"coops" poems
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
In the jungle, green and lush,
a familiar cry breaks the hush,
A sound,
Of foot falls that trample dry leaves,
Low figures strutting amongst the trees.
Then a feral cat on the prowl, for a meal,
shadowed, perched looking for a life to steal,
listens, looks, waits without a sound,
closer...closer...measuring the distance in a bound.
And it had been so long since she had hunted,
had a good feed, at the memory she grunted,
the flurry of feathers and a beak, in her face,
caused
her to recoil, reeling backwards in disgrace.
The rooster stepped to where she had been,
perching crowed loudly and just looked mean,
A speckled hen emerged, from the shrubbery
clucking with timidity,
the orphan cat skulked away in the humidity.
The rooster with white wings, black back, red comb topped head,
crowed loudly again, the rooster announced, their rights instead,
they would rather chase on foot and protect their hens,
as they are the wild chickens of Maui, without coops or pens!!
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
we talked of chickens, the coops, the wire,
he
brought me a specimen of lime mortar, held
with horse hair from the old wall. we
placed it, discussed lime, the burning,
and carried on.
made a pointy thing, will burn our
irons in the fire.
day of industry, company, winds
bent the rest of us, so we
followed the road to find
hedd wynn.
the light is coming through.
sbm.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 1:15 AM UTC
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Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
the skulk was mostly *****
hens were haunted by either gender
the farmer's wife also feared them
though small and they ran from most two-legged beasts
the farmer shot the foxes for sport--guarding chickens not his concern with a thousand acres in corn
the farmer's son had trapped a red Reynard
it perished in captivity, starving itself
the night of the caged fox's demise, the rooster crowed tirelessly
for good reason, since the leash gobbled a dozen hens under a waning gibbous moon
the creatures prosecuted a moral symmetry it seemed
while the farmer was febrile with the grippe, the son fast asleep, and the wife dared not make a peep
witnessing a crimson carnage she likened to war
in its aftermath, a naked sun rose on waves of white feathers and scarlet trails of blood
perhaps 'tis not good to trap a wild thing, the farmer's wife mused
then she made her way to the coops, fetching enough eggs for breakfast
all the while the skulk watched from the thick brush
watched and waited, without will as we know it
but with a red reckoning ready, should they again be victims
of man's folly and sin
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 10:43 PM UTC
The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.
Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.
That’s what Papa says, at least.
Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.
The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.
Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.
An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.
Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 11:04 AM UTC
,
Really !
The Pidgeons are in their coops
Atop the tenement high rises
""
Being a dumb **** (?)
well :: **** happens
Living in a shack somewhere or in Beverly Hills
)(
A dumb **** cannot wise up and become a smart **** simply because as a dumb **** he is too dumb to wise up
::
Still
Even you don't have ta be a dumb ****
.
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC
When in the medium wade
Off town houses and pent coops up two
When the forces fade
Down the road popcorn is good.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Now I was young and easy. Led
entranced under plum tree blossoms
drifting along the sloping drive
to white-washed walled Stud Farm.
This ecstasy of being cool pig-pink
sunk happy in a mud brown wallow.
Then I was bold and carefree,
working among the barns
busy about the happy yard
on the farm that was home.
Young once only, in my kingdom
as Time let me live my dreams.
It carried me over and over again
in daytime walking or running,
it was lovely, the sweet scents:
fragrant hay field’s cut grass
and herbage fully sun dried.
Or, I pedalled in evenings
led by bicycle-dynamo-beamed
light under the stars to sleep.
Above me the barn owls were
claiming skies of swallows clear.
Coppice hooting in preludes,
there bats about soon flitted
where tiny glow worms flickered.
Then to dawn awake: the farm,
mist-shrouded as a roamer white
dew cloaked, returning to hear
***** crowing from hen coops
black cawing crows in the trees.
Glimpsing the same clear sky
changed from yesterday
into today’s white and blue.
The same sun but born again.
The distant church bells ringing.
Nothing I cared for more
than pink piglets new born,
just meadow-birthed lambs
and black and white calves
that would take up my time:
to hold me to the farm forever
released from orphanage hold.
Oh! I was so young and easy.
In the mercy of its means,
Time held me as I was flying
while I threw off captive
chains - at last unshackled - free.
Tobias
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC
I think my career is beer
What a rhyme yo say its time
Can you, you copy my style!
You gat you know that. It be bags though once you knew
Coops,s you understand '
I'm ANC unmatched guys whale it so me to them cone I know home
My poems
, I homp it's joint the Jon you think it is
I'm almost done though. This is just great I'm ennobled you just believe that it is mom
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
Little Martha and her
yellow apples.
She drinks warm Mezcal
in the Poppy fields.
Copper canyon runners
wear thin leather
thongs on their
callused ash white feet.
Elevated Chicken coops
keep the Hens cool
in the summer and
safe from the
Copperheads on the
desert floor below.
Men soar like
Eagles and glide
around Polaris.
Trust in the
Hemp ropes
and trust in their
Creator.
Her father went South
to fight for his People.
That's the story she
still tells when asked
about him today.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 5:49 AM UTC
The eagles may pass the snowbirds,
In the air, on the land and sea;
Like the flight of the featherless Wild Geese
In a similar century.
The coops are open,
The hawk is swooping,
Talons sharp and spread;
Eyes laser fixed, and firey red.
They're locked
On preening pigeons,
Perched near the magic box.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:20 PM UTC
It has been said that my mother came from floor cleaners and fruit picking.
It has been said that my father came from chicken coops and lawn mowers.
Would it be said I came from ink stains and sidewalks?
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 1:41 PM UTC
I categorize one type of experiences as futility loops
Like Jumped-through hoops and Unflown coops
Another type, I associate with Red the ***
Like *I felt you *** and Just use your thumb
Jun 19, 2015
Jun 19, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
i am quite used to strutting and
spreading my tail feathers as wide as my *** allows
calling whistling
walking the fence row and the coops doorway
displaying all I got like a peacock
on thanksgiving giving all the hen turkeys hell
saying in clucks what up beeitch!
I am not used to , however
that god ****** hawk hovering over
circling
knowing I am a failure
Jul 2, 2016
Jul 2, 2016 at 6:42 AM UTC
When Fern replaced Jack,
There was no turning back.
It felt like an attack,
And then the friendship cracked.
As the people chose their factions,
And Jack found himself alone,
He came to the conclusion,
Breaking free from his delusion,
That the only person’s word that he could count on was his own.
It happened rather fast,
A single moment passed.
A new transfer student,
Felt that he needed to be included.
He didn’t want to be alone,
So he found the nearest friend group,
And hoped they’d take him as their own.
He walked to the group,
Who were trapped in their coops,
Scrolling through their tombs,
Not having anything to say.
Fern cleared his throat,
His anxiety was flying high.
As he stuttered,
“H-h-hi-hi.”
The group was surprised, someone new had bothered,
To approach them,
Especially someone so nervous.
They pondered,
What his ulterior motive was,
As they looked him up and down.
Fern frowned.
Were they judging him?
His hands shook,
As sweat trickled to the ground.
Eventually, Jack got up,
Took his hand and shook it.
“I’m Jack!”
The moment,
That Jack wished he could take back.
Freshman year went on,
And nothing consequential changed.
Fern grew closer to the group,
As life kept turning the pages,
Of their stories,
Growing closer to the heartbreaking ending.
Sophomore year began,
And Jack noticed that things felt off,
Not oppressive,
But enough that he wanted it to stop.
Fern brought another friend along,
And Jack found himself sitting alone,
Fern’s friend just seemed more interesting,
Than Jack ever was.
Jack’s friends used to talk to him,
Then they didn’t.
Jack figured out right away,
That this was how it felt to be replaced.
So Jack went out of his way,
To avoid his “friends” every day.
If they didn’t care,
He wouldn’t let it tear down his sails.
It hurt,
But he knew he’d heal.
He’d leave them behind,
Clawing at his heels.
When Fern replaced Jack,
There was no turning back.
It felt like an attack,
And then the friendship cracked.
As the people chose their factions,
And Jack found himself alone,
He came to the conclusion,
Breaking free from his delusion,
That the only person’s word that he could count on was his own,
And that was okay!
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 6:19 PM UTC
Here, in the far north
It's time to plan for snow
What ever is left on bare ground
For the season will be froze
The birds of fowl
Within their coops
No longer to be noticed
'Til the nights of long
Have come and gone
On the flip side of the Solis
In a darken state
Of the Poetic mind
Abilities are frozen
To reason and rhyme
Frostbitten thoughts
Creeping sublime
Oh how we'll long
For sweet spring
Sunshine
....
....
Oct 17, 2017
Oct 17, 2017 at 9:13 AM UTC
It was the place where I'd step from the train
and the sea air bouyed and supported me.
It felt just right. No sense of human drain
and exploitation. There I could just be.
Then I thought about it: About the men
so so beautiful and sparkling who chose
other girls. About the sweet fishermen,
surfers, beekeepers, gardeners, those
cool cafe workers, the greenie coop
community, musos, artists, weavers,
woodworkers and keepers of chicken coops.
Reality checks sometimes find dreamers.
Of all those lovely people I admired
not one reached out to teach me anything.
Nov 18, 2019
Nov 18, 2019 at 3:00 PM UTC