"finch" poems
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green
field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs
creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent
through a failed ground rock)
brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail
12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)
lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 12:18 AM UTC
We may all seem different,
but at the end of the day,
we’re all the same in lots of ways.
No matter where we’ve been,
or who we’ve seen
The consequences of our actions
ultimately add up.
It’s not just a dream.
We must not fear,
And if we stand up,
the goodness within
will overpower.
This is enough.
We may have different beliefs,
labels and signs,
But if we are true to ourselves
it will all be just fine.
And when we reach a point in our lives
when it’s time to say,
stop crying,
I knew it would happen anyway.
Accepting and loving,
this is my virtue.
Open and honest,
I hope I have taught you.
Overcome your prejudice
and make ends meet.
You know I always say,
don’t do it in your home
if you won't do it on the streets.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.
Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.
You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.
Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.
But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.
Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
So beautiful
A swan, born of jay and finch
How could this happen
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 12:06 AM UTC
Wrapped in your embrace
Drunk on your scent
Trapped in your eyes
My hands around your neck
You say you have to leave
Robin's calling her Finch
So you start to lean in
For a goodnight kiss
I get all confused
I loose my cool
You want a simple peck
And I was going for more
The moment still happened
Your face so close to mine
I stand there dazed and confused
...Well there's always next time.
Jan 22, 2013
Jan 22, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
I once struck a man in anger, with a small statuette.
I dropped it to the floor as he fell, too, and watched the blood flow from his head.
Though as I gazed at the pool of crimson and began to realize what I had done,
I felt a snap and saw a vision:
I saw every drop of his blood.
It was inside his body, flowing, coursing, full of life and giving life.
He grew to raise a family, love his wife, and love his kids.
He helped his coworkers and encouraged them.
He donated to charities, and those charities helped many.
Some of those many improved their lives and helped many more.
As his sons, daughters, wife, and coworkers also were given life by him and gave life,
I saw his blood flow into their veins and spread, infecting countless others with love.
Houses filled with light and laughter
Streets were peopled by happy beings.
A woman comforted a girl in the loss of a friend, holding the sobbing face to her caring chest.
A poor man gave his only coat to a cold orphan boy on the curb, smiling through weathered lips.
I saw all this life,
And it was an ocean.
A flash of light and sound, and I saw another vision:
I saw every drop of his blood.
It was outside his body, flowing, coursing, void of life and stealing life.
As it touched me, I joined it as blood, boiling and bubbling with hate.
As our blood ran down the busy metropolis street of life, it would touch people it came across.
When it did so, they would melt also into a mass of red, splashing outward, and infecting others.
Everyone touched would gasp and turn to scarlet, turning the shop-lined street into a river of blood.
Countless lives were consumed in this manner.
At one point, I finally pooled at the bottom of the street, and stared back from where I came.
The street was now dark and desolate, the bustling life gone.
The shops empty, the skies grey, the ground littered.
A finch plucked strands from a red-stained straw hat, to make a bed of death.
A mangy alley dog lapped up the blood that still coated the street, becoming only more hideous.
And all was quiet, and I was utterly alone, but for the screams of their blood in my ears.
I saw all this death,
And it was an ocean.
A jolt, and I opened my eyes.
I found myself staring at the blood running from the man’s head in front of me.
A few seconds later and I realized again what I had done.
But I realized something else as well.
I tore my shirt and tightly wrapped his head in the cloth.
I lifted him up and took him to the hospital.
There I sat and awaited my punishment.
And took joy in life.
Mar 15, 2012
Mar 15, 2012 at 12:10 PM UTC
A raven flew along, it was a cold winter day.
The black bird soon spotted a struggling bird on the ground and quickly landed nearby.
The raven greeted the fearful animal.
A small, shaking finch responded.
"Oh Raven, you must help me. For I am so alone and I cannot find my way. I will never live through this winter"
Clearly the find was in distress.
Sighing, the raven quickly looked around.
"I will aid you to be stronger, but you must promise me one thing."
The finch perked up, as the raven responded, "you can't give up."
So the birds took to the trees and the raven taught the finch how to fly. For the first step to anything is how to get back to your wings.
Then they went to the grass, and pecked for worms. The raven taught the finch that at times, it is okay to let your guard down, you are safe with other birds around.
And finally, how to make a home. A nest for the winter. They gathered all the twigs together, but the finch grew tired.
"Raven. I must rest."
"No finch, there is no resting until you build your foundation. You must continue."
"But I am tired."
"It does not matter. If you give up now, you will give up all." The raven handed the finch even more twigs.
The finch groaned, but painfully continued.
And they built the most beautiful nest.
In the nest the finch had both comfort, and sustainability.
"Raven, thank you. I now have the tools to be a strong bird. I can now, survive the winter."
"Finch. All you must do for me now, is never give up."
And with that, the raven flew away, in search of others to help.
Mar 25, 2018
Mar 25, 2018 at 9:52 PM UTC
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before dark-fall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 6:15 PM UTC
He sings a song
To me
Alone
For ones love for another
Should be known
But words so carefully
Written and sung
Can never be interpreted correctly
By one
What do they all mean?
What is he trying to say?
Or are the words he sings all part of a game...
The motive he has I do not know.
But tomorrow again I will go
And talk with my sweet finch
Trying to unravel his feelings.
Without scaring him away.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 8:06 PM UTC
Away, ye muses, all away!
Away with songs of finch and fay.
Away the jaundiced sight
That magnifies the firefly’s light
To bonfire bright;
That sets ablaze at once
My musing’s dimly burning lamps;
That ornaments with rhymes
The penury-stricken looks betimes;
That over-clothes the logic – lord
With fancy –swollen words.
Away, the partial love
That ‘boldens Nature to sit above
Her Maker!
This day I fasten eyelid doors,
With absence wax my ears,
With languorous peace congeal
My tongue, my touch, my tears *
That I within may pore
Upon the things behind, ahead,
In the darkness round me spread.
I lock Dame Nature out
With all her fickle rout.
Somewhere here,
In the darkness drear,
I myself with cheer
My course will steer
In the path
E’er sought by all:
Its magnet call
I hear.
Not hear, not here,
Apollo would his burning chariot steer;
Nor Diana dare to peep
Into the sacred silence deep.
Not here, not here,
Not far or near
Can mounts or rebel waves
E’er make me full of fear;
Nor evermore
Their dreadful grandeur to adore.
Not here, not here
The soft capricious wiles of flowers;
Nor swarming storm clouds’ sweeping terror,
Dishevelling the trees
And light-haired skies;
Nor doomsday’s thunderous roar,
Dismantling earth and stars-
The cosmic beauties all to mar –
Not Nature’s murderous mutiny,
Nor man’s exploding destiny
Can touch me here.
Not here, not here:
Through mind’s strong iron bars,
Not gods or goblins, men or nature,
Without my pass dare enter.
I look behind, ahead –
On naught but darkness tread.
In wrath I strike, and set the dark ablaze
With the immortal spark of thought,
By friction-process brought
Of concentration
And distraction.
The darkness burns
With a million tongues;
And now I spy
All past, all distant things, as nigh.
I smile serene
As I expose to gaze.
In wisdom’s brilliant blaze,
All charms of the Hidden Home Unseen:
The Home of Nature’s birth,
The planets’ moulding hearth,
The factory whence all forms or fairies start,
The bards, colossal minds, and hearts,
The gods and all,
And all, and all!
Away, away
With all the lightsome lays!
Oh, now will I portray
In humble way,
And try to lisp, if only in half truths,
Of wordless charms of Thee Unseen,
To whom Dame Nature owes her nature
and her sheen.
3.1k
the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds, had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now, high above inflamed....
over soft new
grass
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near
and yes !
an
anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
by gospels of granite and grain, grass finch
and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
enticed a scholar from his cot
to jot ephemera
of outlasting spark
before darkfall
and so... there
amid all allurement and soft machines
a word-smith gathered
poesy and prose.
muse-driven
this one served
an invisible
sovereign
one
of unsurpassed virility
who charms kaleidoscopes
with offhand sketches
rescued
from
a landfill
a basket weaver,
that unravels to
achieve pure
forms
a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
as ampules of anagrams
were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
without hope
a falcon frolicked above the lowborn lilies...
with eyes
too keen
to see a
blur
as the hand
of god
or a vole
as a lifeline
on his
palm.
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 5:51 PM UTC
wait for it and it doesn't come
caught off guard
incredulous singing
squawking pigeons
six in the morning
kings of the ready
dead finch
cats eat feathers
in the house of cards
down stairs ready
house of carnivores
company functions
canvass paints numbers
paints horses riding
steady in mind--
through
windy
ozark meadows
six in the morning
while the finch
sleeps in
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 11:06 AM UTC
nails dug through soil
tearing stems in a sunflower field
lavender and daisies melt her heart like yin and yang
skin ruddy and golden from grand star kisses
bohemian waves compliment her cheeks
along with a blush warmth has masked
dream catcher strings substitute her veins
as if she was a native myth in soul and body
bare feet stained earthly she runs, flies
like a finch with dappled wings
the spirits underground
lift her high into the stratosphere
she lets passion overcome fears
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 3:20 PM UTC
*oh did you know, aliens eat kids for lunch, it's a rip,
school bells ring, pencils, books, superfast typing
and mr. finch, we're under attack, and away we run..
who are you?.. you can call me the doctor, says he
a mystery, hurry let's go, aliens goodbye, i'm in control
come with me baby, it's time to roll, and off we go
hello robot dog, goodbye flying aliens, hey love
building blocks of universe, in my hand, says he
time, space and matter, they're all my friend
my batteries are failing, lalalalala, you bad, bad dog
affirmative, and i cry, doctor, doctor, where are you?
i need you now, give me the blue pill, so i can chill..
"oh my lovely doctor, my love," and i laugh happily
"you can fly me into the future, or fly me, back in time
you can make me yours, and i will make you mine!"
"oh my love, you can spend the rest of your life with me
but sadly, i can't spend the rest of mine with you
it's the curse of the time lords, my love, says he..*
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 12:35 AM UTC
Opportunity or opposing unity to unify and untie
Leper's lesion sipping each seasonal reason for loving your flowing hair and knowing care
Strike the stench and light the match and throw open the hatch jump inside along with furry-toad-love
*** and lust and the vex of the ****** of what is on the television gone up and through and something grew inside my skull where IT is thus, null
And I speak of course off course because of this coarse curse of your love
Flinching finch-pinch-tense, since she's, hence, a personal goddess
I'm a man of fetus-like love of birth and woman-girth
I like my girls to be bigger
Though perhaps for a less redeemable reason
I am the humanoid-elemental-embodiment of low self-confidence
And most are out of my "league" (at least physically and aesthetically)
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
I remember stories, told through grey smoke
recited slowly, under shadowed eyes
as the old, dry toad croaked,
in a rickety melody by my side.
Forgotten romancers would carve
hearts into the husk of pine.
One was told,
time after time:
Two lovers, a yellow scarf,
we are both the same, headless and blind.
Lose all sense when we meet up
I pray you'll rescue me
chase away my sorrow and bad luck.
Rain always seems to pour most
once I'm building my shelter
my poor face as pale as a ghost
and my urgency, burns like a summer swelter.
I need you like the river needs its bending
to love you is natural,
a broken bone must go on mending.
So take your weathered hands
lead me to the forest
I cannot see, but I feel its stirring.
The finch and the blackbird, chattering chorus
brain-dead trusting, so alluring.
Nov 22, 2023
Nov 22, 2023 at 2:03 AM UTC
.
I go by the name of Rook.
Lord of all that you can see.
I cradle and nurture my forest home,
my throne sits in the Poetree.
The canopy stretches before me,
tree tops licked in morning dew.
A finch catches my eye and winks,
greeting his Lord, then off he flew.
The sounds of Dawn, the forest awakes,
shedding sleep dust to the rising sun.
An owl calls her goodnight hoot,
disappears, rejecting the day to come.
Otters sport, play chase, by a stream
that flashes silver as light rays dance.
A Ladybird, yellow with black spots,
lands surprised, to crawl along a branch.
Clean crisp air, caressing nostrils,
invigorating life through cool beauty.
The vista of sunrise across the woods,
the source of inspiration for the Poetree.
© Pagan Paul (24/01/17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 2:03 PM UTC
wake up from your adventures, and take a dab.
don't take it far, thats not your job
the dab will take you as far as needed
and you're blankets will resurface.
put on your garments, and take a dab.
the day is new, and its age unknown
its crispy mood has woken your hairs.
You'll need to wear those socks.
Have a potato, and take a dab.
theres plenty more, so don't rush
the savory maple cloud, of pancake.
the coffee is void of the cow milk.
greet your neighbor, and take a dab.
His dog will have a bath, the cat
the rabbit, the finch, the turtle, the mouse,
they will all be thinking about oats.
Hop off your bike, and take a dab.
the ocean left you clean, the sun
a blueish green shade of wandering.
you're a person, in their shoes.
put on some tunes, and take a dab.
the day was tall, hungry and sharp.
the yellow sky fogged with milk
is calling you from your bed.
open the drapes, and take a dab.
the dancing wind will have its supper
and your nose will get to drink.
the green air finds your shirt.
Its been a long life of living
so take a dab
and wake up in a new one
to take more dabs.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 2:26 PM UTC
My spirit wails for water, water now!
My tongue is aching dry, my throat is hot
For water, fresh rain shaken from a bough,
Or dawn dews heavy in some leafy spot.
My hungry body's burning for a swim
In sunlit water where the air is cool,
As in Trout Valley where upon a limb
The golden finch sings sweetly to the pool.
Oh water, water, when the night is done,
When day steals gray-white through the windowpane,
Clear silver water when I wake, alone,
All impotent of parts, of fevered brain;
Pure water from a forest fountain first,
To wash me, cleanse me, and to quench my thirst!
1.9k
Beauty wears the cold breath of death
the way a ********* wears a smile.
Is this casual brutality a sign of the times?
Or have you watched the news in the last
24 hours?
The mirror sung a thousand prayers
to the God; now felt forsaken
with 31 flavours to his love.
They pierced your body
with their spears of love
and hung you up by the hair
to dry.
You recite your green finch song
to the deafness of those above,
and they still hold
your lace burdened hand
to quiet your sorrowful heart.
Lay your head upon the pillow
as tiredness takes us both
as the morning rears its ugly head
and the day becomes yours again.
Then raise your golden brow
to the freedom of Night Angels
who know your secret kiss
where all desires roam amiss,
watch yourself seek for home
in the city's barrio's and filth
down *** sodden alleys
where happiness
is spilled.
The Centurions of hunger
who's empty bellies predict
this shift of power.
By these shadows of delight
you don the mantle of delirium
It stretches down
to your wrists
and grows taut by this slip of Fate
your barrier of Morpheus
a tattoo by Bacchus
a scar tissue kiss of Eros.
Your beauty burned like an ember
that puckered my skin
My love wrote a sonnet
in invisible ink.
"Goodbye"
a silver bullet
that is tasteless
unlike your kisses.
And your finger slipped upon the trigger.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
At eight weeks old, she was our newly rescued mixed beagle pup.
Noah named her Daisy. Not a name I would have chosen, but certainly as sweet as
memories of Grandma's homemade molasses
bubbling in the old iron kettle brought out from the smokehouse for only one day each year on a crisp fall morning.
By sixteen weeks it was evident that all involved in the rescue didn't know squat about Beagles. After a frantic thirty seconds on Google, our mistake was quite clear in the form of about five hundred red and black and tan photographs. We were the proud but red-faced and slightly shocked owners of a **** Dog". Yep. And Daisy was her name-o.
Two years and seventy pounds down the road, I sat in my morning solitude spot this day with a good mug and a good book watching the nut hatches, house finch, and Black-capped/Carolina Chickadees tearing that special blend seed up as Daisy patrolled the yard for squirrels with one eye and her nose to the sky watching for the lone and clever Rock Pigeon scout that always precedes the flurry of flying rodents raiding my feeder. I can't help but to smile as Daisy glances at me through the deck door glass to see if I am admiring her skill and diligence. I am.
This being a Sunday before the dreaded M word day, I tend to lounge lazily around the house in my worn Clapton pj bottoms and hol(e)y Langley T-shirt. My shadow follows me from comfort to comfort spot knowing that I leave a trail of odd snacks from my kitchen perch to living room couch to study to lazy bed, and back again. She is showing a bit of winter fat.
To be continued....
r ~ 9Feb14
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
There’s a rooster
that runs around trying
to ****
every hen,
goose,
guinea,
and
sometimes Super Dave Osborne
will even make a pass
at a close-enough finch.
Occasionally Super Dave ****** off
the Rhode Island Red.
Red measures twice
the height
and weight
of Super Dave Osborne.
Nov 18, 2011
Nov 18, 2011 at 8:37 PM UTC
A reminder -
It is still winter,
We are still in the thick of it,
Chains and snowshoes
are still requisite,
Imbolc and Candlemas
are still to pass,
Groundhogs hibernate,
Tarns still as glass,
The tumbling finch song
has yet to be sung,
and even the false spring,
has not yet sprung.
So lie still a while longer,
Let the chill freeze you through,
Warmer days will return
in their own time,
And so will you.
Jan 25, 2019
Jan 25, 2019 at 1:27 PM UTC
Casting the richest rainbow,
A princess-cut diamond could not be your match.
Barely a fraction of the glow
Your rose-hued skin does hold
Shadows the delicacy
Of an angel's God-given halo.
No cornflower, birthed from sapphire, would be even
One half as excellent as your arresting eyes. Then,
If a craftsman may spin sugar with gold, into a waterfall
Of fluid spider's-silk... Well,
I would laugh. For you,
Your hair - it will forever be softer to the touch.
That white willow-whip body...
No more beautiful would it be
If Poseidon adorned it
With the luminescence of a new pearl's sheen.
Hewn from perfection, you would be nothing -
Nothing more than this finch note gilded in sunshine.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 11:57 AM UTC
Before the finch sings or the rooster crows,
before eyelids raise or the sunrise glows,
before the sky transforms from midnight blue,
I’ve already begun my thoughts of you.
Before the alarm’s ring has hit my ears,
before the fog of sleep in my head clears,
before the grass is soaked with morning dew,
the day has started with my thoughts of you.
Before I extricate myself from dreams,
before the birds bathe in the dawn’s sunbeams,
before the coffee calls for me to brew,
my heart and soul begin to call for you.
Before I can arise from where I lay,
before everything that starts my day,
before anything else I have to do,
my day’s begun with loving thoughts of you.
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 9:40 AM UTC