"hunkers" poems
Wing clipped at birth, domestic birds they were.
Farm and spacious pen bound together six years.
She a prodigious egg layer, Don her attentive,
aggressive defender.
Daisy one day predator killed,
old Don outwardly mourning her loss
became a very different bird. All alone
for the first time in his Duck life.
We opened his gate and let him free roam.
A lonely flightless fowl only earth bound.
All aggression subsided with no mate to protect,
he became more social, needing a friend.
Crossing the yard from the barn,
when ever he may see us there.
He hunkers down in the shade
while I tend to the garden,
him like a supervisor, chortling occasional
reprimands or encouragements, I can never
tell which. All just to be close to some living thing.
He will chase after wild doves that land near by,
sadly mistaking them as perhaps a new mate, they
fly quickly away, him wondering what social Duck
blunder he might have made.
When finished in the garden, Don and I to the
barn retire, I ladle out a cup of corn for his pleasure.
Then it's back to his always open pen where his
bathtub sits, I turn on the hose and his excitement
ramps up. Excitedly he squawks and ***** his wings,
jumps into the tub, dives below the surface, reveling
in the cool spray of man made current in his artificial lake,
and with our few moments of companionship shared.
Him doing what ducks do, for a while loneliness abated.
It's almost as if I can see a smile on his pleasant Duck face.
Most days he sits close to the chickens pen, watching
the laying hens, scratching and moving within,
perhaps wishing he was in there with them.
I fear that if I open that wire door and let him go in,
that those ladies would peck him bald or even dead.
No matter how much a lonely Duck wishes he were
a chicken, they remain birds of a very different feather,
and a Duck can remain but a Duck forever.
A thing we might all remember....
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
He had no name to call his own
no true home either
he had been following his footsteps into unknown
for an unknown amount of time
days, weeks, months, years?
the convalescent bond he shares with his heart and his gut and his spine
meander around and through his humanity
tributaries of some God sized river
when the night comes around
he hunkers down in a suitable place
and drifts off to restless sleep
his legs twitching with excitement like an old dog’s dreams
he is a biblical figure in a non-biblical world
he drinks too much and vomits up cringe inducing truths
let’s things slip
but all in the name of honesty
all in the name of passion
all in the name of the nameless father who cast him out from Eden
he roams with the cold, the hungry, the tired, the poor
he roams through crack deals on Y street
and date rapes on Laurel
he roams and roams and roams until sneakers become slippers become bare feet
riddled with blisters turned callous
he roams with the forever sleepy drunks who murmur nothings at nobody
he has a harmonica and he plays a song called love
sleeping under the divine sanctity of cathedral steps
smelling like the James River
Norfolk salt in his hair
and a tan that only comes with those who have a pinch of Southern Soil in their blood
he roams seeking out the answers that we didn’t have the time or courage
to pursue
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 11:49 AM UTC
His hand lightly floats above her back,
Seeming still to the rest of his moving body,
Tips of fingers gently touch, stroke,
her bare skin.
She dances closer,
They move to her hips fit perfectly along her warm flanks,
hip bones protruding under her thin dress.
Shadows tremble across the ceiling,
together they move bathed in green light,
Red on closed eyes and open mouths from which the sounds crash into music before them,
Yellow illuminated empty bags strung on the wall,
and baby christmas lights flash above their heads.
The shirtless drummer slams the beat, pulsing through the wires out the speakers into waiting ears,
gushing,
like a hose whose knot is suddenly uncoiled,
as his super-sized slushy melts.
Big boots bang the floor,
arms pump,
she wails into the microphone.
Through throngs of laughter, body heat and cigarette smoke outside the door, hidden in the darkness the saturates the parking lot,
hunkers a ***** truck.
Mud splatters like exploded glow sticks.
What are you sitting on?
Bass Nectar throbs into the seats,
is absorbed into the tires,
one window is open a crack.
Inhale. Inhale. Again. Again. Exhale.
Still, through the smoke, and the ***** windshield,
the stars still glow.
Dance with me?
No.
Let me play with your hair.
No.
It's mine.
Aug 31, 2010
Aug 31, 2010 at 9:33 PM UTC
A hero is a person who
has simply done as others do
until a certain point in time
when they step over safety's line.
Then they become something more
than a mere human, and have borne
another person's trial and pain
not thinking of their glory, gain.
A hero's the woman who waits and stays
and watches while the others play,
then takes the drinking people home,
wending her way to sleep alone.
A hero's the teen who looks and sees
a child's kite hung in the trees
and climbs farther than he should dare
to show the kid that someone cares.
The mutt who stays by master's side,
Alerting folks with howls and cries.
He may be cold, have to defend,
But he'll stay with his human friend.
The "Boys/Girls in Blue" this word deserve.
They bravely work. Protect and serve.
Dealing with crime and human woes,
They go where others will not go.
A fireman breaks down a door.
There could be backdraft, but does more,
because the baby in the room
will almost surely be consumed.
He's sustained wounds, and badly burnt,
but the little girl survives, unhurt.
The soldier who's sent to block, defend.
His buddy's met a painful end,
but hunkers down, takes back the field.
'Til the end he will not yield.
Jesus left His Father's home,
went to earth to walk alone.
He endured horrid trial and pain,
He took our sin, He took our shame.
The reason why He was so brave?
So that billions would be saved.
There are many more of us
Who do hard work while others fuss.
The single moms and single dads,
Nowadays parents have it bad!
With no fanfare or applause
work long hours on thankless jobs.
They ensure kids do more than eat.
They can be schooled for greater feats.
And if a person takes the time
to bring some light, to let it shine,
to cheer up people down and blue
well, my friend,
that hero's YOU.
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) February 21, 2009
Sep 26, 2014
Sep 26, 2014 at 7:07 PM UTC
As I walk the dog I think of you
He stops and sniffs
And scratches the breast of our Mother Earth
As he hunkers over, my heart hunkers down
And I think of what was.
Spiral, brown, a roundworm reaches for the sun
This is my heart now
You b*tch.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 11:56 AM UTC
The fact stalks through my brain,
weapons ready
to destroy the preconceptions
with which it disagrees.
My natural defences are bewildered,
programmed to allow it through
but dismayed at the havoc it wreaks
and the wreckage of belief.
Finally, its work achieved,
it hunkers down,
crouching like a spider,
defensive, fearful,
waiting for the day
when it, too,
is superseded.
Jan 3, 2011
Jan 3, 2011 at 12:11 AM UTC
Amongst canyons I want to throw my body to,
Red river hunkers its belly to the ground.
I count roadkill and think
I am *****
I am wrapped in the Beast and beginning
To understand.
So I save my soil and think only of
The hills.
They open their palms and give me
Graveyards and I kiss the dust from
Their fingers.
Jan 30, 2011
Jan 30, 2011 at 11:05 AM UTC
She's a schoolgrad by day,
A poetress by night,
Hard working,
Such a light!!
She roams poems to get her fix,
She's witty,
Non forgetting,
A smashing grip to thy heart and chest!!!
A mirror who makes thou seeith things only heaven doth offer,
A( P.B.S) lover of fine writings,
Her wine much inviting,
As a friend I've made,
And as a seraph
She hunkers amongst the divine lost and roaming!!!!
If only she came closer!!!
May 27, 2015
May 27, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
A rose, pre-bloom, gives rooms a swoon
with June looming we ‘true-lovers’ croon
to whom we love like the singing loon
on ponds, far below, during foggy dawns.
Her lilting song travels on light gusts
a dusky hue with wafting musk
silhouette sits still in the opposite dusk
while fawns nibble delicate fronds.
A valley beneath wreathed in mist
gentle breezes distort and twist
two geese entwined in a lovers tryst
float along blowing jazz sax songs.
A fox awakens to the sounds
to the ponds edge, down and around,
he hunkers low to watch them drown
in broad strokes he follows along.
The ensuing gloom sends the loon to soar
as she can stand to watch no more
blood and feathers find the shore
a fox, engorged, yips his song. /
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 12:59 PM UTC
The Facebook zombie
Distorts its face:
Contorted, convulsing
A spasmodic smile.
Ignoring internal scars
Emotional wretchedness
Faking with gusto
What the good life is.
The Facebook zombie
Hunkers not for brains
But drools for likes
And virtual applause.
Like dazzling neon lights
Its ego shines bright
"I am the best"
"I am number one"
Says the connoisseur
Of filters and fakes!
The Facebook zombie lumbers
Towards the next bite
The next hit
Mindlessly raising its
Bony hands
As the camera sways
Finding the perfect angle.
Sep 26, 2020
Sep 26, 2020 at 12:29 AM UTC
I saw this angelic little boy
eyes so blue, big head of blond curls,
which he'll probable bemoan in years to come,
gorgeous smile
I realise he's on his own,
can't be more than three
I get down on my hunkers and spread my arms
he doesn't hesitate not even for a second
Oh, the innocence of him as he jumps into my arms
and clasps me in a wondrous hug
I try to get him to talk but he just keeps squeezing my nose
and breaking into fits of laughter
he's adorable
I place him down, and take his hand
I noticed things I hadn't seen his little hands grubby
his skin peeling and sore
his beautiful curls all knotted
and bless him, not a nice smell
I decide to walk him around
see can i find who he belongs to
then this woman comes running, screaming
she grabs him, and slaps him
I'm stunned, he doesn't even cry
he turns and gives me a resigned shrug
what I thought was innocence was pure joy
in someone willing to give a bit of attention
this was a little boy who didn't cry
he's mature beyond his years
he's long since learnt no point in tears
as the woman screams "Have I no children of my own, leave mine alone"
She looks high, I wish I could take this little mite
but what gives me the right
he says "sorry, mommy" takes her hand and leads her home
I just might take that little boy next time he decides to roam
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 9:43 AM UTC
Soft green lances of grass
Sweet and supple, I imagine.
They tower up into the sky,
Reaching, reaching, reaching,
A contrast to the cold hard dark rocks in the lake.
One stretches up,
The other hunkers low.
But it is not like they have a Choice in the matter.
That is how, why, and wherefore they were created.
We all have a different purpose in life.
me.gs
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
FALLING INTO THE PAST
the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat
the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle
ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past
red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever
Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along
I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you
your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt
'I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me! '
starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs
a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea
the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming
the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm
crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm
walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in
& here you are
years later looking like
an out of focus photo of your self
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
FALLING INTO THE PAST
the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat
the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle
ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past
red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever
Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along
I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you
your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt
'I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me! '
starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs
a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea
the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming
the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm
crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm
walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in
& here you are
years later looking like
an out-of-focus-photo of your self
Jun 29, 2019
Jun 29, 2019 at 4:11 AM UTC