us might as well say we a flock none could block the hustle
Go for the biggest muscle
The Cia the biggest distributors
Uh the Devils gotta receipt repent from my sins
If I die from open fire will the Heavens let me in?
The pain I can't fade Tha
The stress put on this earth as a test
Slicin' necks with my rusty razor
Givin a rapid taste of a true hellrazorrr!
Aug 18, 2015
Aug 18, 2015 at 10:23 AM UTC
I shred the beets.
Heads of red flicks in the bowl
parged of white now rosé, blushes.
To say the word properly is to nestle the
tongue in the church of the mouth the nave
of clucks tucked under the roof of the palate to
squeeze conjoined shushes and birch noises.
To steam to steep
with the lazy roil of the soup.
Do you recall the crunch of the snow outside our dacha?
The days where ice coated crusts cut
galoshes
sloshed.
The tureen beckons with its fractures.
To predict the future merely gaze into the soup.
How is this to see
a winter of bread and shavings
of fibers sewn rough
of tough, tough coughs that spray rose
petals in the dawn?
Dec 5, 2017
Dec 5, 2017 at 6:57 AM UTC
Is this where it ends?
The pouring of words,
The same as the rain against the window.
Moisture to the grass.
Safely unlatching the gate,
The horses huff in the darkness.
The sky so bare,
But it reminds me of someone else;
Beneath his chin, beneath our dreams.
Is this where we have come?
To my insincerities,
To my lies, disguised as truths.
Half-truths, we will say.
Your arms an honour:
Your doors are opening,
Finally,
But I am locked behind my own.
Is this where the road ends?
Cooped up for too long,
The light has escaped our space;
Casting shade in your eyes
And doubt on me.
With the road that lay ahead, breaking slowly,
Crumbling in slow motion:
So loudly, so harshly.
Is this where we end?
Individual thoughts on the unknown:
Opinions and perspective
The world went upside down when you spoke,
Tossing me off my feet,
The red of my hair the last thing I recall.
An inner voice spoke then:
The clucks and the chatters faded.
Until it all became void.
But this is not the first time,
This will not be the last.
Although, it is the end:
To the vanilla latte air,
To the inconvenience.
The pins on the map are all mine now,
The administration is yours.
I have no more debt,
And the circles never combined anyway.
The sun sets while we look away,
As always,
And then we drift off:
Into the abyss, into our own worlds,
Into individuality.
Until we find our voices,
And start again.
Apr 5, 2021
Apr 5, 2021 at 5:36 PM UTC
Brought up on Ikea,MacDonalds and see how you look,
I see the round seeded buns of fat burger bums and the falling apart of furniture that you couldn't start,with instructions you can't read,go feed your face in that god awful place and get out of mine.
There was a time when mums cooking was best.(lest we forget)
as yet another chicken clucks and who gives a hoot or one flying,flux,it's all in the flux,we always knew that.
This will be our ruination,the fatification (i make words up) of...oh what the hell,let's station ourself by the doors,eat chickens like foxes on tables from boxes and go with the flow.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 7:35 AM UTC
In its immensurate clarity, In its elongation of whatever time is left to my uprightness; that thrice divided second before you make the first incision Balloons and collapses upon my space, in my air.
Concussed, winded: I should dig in to counter the character dissection,
to appeal with all ire against this clinical dismissal and if necessary I will make myself aged and rage grey, a ghost of one last furious effort.
Two weakening supply lines open up from my heart and twist like lovers
throttling one another for the right to carry the thickest blood and tonic
to my left-right-left brain. I see both outcomes as unreal orbs in each palm:
Fought, but foundered, I could go in lunar were-peace towards the rough hewn exit I saw you cut through the nearest physical plane for me.
It has splintered, like young wood does, in a bunch of feather and spike.
But if I just sit down here instead, let you flay me from a distance
and have trial and have done? Then pack my deserved wounds with dirt and paint me justly black. My reeking cowardice, to match your triumph.
It is an unnatural horror to fight you, to choose between prompt defeats or the slow-burn aggregate loss of small and token victories. With less life to live and more to chip away at, I begin to just eke.
There is no shortcut, no revelation in user experience that floors the bad design leaving me wanting. There is no way to win at you.
You are Dependable terror. I just eke.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 4:22 PM UTC
*yes, i understand the politics, or so i thought,
that biology will never spawn a humanism,
that darwinism will only spawn generic attempts
via disregarding existentialism sweats.*
when was the thought ever conceived,
that dialectics needed a mediator?
why would a mediator be needed
when the only mediator
is a park bench in athens, and two people
speaking?
i get the foul animals' existence, i get the whole
wild heart, and shrinking eyesight,
i get that animals are given pristine materialism,
being incubated by overt-sensual impregnation,
i get that they're impregnated by pure sensuality
(over-use of adjectives is like quantifying things,
as many qualities to the legions of ants
as attributes of the sun, ending with deity
and beginning with geometry),
animals are plagued by sensuality,
they are overly given the pentagon,
while man is given the hexagon / star of david,
animals are overly sensing, man is overly thinking,
when the only phobia of wilderness animal
is huger... man's is spider, enclosure, open-spaces...
animal is pulverised by the senses and things
it roams among... man is pulverised by thought
and nothing, roaming ingenuity by the Libra
dimming sight with hearing for classical composition,
dimming hearing with sight for pablo picassos..
the wild animal in fright of hunger...
and man abounding in it to reflect clocked
chicken press of the laid eggs clucks a sudden diversion
rather than adding to a diversity...
change the poetic gimmick of rhyme...
don't end with synonymous spelling,
intertwine rhyming elsewhere, lie:
'a sudden diversion' and 'adding to diversity'
as engaging to lines without an a# a# end of both
to reveal a missing echo, after all echoing is like rhyming,
but pitiful rhyming, because it's written down
and never plotted to decipher plato's shadows
and candle in the cave entered... defeated first-step
defeated to claim the colour of defeat, the page
that dangled in the odds of waving like a signature
digitalised... all in all... animals are overly sensual,
and man is overly abstract... hence man
mediates symbols and thinking... while
animals mediate onomatopoeias sounding a bit
like touch on wood, and the parameters of allowed
petting:
we blink thrice and think we spotted
a thing only once, when in fact thrice.
Feb 20, 2016
Feb 20, 2016 at 7:31 PM UTC
I could be wrong
man is hellbent
to create a collision
that is my conclusion
though I have some confusion
I could be wrong
the price of tea
I say reluctantly
nothing to do with China
blame it all on North Carolina
I could be wrong
the icecaps melting
is warming the reason
it happens every season
they why is Minnesota freezin
I could be wrong
political system *****
its all about many bucks
could be *** elephant or ducks
roll the dice see which one clucks
I could be wrong
since you've been gone
everything has gone wrong
it was all your fault you know
I'll get by just you wait and see
... or I could be wrong
Gomer LePoet ....
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 8:30 PM UTC
Oh holy god,
this one clucks.
Let me stop telling jokes and just keep my mouth shut.
Oh no, oh ****
This one's a total *****
Mental note to leave the waiter one hell of a tip.
I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I'm so over it.
Oh great,
this one's obsessed with pop culture,
and this one's some sort of rotten carcass eating vulture.
I don't want to hear about your low-life ex-boyfriend.
I'll eat my food as fast as I can.
I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I count down the seconds until they end.
Are you freaking kidding me wearing that skirt?
No, that's okay, we'll skip on dessert.
Did he really just ask for your number?
Go ahead and give it to him.
Oh good god,
this girl is so dim.
What's that you say?
I wasn't listening . . .
I've never had a date I didn't hate.
I think I ought to just give it up.
Finally accept my fate:
No one but you will ever be good enough.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC
because I can cool his head with mine.
-
he clucks, I cluck. we are deep into our clucking.
-
from space. the same way it comes to animals.
-
that other thing is between you and god.
-
item: a nicotine patch, from father’s arm, in the event you find yourself playing with dolls.
-
item: we don’t have that kind of time.
-
object sadness, not yet coined, is a peephole I can’t put my finger on.
-
colloquialism is more than extra love for the hatchet.
-
there’s nothing left to swallow the tip of his tongue.
Jul 15, 2014
Jul 15, 2014 at 2:38 PM UTC
I am not all the things my words make me out to be.
While my tongue clucks of bravado and strength
my eyes search for the easy way out.
I tell tall tales of how I've gotten by
by the skin of my teeth
by my own daring and will
but the enamel is worn thin
from the nights I spend chewing over
the moments I wasn't ready for.
Every day the sun passes over me
is another day spent passing idle conversaton
of what I will do one day, only if, never when.
If I speak to those who construct their sentences
with actionable words
with authority
with that self-assuredness
that theirs is the correct path,
I find myself wondering when the day will come
that my own words
will shape the person I say I am.
When will I be the person I say I will be?
Not until
I write my own story,
instead of listening to those of others
while wishing I had
a story to tell.
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC