"feeder" poems
Summer morning -
pink jets of clouds
splash out
from the golden well of the east
falling just short
of an ebbing moon.
Streams of swallows
flutter and glide
over the garden -
they are all flying
in the same direction
as if erupting
from the sun’s waking pulse.
Just for a moment
one of the birds hangs
perfectly still -
like the top-most drop of water
from a fountain before it turns
to face the glittering pool.
Beneath them all
the hummingbird
makes her rounds
and a dove scratches the earth
below the feeder
keeping an wary eye
on the scribbling intruder.
So many summer mornings -
too many summer mornings
I have wasted
worrying about the world
and my place in it –
absent from my own body
and breath
the cage of my ribs
rising, falling, and pausing
without me. Meanwhile,
another swallow
stills her wings.
Buoyed by an unseen breeze
she is both feathered sail
and cresting wave as she slices
over my shoulder bearing west.
Tom Spencer © 2015
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:16 PM UTC
I am the entourage
Of a fantastic mirage
I am the agent
Of my mind's figment
I am a believer
Of mythical creatures
I am a builder
Of splendid architecture
I am a drunkard
Tripping on futures so absurd
I plan construction
Of my own destruction
I am the feeder
To dreams of grandeur
I am a magician
Of wild, potent concoctions
I am a tycoon
Of emotional typhoons
I am an adept
Skilled in exploiting concepts
I am a parasite
Brandishing fangs that bite
I play host
To a monstrous, hideous ghost
I am an addict
Of thoughts derelict
I am the dreamer
Incapable of anything lesser
I am a diver
Sinking deeper and deeper
I am an insatiable thief
Claiming trophies without grief
I am an emotional hermit
Hoarding my all in a bottomless pit
I am a weaver
Fabricating tales that meander
I am a Neanderthal
Adopting behaviours and habits that appall
I am an ape
Mending wounds that gape
I am but me
I'm blind, fighting to see
I am rhymesmith
I lie through my teeth
Getting hard to breathe
Heart to words, I seethe...
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:28 AM UTC
Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.
Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.
Most things find
their proper place.
Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.
Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.
But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****
For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.
We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.
And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—
a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 10:04 AM UTC
The human mind is an interesting thing
Mine is very
As it tends to wander
I mean
Explore
I have been told by an authority
My wife
That she's never seen one like it
Although how she can see a mind
I don't know
She has seen a lot in her life
Both with and before me
She was a Travel Agent
She's been to Turkey
I like turkey
I made an interesting stuffing for turkey once
It was during my time in the seafood retail business
In a fish market
It, the stuffing I mean, had shrimp, scallops and crayfish in it
My wife didn't like it much, she's of Irish heritage
She's been to Ireland too
Twice
Once in college and once with her family
Ireland is where Delorian made his cars in the 1980s
Before he was arrested for trafficking in *******
I have not been to Ireland
I have been to France, Belgium and England
I stayed in Waterloo Belgium for two weeks
In the 80's
When I was 25
Waterloo is where Napoleon was finally vanquished
Beaten by an Englishman
They have a monument, the lion, on top of a big hill there
I had to climb it twice
The first time I forgot my camera
I got a new camera recently
A Pentax
I have had several since Waterloo
The camera hasn't been anywhere interesting
Just my back yard
I use it to take pictures of birds
At our feeder
In the big maple tree
On the ground
There is even a turkey that comes in our yard
My wife's been to Turkey
She was a Travel Agent
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 11:11 AM UTC
"Worthless waste of space!"
"You thief of my fresh air!"
Useless to the entire world.
Drop dead! No one will care!
Can you feel the hatred baby?
The heated ache inside?
The pulse that beats incessantly?
The disgust I do not hide?
A soul that's non-existent.
No conscience left inside.
If not for jail time, baby,
I'd **** you for my pride!
Imagine an enduring torture,
And the pain that will ensue,
Cause Karma's got a lovely way,
Of catching right up with you.
Mar 22, 2010
Mar 22, 2010 at 6:44 PM UTC
euphoric period
a hospice worker
naps
in a lawn chair
beside a tree
(a tree
with tire
swing)
in the front yard
of a house
with a man
on its roof
a man
unimpressed
by the woman
half ****
half woman
roughing her bare
scalp
on the wood post
of a neighbor’s
mailbox-
the only person I don’t recognize
is dying / in the house / is dying
from my
boredom. I could check the bird feeder
or I could check
the bird-
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
your bubble has been burst and you
plunge into the middle of a boundless ocean.
you were a big fish in a small pond but now
you're bottom feeder in a bottomless abyss where
if you don't keep swimming,
you'll start sinking.
but even as you get immersed in the filth
don't let it stain the purity
don't let it drain the joy
that is in you.
and though the wind howls and the waves crash,
keep your eyes wide open
so that you may readily
glimpse victory:
tomorrow
this storm will be chased away
by blue skies and a glorious morning.
don't let those dark circles under your eyes
take away that bright future.
don't let those tears
extinguish the fire of your spirit.
do not just struggle,
conquer.
do not just survive,
thrive.
fear is normal
but don't let it devour
and drive you to flee or freeze,
instead
be strong and courageous and
in good faith
Fight!
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
plants do not require papers that state from where they came
they are caught and pulled by the bite of birds,
seduced by the between-legs of bees,
seized on the legs of the wind and animals by thistles and burrs
and the blessed are pollinated by the hummingbird
I do not know where I came from (really?) (really.)
or where nature and nurture intertwine within me, precarious balance from discipline and my genes
I twist bunches of grass between my fingers, feeling the good in a strain
racked on top of white bones, pushing sheets of freckled skin
out, spreading cancerous aluminums under my arms because
an artificial flower smells better during *** than human sweat,
what a pity, we are unable to reveal with the bursts of Walt Whitman (!) in
our own organic mechanism's ability to produce salt. The ultimate flavor.
I grin. Inhaling deeply while alone and unwashed, Whitman would've been into it.
Maybe I can find someone into it too. Someone who'll read me Henry Miller.
But instead I'll wear expensive perfume. I grin, again. Sardonically.
And I've been told I have a beautiful smile.
I should,
that smile cost blood and five grand for something cosmetic and quirky,
train-tracks over teeth, I now stain yellow with obsolete cigarettes.
I wait in the tropical heat, languishing while I bake, a freckle factory
and tan--adrift--awash with memories recalled by the smell of green
and the fearful hum of bees.
Why did I start smoking again?
I look at the red hummingbird feeder, and wish I could trade
standing still as a hummingbird, I lie and say I cannot wait.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
hey, I'm
seeing spiders &
shadows & lights again &
there comes a point
in your life when
you realize
it's all this forced speech
about how
the weather is fine &
no one has died
that shouldn't have.
it's like sitting
in an unfamiliar bathtub
til the water goes cold,
knowingly just floating
in frosty clouds of your own filth,
that sick type of epiphany
that we're all just sad little
feeder fishes painted gold
that live to eat **** **** float
get old go blind become senile
then hopefully die
before anything too terrible happens.
happy ends.
unlikely.
high noon &
the horse flies are biting,
for the life of me.
if you find yourself dead
or alive.
they'll pay you for perfect timing.
so smile sunshine
the drain hasn't
swallowed you yet.
no problem no sweat.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 9:04 PM UTC
Riding the air
In dark morning
A steady current of rain
Descends
Upon everything
The fir tree
The house roof
My dogs fur
The empty Ash tree
The fallen leaves
Brown, red, yellow, orange
The bird feeder catches the water As does the bird bath
The puddles
The street
The cement
My head
My ears hear each
Multitude of patterned drops
In apparent chaos
Reminds me of the
The synapses in my brain
Circuitry, each drop a connection from
Dendrite to dentride
Messages of the unknown
Of falling to earth
Of vulnerable life
Unprotected.
The unhoused, in the cool soaked air of December. Will you remain blessed?
Will you spread your joy in the patter of rain to those who bare the rain in their skin, on their dampened clothes? Adding a chill.
Will today you find some without a home
Bringing tarps, blankets, source of heat, to those who listen
To the same rain
While they shiver
And you stay in your glow with your tidy wood burning fireplace. Stay comfortable? Risk giving for giving sake. What floods of love can you share in December rather than giving to
Your precious family, the left overs, the excesses
And give to charity that make each day another day for breath in rain from the heavens. I choose the rain. I could be the one in
The open now, soaking as I pen these words.
Hoping words of love, neutrality, non-judgement and altruism be the "church" we reside in. Drop by drop.
Over a hundred different sounds of rain brought to earth by gravity, in my receiving ears, and the tiny sparkles of light reflected upon the light from the street lamp shining upon concrete saturated by this extended morning rain.
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 9:10 AM UTC
she writes of the falling days
- knows them well, one can tell
simple things like string
and wrappings
autumn and swallows -
hollow places she has seen
in boxes and photographs
and so it is - the falling days
the number of birds at my feeder are fewer
no more humming, no painted buntings
-only my homies come now, my vato birds, my mijas
the cardinal, both red and green
the nuthatch and chickadee, the titmouse-
all three
the wrens and finches, too-
and the blues still like to bathe
in the pyrex baking dish sun warmed
on a sunny day-serenaded by the mocking
one hopping from grub to worm below
- my usual feathered friends
not caring about the weather-fair or foul
and in the pale blue, a gull still laughs
at the folly of it all-
leaving goes slowly-
a spiraling, a gust of wind-
days slowly graying
shorter, lightly fading
- friends, they go
the falling days, change and leavings
leave me - well, you know...
i see the simple things
that soothe, like string
and wrappings, swallows -
- autumn, you know?
r ~ 10/6/14
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
Sequestration by other means
A railway line its salient claim,
running sleepers into the distance.
Steady reminders -
a segment of canal
whose older self
ultimately gave birth to snaking hamlets, now mature.
A verdant nature trail coursing the disinterred bank side,
a feeder reservoir now yachting waters
shaping the geography.
shaping the geography.
Jun 20, 2013
Jun 20, 2013 at 6:58 PM UTC
Among the swaying elm trees,
are whispers from on high;
The words are slightly garbled,
but their sweetness flows in sighs.
Each lilac touches wayward hearts,
with deepest blue and velvet glow;
The daffodils sprout yellow wings,
reaching out to join the show.
And hummingbirds sip honeyed wine,
from the feeder hanging nearby;
We watch as the finches gather,
shining golden in the clearest sky.
The lawn seems warm and supple,
as breezes blow in forest green;
Inviting us all to lie and view,
this heavenly springtime scene.
But then the sun retreats behind,
a massive wealth of clouds;
Refreshing rain falls in our midst,
cool and soft as seaside's sounds.
Enchantment is with us every day,
its essence stirs yet calms our souls;
As Gods displays His natural wonders,
life-long gifts that will never grow old.
Apr 8, 2018
Apr 8, 2018 at 11:23 AM UTC
— for the American Mustang
Strung up on one leg, bled dry while alive,
unloaded off trailers crammed full
of the crippled and blind —mares
giving birth on three legs, foals trampled
by stallions, and a wave of fear
hovering over tossing manes
like the sea after Moby **** surfaced
for the first time. Last year,
135,000 horses died —
rounded up in hundreds and sent
off to slaughter like feeder goldfish,
three stops from Canada
or Cabo, displaced from plains
once revered for their livelihood.
In 1969, Vonnegut
wrote, “And so it goes…”
In 2061, our children will ask about the wild
horses who used to live in their backyards
as they catch the last fireflies and bottle
them up in jars, flickering and dying
like tired bulbs giving up on electricity —
2015 sees Henderson, Nevada grasses paying tribute
to power-plant-lines and a suburb built
on Tralfamadore fiction: house-mounds
and picket fences caging domesticated dogs,
curb-lined streets and caution signs, billboard
warnings of humanity’s fixation with progression,
combined like coffee with an overabundance
of half-and-half and too much sugar — only 99 cents
at Dunkin down a little ways, and home
to the dreamers who forget the word freedom.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
my mouth hung like an overwhelmed option
i swivel at the window facing
and stay out the entire day in this one gawked position
amazing heat and an ugg shy of thought
withdrawn in a mut of mental paralysis
by an alcoholic system
on a day off
the day dunks into the eve before i shift any movement
having sifted the ull
i mix a jar of *** and orange juice
in the open fridge door
Mar 13, 2024
Mar 13, 2024 at 5:58 PM UTC
*Just the other morning I watched a blackbird.
It flitted through the unexpected sunshine,
Drawn, as they are, to the feeder in my garden.
This one, though, overshot its path.
It was flying so fast,
It didn't see the glass.
Death was instantaneous.
This morning I saw death of another kind.
Ethereal, yet just as unexpected.
"Maybe I got complacent, maybe I didn't think."
And the centre of my body is flickering.
I didn't expect to find flaw,
I couldn't have seen the fall.
Death comes slowly
and now it's down to you.
*
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 8:36 AM UTC
*I see from the third floor windows,
Sparrows gathering around the post feeder.
Crows, ravens, and an occasional stray Jackdaw,
Gather around, waiting to feast upon fresh carrion.
A thousand blackbirds, with their red wing patch,
Swoop down into the gardens by the fountain.
I stare out the window watching the sights,
Never being disturbed in tranquility.
-M.H.-*
Nov 9, 2014
Nov 9, 2014 at 2:12 PM UTC
Living in a world with no honest leader.
Every single day comes a new victor,
using the people's heart to paint the picture of fear.
When will we escape the rampant greed running amuck?
Become our own leaders and stop giving a ****
When asked questions like these, the defenders only have a mouthful.
The reins of power should be in the hands of the masses,
known as the powerful.
They shake at night with terrors of their past.
They finally understand they have worn a fake mask.
When will we stop eating from a government feeder?
Finally equalize and balance the power teeter.
We must, living in a world with no honest leader.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 6:52 PM UTC
shakin like a bacon eater
takin down a bird feeder
cedar creatures rollin up a doobie
they be suing me for truancy
I shoo a flea from chewin me
a wrap of lettuce fed us
said us fellas sellin head amounts of coke
we oughtta **** a bowl of hope
my soap and rope fill up my closet
I deposit positively. Stop to mop it
cropping photos,potting soil,oil spotting
wrapping lettuce wraps and leftovers in foil
I'm American and spoiled
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 1:05 AM UTC
I pretend I'm made for better things
I've been saying watch me spread my wings
But I will fail and I will fall
You should not have believed in me at all
I like to think I could change the world
But who am I but a frightened girl
Who tries to break from an inner shell
But will probably never escape her hell
So how could I be more than that?
From myself, I want to turn my back;
Give up this attempt of keeping on track
To being successful and never crack,
But I am me and I know me well,
Enough to know I'll never quell
This self-hatred enough to succeed
I don't have the confidence that I need.
What a ridiculous notion I created;
This ludicrous motion of a fight debated!
How could I win the war of life
When all I can focus on is strife?
There's no way I'll become a leader,
I'm born and bred as a bottom-feeder,
I'm not destined for greatness, like I thought,
That was a wishful dream that we all bought.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:31 AM UTC
Anxiety sips from me
as though I’m it’s only bird feeder in the area
Depression eats away at me
as though I can only suffice for half of it's needs
And tonight? It’s hungry as it’s ever been.
Trauma kills me
As if it was an eagle looking for roadkill
Me being the roadkill
Drug abuse nailed me in the head waiting to **** me.
Waiting to **** me due to the fact I've been defeated.
So there they sit, all trying to defeat, the defeated me.
Bite me.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
in blue sky
the hawks circle
the bird feeder
the ghost of
a young adolf rules...
the dog that's
been caged
growls
walks in circles
(the wires to the cage
sit in Washington) and
as the cage opens...
smiling
say i
prancing in a circle
one hand waving free
"don't tread on me"
May 22, 2019
May 22, 2019 at 4:56 PM UTC
Sitting closely to the lavender
Who looks to the mackerel sky
Right next to the bird feeder
And has a golden twinkle in its eye
Is the tiny Forget Me Not, bluer than blue
With a tiny black dot.
Sheltering under the striped bamboo
In a cool shady spot.
She knows a thing or two
She comes back here twice a year
Its roots buried with the Yew
Where no gardener can interfere.
When the sun appears
And the clouds soften
After the rain clears
Which is not that often.
The Forget Me Not will remember
When the dark nights fall
It will be watching by the wall.
In early September
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
Two birds
waiting for seeds
squirrels hog the feeder
boy girl cardinals a patient
red pair
Jun 18, 2023
Jun 18, 2023 at 6:40 PM UTC
You can smell it - when it happens,
and it does,
at the trailer park.
You investigate once, because you,
personally have never seen a rotting corpse.
Once, single use death, as when
one tries to use life too hard, too not
easy,
like heros on TV, not
gentle, as with a kitten or a yellow duckling,
held, in your own soft bowl of fingers.
Bubble, floating for a moment longer
than bubbles would if only water were involved,
-- input, use, grow a known, redistill, settle still
bubbles in the commode,
bubbles in the coffee,
bubbles in the hummingbird feeder, bubbles
in my brain, or my soul, sometimes, I wonder
if one is the other, when the brain is dead,
the soul is gone,
must be, wouldn't one assume?
perhaps here is where the spirit lingers,
watching souls lay dead where a bubble of life was.
Aug 18, 2023
Aug 18, 2023 at 4:06 PM UTC