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Bodhi May 2017
It was so cold. Snow fell constantly, and ice formed over all the waters. The animals had never seen snow before. At first, it was a novelty, something to play in. But the cold increased tenfold, and they began to worry. The little animals were being buried in the snow drifts and the larger animals could hardly walk because the snow was so deep. Soon, all would perish if something were not done.

"We must send a messenger to Kijiamuh Ka'ong, the Creator Who Creates By Thinking What Will Be," said Wise Owl. "We must ask him to think the world warm again so that Spirit Snow will leave us in peace."

The animals were pleased with this plan. They began to debate among themselves, trying to decide who to send up to the Creator. Wise Owl could not see well during the daylight, so he could not go. Coyote was easily distracted and like playing tricks, so he could not be trusted. Turtle was steady and stable, but he crawled too slowly. Finally, Rainbow Crow, the most beautiful of all the birds with shimmering feathers of rainbow hues and an enchanting singing voice, was chosen to go to Kijiamuh Ka'ong.

It was an arduous journey, three days up and up into the heavens, passed the trees and clouds, beyond the sun and the moon, and even above all the stars. He was buffeted by winds and had no place to rest, but he carried bravely on until he reached Heaven. When Rainbow Crow reached the Holy Place, he called out to the Creator, but received no answer. The Creator was too busy thinking up what would be to notice even the most beautiful of birds. So Rainbow Crow began to sing his most beautiful song.

The Creator was drawn from his thoughts by the lovely sound, and came to see which bird was making it. He greeted Rainbow Crow kindly and asked what gift he could give the noble bird in exchange for his song. Rainbow Crow asked the Creator to un-think the snow, so that the animals of Earth would not be buried and freeze to death. But the Creator told Rainbow Crow that the snow and the ice had spirits of their own and could not be destroyed.

"What shall we do then?" asked the Rainbow Crow. "We will all freeze or smother under the snow."

"You will not freeze," the Creator reassured him, "For I will think of Fire, something that will warm all creatures during the cold times."

The Creator stuck a stick into the blazing hot sun. The end blazed with a bright, glowing fire which burned brightly and gave off heat. "This is Fire," he told Rainbow Crow, handing him the cool end of the stick. "You must hurry to Earth as fast as you can fly before the stick burns up."

Rainbow Crow nodded his thanks to the Creator and flew as fast as he could go. It was a three-day trip to Heaven, and he was worried that the Fire would burn out before he reached the Earth. The stick was large and heavy, but the fire kept Rainbow Crow warm as he descended from Heaven down to the bright path of the stars. Then the Fire grew hot as it came closer to Rainbow Crows feathers. As he flew passed the Sun, his tail caught on fire, turning the shimmering beautiful feathers black. By the time he flew passed the Moon, his whole body was black with soot from the hot Fire. When he plunged into the Sky and flew through the clouds, the smoke got into his throat, strangling his beautiful singing voice.

By the time Rainbow Crow landed among the freezing-cold animals of Earth, he was black as tar and could only Caw instead of sing. He delivered the fire to the animals, and they melted the snow and warmed themselves, rescuing the littlest animals from the snow drifts where they lay buried.

It was a time of rejoicing, for Tindeh - Fire - had come to Earth. But Rainbow Crow sat apart, saddened by his dull, ugly feathers and his rasping voice. Then he felt the touch of wind on his face. He looked up and saw the Creator Who Creates By Thinking What Will Be walking toward him.

"Do not be sad, Rainbow Crow," the Creator said. "All animals will honor you for the sacrifice you made for them. And when the people come, they will not hunt you, for I have made your flesh taste of smoke so that it is no good to eat and your black feathers and hoarse voice will prevent man from putting you into a cage to sing for him. You will be free."

Then the Creator pointed to Rainbow Crow's black feathers. Before his eyes, Rainbow Crow saw the dull feathers become shiny and inside each one, he could see all the colors of the rainbow. "This will remind everyone who sees you of the service you have been to your people," he said, "and the sacrifice you made that saved them all."

And so shall it ever be.
~ Lenni Lenape Tribe
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?
Sid Lollan Aug 2017
◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

(Authors of (obligatory)
Redemption: what is true genius if it ain’t dead yet?
Let you, who **** it, not be present for its resurrection.)

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

i had a nightmare:

i opened the door of my ranch-house in the boonies of
southern pa.
out-into the grasses of the old Congo;
There stood the Lion.
20 feet away
i, frozen in the magnitude of his vision;
spirit, dominated by his
completely;
Not even a growl.
i remained
paralyzed—he licked the backs of his paws
and combed a wiry mane...
…a halfa-second was a year if it was a halfa-second now...
but
somewhere in there
i regained my legs and without knowing
pivoted,
grabbed the doorknob. Twist. Open. Step inside.
turn to close the...doorway is gone, the house has vanished
And
HE WAS RIGHT ON TOP OF ME

i was nothing but-a body of plastic fear
molten,
melted and cast into mannequin limbs and head.
i could feel the Lion’s entire, real
spirit crushing spirt
on my hollow caste self.

his breathe stunk of blood that
forced my replicaego into infant curl…
…Finally, the beast roared a canyon
i shivered!
a shiver that shook inside my head
thru the spine to shake
my bones inside the bed.

Thru the constricting red curtain of bloodclot eye
spy the tiny eclipse
of the Black Crow inna massive sheet of african sun;
i must be dead already.
The Lion feels the Crow perched onna cape fig nearby
and his muscles tighten accordingly, his beastly hunger
displaced by boiled-blood anger.

Eye-to-Eye
with the beast
where Fear has reached saturation-point;
it is Nothing if it is Everything…
…the Crow lets out a hiss
like spikes of radio-static, interrupted by series
of whooping-caws…
…stomach vibrated by the Lion’s low,
almost internal growl. For the
first time, his tranquilizing orbs
divert from mine
to capture the Black Crow perched on the dying cape fig.
uncertainty taps my shoulder…then…i feel my body;
the weight releases
and as i motion to rise from the grass and dirt, the Congo dissolves and i’m
sitting up on my mattress with broken springs in the humid
summer slumber of southern pa.

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

-What security?
programmed,
under deep-cover;
jungian re-uploads. Them. Resurrected witha blackmarket
medicine a Witch Doctor devolution;
Replicate, regenerate, forever
<01100101 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01110100 01100001 01101001 01101100 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01100111 01110010 01101111 01110111 00100000 01100001 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01100100>
Bottom feeding grave robbers and tomb vandals are all they are!-

-Better check what ya put down here…liable to shape a ghoul,
and you know this haunt is made-up of enough spooks-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Professors of chaos preach:
O wanderers!
write me the manifesto
walking atop a line of hot coals
-I smell me some burning soles-

(They intend to:
Pour, pure from cold-clear spring-spout
      into muddy-brown-clay, dissolved,
rushing against dried-up bones of gully-walls…
…the Crow just sits above
         and laughs there

Don’t ya see it?)

History
is not about the past,
but
about what the present
can mold the past
into
for the future.
-the marble’s trajectory sure to
flip onnit’s axis d’pending on which record you dig-

(One mistake
can a coward make
or
one accident happen
up-on that a martyr stake’d.
etched in the rut of each separate fate;)


The lion
must roar for his P R I D E
        (or?)
lion wears his hide
as a mascot
Black Crow eats crow egg blues
        black crow spotted me yellow in the bushes
pants down, gun-in-hand
-send your prayers-

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊ ◊
Londis Carpenter Sep 2010
NOTE:  This is a short story; not a poem.  (author)

(Sometimes when you don’t know something can’t be done, you discover a way to do it.)

High at the top of a tree in Forest Park, Parker Squirrel lived in a nest that his mother had built from a hollowed out place inside the trunk of an old oak.   A large branch forked away from the main trunk and a hole in the bark conveniently served as a doorway to the outside world.  On one particular morning, Parker poked his head out from the doorway of his home and looked around very carefully at his surroundings.  It wasn’t the first time in his young life that he had peeked at the outside world from his mother’s nest, but this time he was more alert and cautious than he had ever been before.  Today he was orphaned and all alone.  Sometime in the dark of night, while he was hiding deep inside the nest, he was forced to watch in terror when a large owl came and took away his mother.  So today, feeling very timid and afraid, Parker made every effort to look in each direction before leaving his cozy home to explore and search for food.

Just ahead of him he saw that the rustic ranger station stood like a monument, to welcomed visitors to the state park.   On his left he could see the foothills of the purple mountain range.  He knew that these foothills and their woodlands were all part of the place called Forest Park.  Off to his right a dancing brook bubbled along the edge of a grassy meadow.  In its tall grasses he saw a white-tail doe playing with her newborn fawn. There seemed to be no danger in that direction, so Parker stretched his neck upward and watched as white, cotton-ball clouds floated across the azure blue sky.  Finally he looked down at the ground far below just in time to see a large toad quickly hop under the cover of some wild mushrooms.  Still, he sensed no danger.

Unfortunately, in order to see the forest behind him, it was necessary for Parker to leave his nest and climb around to the other side of his oak tree. And that was a problem for Parker, because the little squirrel was still much too timid to take such a chance.  Instead he stretched as far as he could to look around the wide tree trunk and into the woods.

Glancing back into the forest, Parker saw more tall oak trees with their strong, stately trunks.  He saw a scattering of white flowers that revealed the presence of dogwood trees.  A stand of sugar maples displayed their graceful branches and delicate leaves.  He also noticed some early spring flowers and wild mustard plants splashing bright yellow hues against the fresh green Indian grasses where a tiny meadow carpeted the outer edge of the forest floor.

There were no owls!

Even if they were hiding where he couldn’t see them, Parker would know they were there.  He would be able to smell their unmistakable odor.  To nearly all rodents, the owls have a peculiar stench that is putrid and foul.  And even a young squirrel like Parker would recognize it at once.

The young squirrel was fascinated by all he saw.  His furry skin tingled in the warm glow of the bright, noonday sunshine, almost making him forget the tragedy of the previous night.  Parker had only arrived into the world about six weeks ago, but in squirrel time that meant he would soon be approaching young adulthood.  He had always been cozy and comfortable, cradled in the nest his mother had built in the tall oak tree.  He had always enjoyed foraging with her for seeds and nuts.  The pantry was partly filled, even now, with acorns and hickory nuts, which emitted a woodsy aroma that reminded him of his mother.   He loved the wonderful world he saw from his perch and his heart was so happy that he began to chatter a new springtime song, which he seemed to hear playing all by itself inside his head.

Parker was so enthralled by all the new sights and smells filling his senses that he nearly outstretched the length of his body as he leaned outside the doorway to his mother’s cozy nest and suddenly he fell and tumbled onto the forest floor beneath him.  He landed with a horrible thud!  The little squirrel landed on his back into a clump of moss that grew beneath the tall oak, which only moments before had been his citadel.

  “Ouch!” chattered Parker as he recovered his breath.  The fall had knocked the wind from his lungs but as soon as he discovered he could breath again he checked himself all over to make sure he wasn’t seriously hurt.  Then he began to explore the forest floor.

The little squirrel was so excited, as he ran from one discovery to another, that he completely lost track of time.  Before he knew it, he was a long way from his mother’s tree and it was growing dark.   The little squirrel ran from tree to tree looking for his home and finally he stopped at a very tall oak.  Parker was certain that this was the same tree from which he had fallen, so as fast as he could scurry, he climbed up the trunk, searching among its branches for his mother’s nest.  When he failed to find his home in the trunk of the tree, Parker finally realized that he was lost. The young squirrel had exhausted all of his strength running through the woods.

Afraid and suddenly very lonely, Parker was also very sleepy and hungry.   Since he had no food and didn’t know what else he could do, Parker curled up into a ball at the crook of a branch and fell asleep.  Next morning Parker searched the tree again for his home.  To his surprise he stumbled upon a strange nest made up of branches and twigs of oak built close to the trunk of the tree.  This nest seemed substantial and well built.  The interior of the nesting cup was about eight inches across and five inches deep.  Although the nest looked crude from the outside, its bowl was delicately and warmly lined with a combination of moss, feathers and leaves. It was about seventy-five feet from the ground and two fledgling crows were sleeping inside.

An older squirrel might have killed the baby crows for food and driven off the adult birds when they returned, but Parker just climbed inside the nest, curled up beside the sleeping pair, and fell asleep to dream about where he would find his next meal.

Parker’s sleep was interrupted by the noise of the two young birds’ loud clamoring for food.  Their incessant calls were being tended to by the mamma crow, which had returned to the nest and was now busy stuffing their hungry mouths with an assortment of seeds and worms.  As strange as it seems and much to Parker’s surprise, the mother crow also began stuffing his mouth with food just the same as if she was feeding her own children.  Although he didn’t like the earthy taste of the worms, Parker was very hungry and he swallowed every bite.  He found that he was actually quite satisfied with the meal.

Parker soon learned that there had originally been six baby birds occupying the crow nest, but sadly four had recently been taken by the owls in nighttime raids.  Perhaps the loss of her own children was the reason the Mother Crow decided to adopt the baby squirrel and began feeding it along with her own young.  In nature there are many mysteries and not all of them have easy answers.  But, whatever her reason, one thing is very certain.  Parker Squirrel had been officially adopted into the Crow family and he now had a new mother and a new home, complete with a brother and a sister.

Parker’s new siblings were very close to his own age, which meant they soon would begin standing on the edge of the nest and even leave to nearby branches of the tree when they were being fed.  In the course of another week they would be leaving the nest and taking their initial flight while being watched, tended to, and protected by their adult parents.  So Parker had a great surprise awaiting him. He didn’t know it yet, but in just a few days Mamma Crow would be expecting him to learn to fly.  Of course, squirrels, by nature, are curious and quite acrobatic and no one had ever yet told Parker that he couldn’t fly like a bird.   So when the time came for Parker and his siblings to make their initial test flights, he spread his arms and began to flap them hard, as though they were wings, as he leaped from the nest.  Naturally the little squirrel tumbled down once again onto the forest floor with another thud.

Encouraged and nudged along by Mamma Crow and by taunts from his new brother and sister, Parker tried again and again to fly.  Each time he tried flapping his little arms like wings and each time he fell to earth with a thud.  Soon his whole body ached with painful bruises from his many falls.  But even more than the motivation and prodding from his new family, Parker wanted to fly.  There was something inside Parker that made him want to keep trying.  Parker really did want to fly.

Immediately after being adopted, Parker had begun foraging for his own food by pure instinct.  When he found acorns and seeds he brought them by mouthfuls back to the Crow family’s nest.  But now the urge to fly was almost as strong inside him as his urge to scour the forest floor for acorns and nuts.

At night Parker dreamed about flying.  As a younger squirrel he had often dreamed about being a “super squirrel” that flew around the forest, from tree to tree, doing good deeds and fighting off the evil owls with his super powers.  But the urge he felt now to soar through the air was different from the wishful thinking of a childhood fantasy.  Parker felt that he had to fly.  He just had to.

He thought about why he wanted to fly so badly.  It was more than the fact that his new brother and sister could fly.  There was some important reason deep inside him that made him yearn to soar from tree to tree.  As time passed Parker met other squirrels in the forest and he knew very well by now that he was not a crow, so why couldn’t he just be content to be like the other squirrels and forget all about this nonsense of flying after all.  He thought that perhaps it was because he remembered what the owls had done to his mother and what they had done to those siblings from his new family that were taken before he even had a chance to meet them.  Perhaps now, he thought, he was just afraid and only wanted to fly so he could escape the danger of the owls.  Maybe he was just a coward.

The next night when Parker went to sleep he dreamed again of flying.  But there was something different about this dream.  In his dream Parker was not flying like the crows fly.  He didn’t flap his arms up and down like wings.  Instead he just glided and soared with no effort at all.  In this dream he could actually feel the wind flowing over his body as he glided from one tree to another.  When the sun came out and awakened him from his sleep, Parker couldn’t wait to try again.  This time when he jumped from the nest he would not flap his arms because, after all, arms aren’t wings are they?

Before anyone could stop him, Parker leaped from the nest.  He began to fall straight down, but instead of flapping his arms up and down, he stretched his arms and legs out as far as they would reach.  Then, suddenly something happened.  Instead of dropping to the ground with a painful thud, Parker started gliding.  He didn’t fly far enough to reach another tree, but he was able to glide to another branch on his own tree.  After recovering from his own surprise, he looked back to the nest and he saw his mother and brother and sister all standing on the edge of the nest with looks of amazement on their faces.  They were all calling out to him to try it again. This time, having learned what to expect, Parker glided all the way to the next tree.  After a few more tries, Mother Crow was flying right beside him.

One day Mamma Crow told him to follow her.  “Come with me,” she said.  “I want to show you something.”   And he followed her, gliding from tree to tree.  She led him to a new place, deeper into the woods than he had ever been.  Soon they arrived at a place in the forest that almost seemed enchanted.  He was very surprised to see that were lots of other squirrels gliding from tree to tree just like Parker.

“This is your new home,” said Mother Crow to Parker.  “You’re not just an ordinary squirrel, you know, you are a flying squirrel.”

Then she told him, “From the day I first adopted you I knew that you were special. But you had to discover by yourself who you really are.  Here in this place you can be safe and make friends of your own kind.”  After saying goodbye and wishing him well, she waved at him and, looking back one more time, she flew away.

Well, that is how Parker learned to fly and how he discovered who he really was.  After that he continued to live a very happy life with his new friends.  The owls never seemed to trouble him in this part of the woods.  But he never, ever, forgot about Mother Crow and the family that adopted him. Even to this day, Parker often stops by the nest with a mouthful of acorns and nuts.
copyright by Londis Carpenter
Word count: 2414 Views: 29
Donall Dempsey Sep 2018
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW

"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered

thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")

"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.

"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"

"I didn't know that!
I admitted.

"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.

"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.

"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.

"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed

and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.

Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.

It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.

One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.

Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend

on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.

Ted grasped the podium
with crooked  hands

as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.

He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.

He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.

His words....CROW'S words.

Ted now
merging into the crow

gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.

Crow now losing his human voice.

His raucous caw
echoing inside my head

as he takes to the skies.

I should have listened to
what my mum said.

"Don't talk to strange corvids!"
Tatiana Dec 2019
A crow rested on a fence
and I wondered what this story-book fiend
with his dark, beady eyes, clever sense
and his feathers well-preened
wanted from someone as hollow as me.
I couldn't do anything but wait and see.

What did one say when faced with a crow
who had no appointments to rush to
no place he must go?
As if speaking was something I could do.
So with a wooden arm I gave him a little wave.
Pleased, he came closer, that fabled young knave.

I could not move much and I could not speak
as the crow stopped right at my rooted feet
and prodded my foot with his beak.
I'm a listless liar he deemed worthy to meet.
So I did not speak and I did not move
an inaction of which the crow did not approve.

He flew back to his fence that creaked
and shifted when the wind pressured its joints.
The forceful draft stung my eyes so they leaked
tears, I found I always disappoint.
The crow flexed his black wings
eyes closed as, for him, the gale sings.

I croaked out a question from deep in my throat
the wind became a whisper as the crow paid attention
"Are you here to jeer and gloat
over my bad decisions and poor intentions?"
He shook that dark head and said
"You're a terrible liar. I'm here to help instead."

"But are you not a portender of death
here to show me I have the illest of luck?"
Why can I not catch my breath?
Wondrous wings glide on waning wind then tuck
neatly against his back for he chose my shoulders
to better speak words that doused what smolders.

The crow rested on my shoulders and cawed
a sound soft and broken
and I thought it terribly odd
that the crow would caw when it was well-spoken.
So when the pressure of panic permeated my chest
the crow spoke again so my horrible heart could rest

"If I were just a crow residing on a fence..."
He gestured with his wing to where he was before.
"Then I'd have left you to your own offense
and not show you what you often ignore."
His black wings pushed my head 'til I saw the gate.
Hope swung at my roots freeing my feet from their hate.

"I believe you have many apologies to make."
I nodded my head and the gate opened.
The crow continued, "The right choices often take
an ax to your tree, to your roots. With hope and
desire to change, you can grow something new."
I stepped into the world beyond the fence and away the crow flew.
©Tatiana
A long one. I've always been a fan of long poems and telling stories throughout. What do you all think?
Wuji Aug 2011
People die everyday,
Once they die for their sins they will pay.
Like actors in a play,
They leave the stage at the close of the day.

But what of the actors that stay,
The ones who's hair have turned gray?
The old ship captain forever watching over the bay?
The dog that eternally remains a stray?

What if they had conquered death,
By committing the ultimate theft?
By stealing life to prolong the woe,
Just by eating a fallen crow.

Eat a crow,
And you will know,
How to play the main role,
In your own show.
You will conquer death,
Be better then all the rest!
In fact you'd be the best,
If you just eat the crow.

It gets better I assure you,
You don't even need to make a stew.
Who even knew,
That eating it raw will do?

Just find one on the ground,
In fact find a bunch and make a mound.
Luckily for us crows can be found,
All year round.

You know you want to conquer Death.
Come on you kleptomaniac, commit the theft.  
Steal some life to prolong the woe,
Eat the ******* crow.

Eat a crow,
And you will know,
How to play the main role,
In your own show.
You will conquer death,
Be better then all the rest!
In fact you'd be the best,
If you just eat the crow.

Eat a crow,
Eat a crow,
Eat a crow,
Conquer Death and eat a crow.

It worked for me,
It'll work for thee.
I am not as old as can be,
I am almost sixteen.

Haven't died yet,
So does that mean I've conquered Death?
I ate the crow,
How could I have said no?

Eat a crow,
And you will know,
How to play the main role,
In your own show.
You will conquer death,
Be better then all the rest!
In fact you'd be the best,
If you just eat the crow.
Thank you Sara Nicole Gagnon, our conversion on crows inspired me to right this. I still don't get why you are frightened by such an elegant bird.
Donall Dempsey Sep 2016
HOW UNPLEASANT TO KNOW MR. CROW

"Hello!" said the crow.
"Hello?" I answered

thinking: ("Talking to crows
is a bit of a no-no?")

"Do I know you?"
I asked politely.

"I'm Ted Hughes' CROW
....you know!"

"I didn't know that!
I admitted.

"You look like every other crow there is to know."
I impolitely pointed out.

"Every crow is CROW!"
it pointedly pointed out.

"Say...something Ted Hughes-ish then!"
I challenged it.

"In the beginning was..."
"...scream!" crow screamed

and then a load of begatting
to give the Bible a run for its money.

Nothing and Never both begatted
to make crow.

It made me remember the only time
I had been in Mr. Hughes' presence.

One shift leading into another shift and yet another shift so that
it was falling with tiredness I was.

Was it on Thursday I was
to meet the girlfriend

on Friday Street or
Friday I...just didn't know no more.

Ted grasped the podium
with crooked  hands

as if he were Tennyson's EAGLE
or a Heathcliff grown old.

He glared down on me.
I trying not to fall asleep.

He like a cliff come alive
as if rocks could talk.

His words....CROW'S words.

Ted now
merging into the crow

gazing upon me as if
I were carrion.

Crow now losing his human voice.

His raucous caw
echoing inside my head

as he takes to the skies.


I should have listened to
what my mum said.

"Don't talk to strange corvids!"
The wind was swaying the treetops as
I cut across from the church,
The sun had darkened behind the clouds
When I saw the crow on its perch,
Its feathers fluttered, it looked quite grim
As it sat there, quite on its own,
But watching me with a beady eye
From the top of a blank headstone.

I pulled the collar around my ears
And hunched in my overcoat,
The wind was bringing a bitter chill
To whip at my face and throat,
I staggered over and off the path,
Walked over the headstone plot,
And felt a shiver run down my spine
To wonder what time she’d got.

The crow had uttered a single ‘caw’
From the depths of its blue-black beak,
Then spread its wings like an avatar
And lashed a **** in my cheek,
I stumbled off, I could feel the blood
As it ran, from under my eye,
And hurried home, though I flung a stone
At the crow as it flew on by.

But Rachel stood at the window as
I came in the gate, at last,
She saw the blood, and she put her hand
On up to her mouth, aghast.
I told her it was a minor cut
A thorn on a rose that waved,
She shuddered, flooded her eyes with tears,
Said, ‘Someone walked on my grave!’

‘Someone walked on my grave,’ she said
‘Not even an hour ago…’
My mind went back to the headstone, and
The evil glare of the crow.
‘You’re overwrought, you should sit and rest,
Get warm, for the room is dank,’
But all I could see in my mind just then
Was a headstone that was blank.

I’d taken her from a cruel home
For her parents both were dead,
She’d been brought up by a grandmother
Who was violent, sick she said.
She’d threatened me when we went away
That she’d not be long my bride,
And Rachel never felt safe with me
‘Til her grandmother had died.

I managed to catch the warden when
I saw him, late in the week,
‘Why is that headstone blank?’ I said,
‘Whose is the grave you keep?’
‘There’s no-one buried under that stone,
It was raised for a future soul,
A woman came in the driving rain
And paid for that grave with gold.’

‘But surely you have a name for her
In the graveyard book; you’d know.’
He knitted his brow, and thought aloud:
‘I think that her name was Crow!
She dressed in black, in a mourning gown
With a cloak that looked like wings,
Then vanished, as she had first appeared
When I turned to ask her things.’

I passed the stone on the way back home,
And I stared, my mouth ajar,
For someone had cut a letter there
In the face of the stone, an ‘R’,
I thought of Rachel, hurried on home
But was late, too late I know,
For flying past as I reached the gate
Was the dread form of the crow.

It crashed straight into the window where
My Rachel stood and stared,
Dressed in black, in a mourning gown
It was just as I had feared.
The window smashed as the crow had crashed
With shards of glass all round,
The crow embedded in Rachel’s throat
As she choked her last on the ground.

She lay with both of her arms outstretched
Like a pair of wings in black,
The bird ripped open her jugular,
She wouldn’t be coming back.
I knew she’d hated her grandmother,
She remembered every blow,
But didn’t think she’d be coming back
Though her maiden name was ‘Crow!’

David Lewis Paget
Mozes Aug 2016
The despair that you shared, the trust that you've earned, the tears of fear only the crow will know
The lives that are missed, blurred vision bliss, what lies in the distance beyond the line of sight only the crow will know
True reason brought disgrace within this place of hollow souls that walk the earth alone leaving a trace that only the crow will know
Promising everything will be alright only to be telling the lies of a thousand times, the truth only the crow will know
Lost the meaning of how a life can become whole only the crow will know
If you've lived a life of honesty or if it was an atrocity only the crow will know
The purest souls the crow will seek the foulest souls are the devils meek
Only the crow will know my true sorrow
Only the crow will know how to bring me back to you
The Crow flies.
Along the 5th motorway car to car,
Past the French coast flying,
Flying.
The ***** black winds, worn and battered
From the ride, the constant ride.
Truck to truck, warm to cold, stranger to friend.
Friend to Comrade.
Preaching my Gospel of love and peace.
The time has come for love and peace.

But the Crow still flies,
His nest destroyed long ago
His brothers and sisters scattered amongst the wind.
The cool, harsh, stinging sea air wind
Of Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol.
Goodbye, so long, see you soon.

The Crow flies again,
Protected and blessed by Elohim.

The meditating Crow,
Calm to fly once more.
Is this the last?
He promises yes but his heart
Says the opposite;

Fly Crow ‘till you find a better world,
A peaceful world,
A loving world,

A Crow’s world.

So fly Crow,
Fly away and fly safe,
Preaching in the wind,
Travelling in the wind,

Crowing in the wind.
An old black crow sitting on my tree
Squawks "Hello" each morning to me
Inquiring if I had a good night
Did I rest well? Did I sleep tight?

Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Ain't it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me



And oooooh isn't it magick, how that old Mister crow seems to notice whenever I'm blue
And oooooh isn't it tragick, how I let myself fall for a cold hearted lover like you.


Well that old black crow, he cares more than you
You know it's true. I never hear from you
I know he'd buy me a ring
And slip it on my finger, with his shiny black wing

Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me


That old black crow sittin' on my tree
Squawks "Hey baby, won't you marry me?
Your old man don't know what he had
Cause I'm telling you baby, you ain't half bad!"

**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me
peter oram Dec 2011
AMBIGRAM VIII

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­























































AMBIGRAM
­
Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­































































A­MBIGRAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.






















































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­
































































­



























































AMBIG­RAM

Recto:

Yesterday was Christmas, and the days
already start to grow a little longer.
In our hand, the new year‘s fledgling, stronger
though more fragile too in many ways

than this bedraggled, aging crow, its song a
a sad, repeated phrase among the blackened
trees along a river. So sit back and
raise your glasses to it, do the conga,

auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And black and
white explode, a throng of rainbows—gaze!
You‘ll see it, wakened in  the morning haze,
ascending as the tethering s?tring is slackened:

Verso:

Yesterday was Christmas, and
the days already start to grow
a little longer. In our hand,

the new year‘s fledgling, stronger  though
more fragile too in many ways
than this bedraggled, aging crow,

its song a sad, repeated phrase
among the blackened trees along a
river. So sit back and raise

your glasses to it, do the conga,
auld lang syne, then hit the sack. And
And black and white explode, a throng of

rainbows—gaze! You‘ll see it, wakened
in the morning haze, ascend-
ing as the tethering string is slackened.
Damien Frost Jan 2017
The rope was sturdy, stout and thick
the room was quiet and still
Outside, it drizzled, and so a crow
flew to his window sill

The crow peered through the grimy glass
and saw him lying still
as if he'd frozen, fixed in time
devoid of strength or will

He saw the crow but turned his face
away, as some folk do
at the sight of faintest hint of life
for life is what they rue

The boy sat up; his face still blank
he seemed so calm and cold
He looked at a picture on his desk;
perhaps a friend of old?

Perhaps he viewed it every morn
but who would seem to care?
Perhaps it gave him strength to live
perhaps she's no more there

And if the crow could comprehend
what his beady eyes perceived
Perhaps he would have shed a tear
at what the boy conceived

For in moments he would take the rope;
the rope that's stout and thick
And tie an end into a noose
as the clock would cease to tick

The rope, suspended high enough,
the boy stood on a chair
He wore the noose around his neck;
like a necklace of despair

In a moment, all that's good will die
as it does each dreadful night
No one would mourn him, but the clouds
will rain the tears of plight

The boy took one last look of shame
one glance of deep regret
At the world he hated with disdain
at the night; so cold and wet

His gaze then fell upon the crow
who watched him all this while
His lifeless face for a moment gleamed
and almost cracked a smile

He kicked the chair away from him
and felt his feet in air
the noose tightened around his neck
that necklace of despair

His body thrashed about in air
and quickly losing breath,
he saw a flash of light erupt:
the messenger of death

The tickings of his heart would cease,
as did the hands of clock
The rope - the serpant - squeezed his throat
and left him stiff as rock

On the sill, the crow let out a cry
I wonder what it meant
I wonder if he sensed the gloom,
or heard the sky's lament

And I wonder what the boy endured
in an age so ripe and fresh,
to wish for death and hate his life
that dwelled encased in flesh

The rain now stopped, the sky will clear
to await the light of day
And the only witness to a lonely departure,
the crow: he flew away
Jeff Stier Aug 2016
When Coyote witnessed
the Creator making this world
he thought
I will make a world like that
for myself

And so he formed a copy
of every living thing
from the mud
from the branches
and detritus that he gathered
there on the banks
of the Columbia River

But all of his
carefully wrought figures
elk and deer
fish that sparkle in the shallows
black bear
who hides from two-leggeds
the wings of the air
who mingle with the leaves and branches of the forest
all melted back into the mud
of the riverbank
at the next rain

Undeterred
Coyote set out
on a quest

He found a new country
a pleasant land of vast expanse
with every manner of good things

When Coyote came into this country
his hunger
was greater than myth
sharp as the edge of a knife

And there he spied Crow
on a high cliff
with a mouth full
of deer fat

A plan quickly formed
in the caverns of his cunning

Coyote called out
Chief Crow
I am told that your voice
is as sweet as spring water
as pleasing as a woman
in the night

Sing for me
Great Chief
and I will reward you richly

Crow is a vain creature
and being called Chief
gave him great pleasure

He preened
opened his silver wings to the sun
and sang his rough song
but in a muted tone
in order to save
his delicious morsel

Coyote called out again
Oh Chief!
That wasn't much.
not like the stories
I have been told.
Please sing your song again
with feeling!

Crow rose to his full height
****** his sharp beak
into the air
and gave full voice
to his raucous song
for the sake of every crow
on earth

We know the end of this tale
because Coyote taught it
to our ancestors

The deer fat fell to the ground
and Coyote
trickster
scarfed it in an instant

Hunger dampened
he ambled along the well-beaten path
to find the next fool

And that is the story
of Coyote and Crow.
Keep your pride in check
or be the next one laid low.
This is roughly based on a traditional tale of the Yakama Nation, a people whose reservation is not too far up the river from here.
Grey Oct 2018
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "Why do you bring death?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason misfortune is your burden to bear"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must you taste blood?"
Vulture looked at Crow
Said, "For the reason your eyes catch the sunlight"
Crow looked at Vulture
Asked, "And why must we remain this way?"
Vulture looked at Crow
And he looked at Crow
And Crow looked back
And Vulture said, "We have known nothing more"
And Crow looked back
"Then we must learn"
"Then we must learn"
Michael Mar 2018
The moon glints off a starry lake in the inky blackness of night.
I sneak a guilty look as I slip out of my room into quite dark.
The shrill call of crickets accompany the creaking floor as I slip my way down the dark hall.
My attention is caught by the silhouette of a crow sitting in the open window.
I shiver from a chill breeze as I slip my way past.
My feathery shadow hops from the windowsill and haunts my quiet footsteps.
It watches with greedy eyes as I slip a loaf of bread from a dark shelf.
It’s eyes glow as the glinting cutting knife slices smoothly through unressisting dough.
The bread, my starving need; the crow, a sick urge.

Cautiously, I give the crow a piece of bread, though my subconscious cries realizes the consequences.
As long as the crow can grow fat from my weakness, it will never let me go.
I see in the reflection of glossy black eyes, the glint of the cutting knife as it rises and falls again.
I feed myself.
The crow caws in growing anticipation of the feast to come; or perhaps it's my own projection onto the unsated bird.

The crow comes back each night.
It knows where to come to feast.
You could say that we've become quite close to each other.
With every flash of a cutting knife, the crow shudders with excitement.
Rushing blood, Classical conditioning.
I slice the bread, and feed myself again.
This poem is based off one by Yuri for DDLC. It deals with subjects that I relate to on a personal level. My goal was to create a poem that seemed Innocent if a bit dark, while darker symbolism is there for anyone who looks closer. I hope you enjoy it.
Mahesh Hegde Oct 2013
Once upon a tym there lived a Crow..
It lived happily with its family.. Then there came a part of its life called "to be in Love".. It fell in love with a Pigeon.. It was hard, but the crow won the pigeon's heart and they lived together being under each others shadows.. Then there came a storm when they were on a long drive in the sky..
And the pigeon died..
The crow cried..
Hopelessness filled in him.. Heart broken into pieces.. Life was doomed by the fate.. But then the crow moved on but cudnt love anyone else cuz no one cared for it like the pigeon did..
But as the proverb says, "Light comes for the rescue when there is complete darkness", the crow met a Cuckoo.. Infatuation filled in him.. But it was helpless cuz the cuckoo was in love with the peacock.. Still crow stick to the cuckoo and acted foolish with her to just hear her voice to keep himself happy.. And the cuckoo who was totally opposite in many matters respective to the crow cudnt stand its behaviour.. But it still spread its wings for the hug of friendship.. Now the crow who doesnt know if the cuckoo will accept him or not is on his way to attain peace just with their friendship and remain alone all his life with its sweet and sour memories..
The end..
A smile forever
On this life too soon severed,
Her face blushed
with pockets of
glow.
To the darkness he fled,
Hands stained with red,
and stopped in his tracks by a
crow.

“Begone,” said the crow,
And he started to show
a wide wingspan
directing toward
North.
“A life has been spared
yet you still dare
to test the fates as your
time travels short.”

“Move from my way,” said the lover,
“I’m no stranger to once again smother.”
The crow with
his beak
pecked away at
his feet
And won a prize of a toe from the lover.

“Arise,” said the crow
to his new peeked foe,
“we have not even start-
ed yet.”
Though the journey was long
the crow sang a sweet song
just before a swift
stab at
the lover’s neck.
deanena tierney Jun 2010
I heard the crow at dawn again.
It awoke me from a deep slumber.
As if to chastise me for not being up already.
There is so much to do, of course.
So I sat up on the edge of the bed.
And stretched up with my hands clasped.
The sun slowly creeping itself over the window ledge
And striking my eye just so...making me squint.
The crow called again.
I must not be fast enough for him.
I stand up with a half- hearted vigor
And rub my eyes.
I proceed with with my morning routine
Skipping the harsh mouthwash today.
Again the crow.
He hurries me as if I am racing a clock.
And makes my heart beat more prominently in my chest.
What an awful call a crow has.
Incessant and prodding.
I feel as if I am being yelled at and I don't deserve that.
I cross into the kitchen and reach over the door.
To the mount that holds my ol' Winchester.
I push open the squeaking screen door.
And step outside.
Again the crow calls but this time I am rallied.
I am too slow for him, am I?
We will see about that!
Have no idea where this came from.  Not sure I want to, lol.
Elijah Corbeau May 2014
You there – suspended loftily in air;
Your feathers so shiny and sleek -
Tell me; What do you know, Brother Crow,
Of that which I always seek?

What are you hiding, while wind-riding?
What? Something about flying alone?
I want to know; My Brother Crow,
About my oft dreamt-of home.

The ever sky filled with azure dye;
It must speak to you of freedom -
And it may be true, but only for you,
Our grounded lives are already done.

For me; Can you show those fields, of melted snow?
Those obsidian peaks beneath the so-blue Sea?
I truly need to go, Brother Crow,
But why won't you ever take me?

You there – suspended haughtily in air;
Your feathers so shiny and sleek-
Tell me; What could you know, Selfish Crow,
Of that which I always seek?
What do those who fly know about the lives of us on the ground?
Kally Jan 2013
the little sparrow watched as the nest was ripped apart.  twigs were tossed,
berries crushed, and his younger brother was clawed at until he no longer
moved.  it was a horrible scene, and the little sparrow was trembling, hiding
behind the trunk of the great tree.  he cried out, screaming for help.  his
mother had been gone for four days.  she never left them alone for that long.

the sky was dimming, the clouds swarming around the rising moon.  the little
sparrow's voice was weakening.  he had been crying for hours and he was all
alone.  a crackling of sticks and crunchy leaves below caught the little
sparrow's attention.  a mud-red fox was tiptoeing around the base of the tree,
his eyes trained on the little helpless sparrow.  the baby bird once again
started up his crying.

as the fox was trying to find a way to get up to the higher branch that the
little sparrow sat on, a dark fluttering of feathers crashed down on top of
him.  a large crow was pecking and scratching at the fox, who was howling
in pain.  the fox managed to get a claw into the crow's wing, and blood seeped
from the velvet-tipped feathers.  the crow only grew fiercer, and chased the
fox away from the tree and into the forest.

the little sparrow cried quietly, frightened and unable to steady himself on
his branch.  the poor baby fell from the branch onto a soft bed of leaves on
the ground below.  the little sparrow tried to get up, but was much too
frantic to stand.  the crow hopped toward the sparrow, who attempted to hide
in the crispy leaves.  the crow said nothing, he did not make any movements.  
he only gazed at the little sparrow with his large, black eyes.  the little
sparrow fainted from fear.

the nest was rebuilt when the little sparrow woke up.  there were berries in
the corner and plenty of feathers and tufts of fur to keep him warm.  the
little sparrow looked around, trying to find his mother.  she had been gone
for five days, and she never left him alone for that long.  

in the haze of morning light, the little sparrow saw the large crow, standing
on a fence post, staring out over the field.  the little sparrow called to
him, but the crow pretended not to notice.  a drop of blood fell from his wing
and the crow spoke. "i am no mother, but i will keep you safe, little sparrow.  
you have been left all alone and you are but a child.  do not fear the night
nor the creatures that hunt, for i will be here with you."
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2018
.i somehow found myself in a predicament, i can only read German philosophers in English, and that's my sole exclusion "manifesto"... basically i can't fathom reading the genre of philosophy in the English tongue.... i can't... unless they're German... i have to return to the Slavic intricacies, whereby my consciousness is occupied with a translation perspective... English was never supposed to aim as high as speaking of philosophy, the English were never adept in asking questions: given they always gave the answers in technological, scientific, architectural foundations; the people of practicality... their downfall? tickling Marxism translated out of economics, and into culture... their one downfall... and.. it looks, partially, as it worked.

what, what what have we 'ere?!
   bobby on the beat...
lookie lookie, lookover here,
the jokes runs...
and the priests in Eastern Europe
are known as crows...
krúki...
     as a peoples who weren't
invaded by the Romans?
   looks like i've learned a thing
or two... about orientating myself
with the said letters...
no... St. Cyril didn't come past my parts...

etymology:
   sve-                (self sight /
           swoje         /       my)
  -to-                    (that / this)
    -vid               (widze, i see) -

basically?
the god, "in question"?
                 what i see, myself...
i see, as myself,
and  what is, self,
is what, i see...
detached from anyone else
that sees...
  (i see what i want to see...
i see my own, and as my own,
this is what, i see).

the priests are crows,
the police-officers are dogs...
i love crows...
ever see crows mate in daylight,
akin to pigeons?
  i've never seen crows mate
in daylight, in public...
they leverage their courtship
to the night,
in secluded areas...
             crow knows best...
a crow will to imitate a pigeon...
a crow will mate with a female
at night...
   and notably: in a secluded
march of a land...
a crow is not a pigeon is
not a reverse exhibitionist...
     a crow is a crow is: crow...

just like with the German philosophers...
some, i can actually read in English,
rarely, but i can...
within the confines of the obscure works,
esp. their revisionist texts...
e.g.
               via the variant:
da-ist-sein...
                      there is being...
well not **** Sherlock...
i've just encountered it about
the "second" time for the past 32nd year!
but da-ist-sein...
  well... there's no a priori schematic
to encompass the statement with...

   how the people prance citing Hegel,
while forgetting the basic building
block of Kant... like Beethoven mattered...
when Handel was the orientating
composer to pay attention to...

sure... da-sein can have an a priori
and an a posteriori reality...
but da-ist-sein doesn't have an a priori
contingent plan for rhetoric...
a sophistry...
      mind you..
  we live in the times where
sophistry married solipsism,
and said:
           take some time to reflect
spending time with transitions,
airport banalities of trans-national
transit, in terms of people...
taking a bus trip seems like
a breeze these days...

                 fascinating,
the English educational system involves
the Roman Empire...
oddly or rarely considered luckily am
of a people not conquered by the
pre kilt pansies...
                          and i'm scratching my head,
thinking...
                    but up to a certain year:
i seem to have no past,
just like you...
lost to the vehemency of institutionalizing
Darwinism as a replacement
of whatever history is implied
at that point...
not physics, not geology...
  thank **** that chemistry is not prone
to exert a historiological influence...
where i was born?
a flint-stone colony... half an hour's
worth of a bike-ride...
flit-mining... flit-stones...
   whenever science teases the humanities
by incorporating a "study" of history?
i lose it... chemistry never does this
sort of *******...
but biology with its historical Darwinism,
but physics with its historical Big Bang theory,
these sciences play both science
and a humanism game...
   bad idea...
  chemistry at least affects
the romantic movement...
what is a day in the day of the month
of the year, of a day, within the confines
of james joyce's Ulysses?
           oh look...
the double standard of the maxim:
an insignificant spec of dust that's a worth,
somehow, worth investigating...
nonetheless a spec of dust...
   the larger the universe becomes,
the smaller the human cognitive potential
becomes...
but the smaller the universe becomes,
the larger the human cognitive potential, is.
Many strange things in my time I have seen
What I see now may seem extreme
I sit in the garden by a small bungalow
They both stand together, a cat and a crow.
What I see is an unbelievable sight
The cat walks away, the crow takes flight
I return again the very next day
Together they stand in the very same way.
The cat is at peace and so is the crow
They are both too old, and very slow
The crow it stays in the same oak tree
And the cat can no longer run easily.
So within this garden they both now reside
Weak and feeble, yet still alive.
Maybe they've lost the will to ****
Or simply they both have had their fill.
But there is a lesson that is clear to see
If they can live in peace, so can we.
This is actually is a true story. When I was working in a pensioner's house I saw a cat and a crow on the lawn eating food together. The pensioner told me they seemed to get on but I must say they both looked like they had seen better days.
Rane160 Dec 2014
For who does the raven crow for
Is it for you, No
Then for who

For who does the raven crow for
For thy neighbor
Who loves the fruit of others labor

For who does the raven crow for
The weak minded
Who's  ignorance left them blinded

For who does the raven crow for
Is it for Me
Yes this is true

The raven crow's for no one
But the man who death has begun
With with the Lost of his son
MUST be read as a Edgar Allen Poe poem.
R.I.P Slomo
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
like... flappy flappy pigeon imitate penguin go shoeshine your ***? like that? i don't even know whether pigeons find penguins to be more pathetic, or whether penguins find pigeons more pathetic... so one has the sky, the other the ocean... it's hardly an argument for either to be staged with a mediator; let alone a matador.

pokraka... (singular),
pokraki* (plural)...
             don't know, i'm not exactly
baby-faced pristine...
         but i don't even know where
that word comes from,
perhaps the riddle of the crow and
the writing desk... why is it that
the crow is writing desk?
          the crow stoops on earth hunched?
almost hunchback?
       maybe that?
     don't know, these fellas are doing
my slating (roof) and i'm autistic imitating
cat tactics of hidig, because i like the drunk
that i am to be hidden, and only seen
in between walls that can hear...
   or apparently but not really so...
    metaphysical question...
why is it that when you encode scratched compact
discs into mp3 form on an iPod
the product breaks? too much l.s.d.?
                 i swear to god, but you trasnslaste
a compact disk into software (it is hardware,
however you think about it; with no alternatives)
         it can **** up the hardware...
                 you have a scratched c.d.,
you translate it into a software package to your
computer, then your translate the "malware",
o.k. a scratched c.d. is literally malware,
                 on the topic of iPods...
                you can **** up your iPod if you include
scratched c.d. material... like itchy-itchy vinyl guys
doing hip-hop...
        but i have this sansa mp3 player,
and i have scratched c.d. on it, and it keeps working...
but the iPod i once owned? broken...
or should i say "broken"?
     no, literally broken...
          i picture prefect a cat's face and then
disappear when the builders arrive...
most of the time i'm a person that doesn't require
the chance exposure of my own face...
    here's to looking at brick walls, and clouds,
and drainage depots on the pave...
      to be writing poetry will eventually drive
your sorry *** into the ground and tell you:
why couldn't you become a crane-driver?
          as a fraction of a billion exemplum similis?
i don't know;
               why did you get plastic surgery?
i know... similis exemplar... that's a variant on the whole
topic.
                 why marvin gaye and the creedence clearwater
revival cover?
           i apparently don't know any latin,
and i find that stating this fact: i'm no big fan of
some grammar school rubric of "correct": toward
the status of ontologically proof riddled,
   correct.
                      *****'s here, coca is here,
sunshine (ugh) is here...
                            what else could you want?
only the etymological disinterest of the word pokraka,
derivative? krók (crow)...
         given the prefix po- (after) -
            well... imitating crow, or after the crow...
                           unto the priest... after all: crows are
symbolic of the priestly-caste in europe...
      also the opposite of onomatopoeic strain toward exactnes:
kra kra... what the crow breathes...
hardly a kraken, but almost... thus po- + -krók:
     i.e. after the crow... inherently so.
The Robin And The Crow

A robin and a crow were perched upon a fence,
an unlikely combination but they seemed to be good friends.
Standing in the mid-day sun each on a separate picket,
basking in it's rays while staring at a cricket.
The crow looked very hungry the robin seemed content,
so he flapped his shiny wings and to the ground he went.
The cricket saw him coming and jumped away in a flash,
searching for some camouflage in an open field of grass.
The crow was disappointed outsmarted once again,
so he flew back to his perch and asked his feathered friend.
"Have you had your dinner tell me would you mind"
"I wondered if you'd share with me, could you be so kind?"
The robin fanned his wings and said "come follow me"
To his nest they flew at the top of an old oak tree.
Together they shared a feast the robin caught that day,
then they fell asleep passing the time away.
There's a lesson to be learned from the robin and the crow,
and carry this knowledge with you where ever you may go.
Friendship is a special thing it's always nice to share,
it shows the good inside of you so people know you care.

Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © All Rights Reserved
When my children were growing up I wrote them poetry to teach them lessons of love and kindness. This is a poem about sharing and how important it is to open your heart to others less fortunate than you.
Brynn Louise Aug 2014
The chicken watches the crow fly away-
And it longs and it wishes.
Because the crow can go freely at will,
While the chicken can hardly flap to the fence.

The chicken will stay
For likely all of her days
While the crow comes and goes
Whenever he desires.

He lives a life on whims-
A life of scouring the world for what suits him.
While she's stuck in routine,
Only getting what's handed right to her
Seán Mac Falls Mar 2015
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.
Stephen Shaw Sep 2019
PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.
Looking through black glass.
Upon eclipsed sunsets.

Light is dimming.
Darkness draws close.

PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.
I see, different, my children as a ghost Eyes trapped behind slow motion, windows.

Light is dimming.
Darkness draws close.

PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.

Time is slow, slowing, still, Stiller.
The minds life, still, Carry's on.
But. I'm already gone.

Light is dimming.
Darkness draws close.

PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.

I'm haunting, haunted, slipping a-way, a viewer.

No part of this world.
Half in, the next, time.
Subconscious collisions.

Light is dimming.
Darkness draws close.

PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.

Ethereally dissattached.
Ghostly spectator.
Already gone.

Light is dimming.
Darkness draws close.

PSSSHHHHH... (White noise) says crow.

Life seen as a flicker film.
A solitary viewer.

Light is dimming. Click.
Darkness. Gone.
A true story. Death of the author at the hands of sick authority figures. But you can't accuse authority.
What is it like to know death is close.
How do you feel and see the world around you? *Tony Conrad. The flicker.
Seán Mac Falls May 2017
.
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.
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2016
you know,
you can imitate walking like a crow,
hunchbacked with a probing
index of a hand's pentagon
akin to the yellow pages being
itemised - walking like a crow
in the middle of night -
primarily because we started dicing a song
into rhythm deviating from rhyme:
it got boring after a while...
until it's an export, it ain't an import -
so ridicule the seance of hillbillies
in Soouthend for caricature of holidaying;
you can walk like a crow
in the night, hunchbacked, glistening variety of
into the void by black sabbath as accomplice -
crouched the solemn bird agile on foot -
crow walk hunchbacked:
why is the raven like a writing desk?
it's a hunchback on foot or with pen in hand
readied to scribble footprints onto
the slouched backbone of forgotten flight;
hunchback crow walk in the night,
a reverse of a Victorian street lamp lighter -
shadow eater, shadow fathoming form.
Sum It Apr 2014
crow and crow

What is so fun about crowing?
Every morning the moon dissapears
Her trial still fresh
encircling the sky.
Not even sun can evaporate.
And with every new hour
I play a game-
Finder's Keeper.
Fun it seems.
One time I found a ring of fire.
A diamond engraved to its depth.
I kept it-
I tried to keep it.
I was left among ashes.
Treasure hunt, fun it seems.
But what is fun about crowing?
Every sound is fun,
when in silence,
you are haunted.
~~
Tireless long night
Standing on the edge of the ocean
Big waves fall on the feet

Thousands of miles of distance
At the other end you're standing on top of a hill
Yellow envelopes with a white letter in hand

The last sign of love
Here in the wind, the waves grew abstract
Sand, pebbles treasure in the basin

No privacy in your release letter
Sacrifices love within heart
Farewell poetry written in black magic ink on a white paper

Sound of sighs mingle with the waves of shore
Blurred light in the dark
Black crow, a black crow flies
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
Paul Donnell Mar 2018
The Black Hat Crow, sittin on his throne
Countin all the money that he owns
Collectin pretty bits on his dark wing
He made a fortune on lifitn things

He got a suit like oil, he got wicked eyes
He got a voice like deaths hangin on his side
He got one eye on heaven, and two feet in hell
They say he stole those wings from micheal himself.

You better hide your money its a new moon tonight
The black hat crow hes takin flight
Your wallets
Your purses
Your shinest things
It all belongs
To the black hat crow

The beggars all know him as a givin man
He cross they path he puts a coin in they hand
A little information is all he needs
Like, where ya been and where ya sleep
The coppers cant get him, hes ten steps ahead
He got eyes and ears all over this land

God forbid you ever witness this
the black hat crow got a red right hand

You better hide your money
Its a new moon tonight
The black hat crow hes takin flight
Your baubles your heirlooms
Your shinest things
It all belongs
To the black hat crow
Song lyrics

— The End —