Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Deb Jones Mar 2018
She seems like a bumble bee
Quick and flighty

Her eyes always flitting
Her gaze ever flirty

People are drawn to her
They love her liveliness and charm

Her attention casually given
So lovely and warm

Her words are like wine
You feel heady and drunk

You want to be closer
To be noticed and loved

It's so warm
That attention of hers

But she is looking for treasures
Assessing worth

She collects hearts
No matter the cost

Being caught in her net
Doesn't feel bad

The knowing look in her eyes
Doesn't offend

It's like having a secret
Unknown to the rest

What no one sees
Is that gaze they admire

Is furtive and restless
Tallying the tolls

Assessing treasures
To line her nest

Taking and using
Her charm is all gilt

A thin layer of gold
Covering her soul

Do you never wonder why
Most of her crowd are men?

She is a Magpie
She has collected you
Lewis Hyden Nov 2018
A spark is lit in cinders
That alights into a ball of outrage
True to the cause. "They
are at fault, this much is known,"
But is quickly forgotten. Like magpies,

Utterly self-removed, we forget
And collect more shiny things.
Women of ice dance in glass trays
As society's polite reminder:
'Be distracted, please.'
A poem about society.
#6 in the Distant Dystopia anthology.

© Lewis Hyden, 2018
Donna May 6
I looked out window
and a magpie flew by and
said ‘Good Morning’
I know the old saying goes if u see one magpie it means sorrow , I have to differ this and say if you see one magpie its mean independence , strength , positivity , contentment , light, new day  Well it’s just how I feel anyway , magpies are truly beautiful birds one of my fav too **
annh Jul 7
You build your nest of pretty words,
Sly threads of verbiage,
Plucked from outworn phrases,
Secondhand sentiments and frayed metaphors.

A thorny simile, a faded pink ribbon,
Of rhetoric woven with silky streamers;
A warp and weft of fond and found,
Borrowed references and stolen verses.

You recycle the shining heart,
Of another’s penmanship,
Modelling it into a tarnished,
Uninspired and untitled composition

‘I get a lot of big ideas, and occasionally I actually come up with one myself.’
- Bauvard, Some Inspiration for the Overenthusiastic
BlancaNigrida Feb 2018
A feather flutters to the floor,
And as it lands I hear it roar.
Scrape of talons on the bark,
A sonic boom here in the dark.

Through the night two lovers run,
Wishing for warmth from the sun.
But when I say the night is done,
The love is gone, there's only one.

With two the darkness is exciting,
Absorb the flesh and let the night in.
With one the stars seem only frightening,
Blinded by the day, can't let the light in.

One thing to do, to stumble on,
To sing the magpie's lonely song.
Hannah Marr Apr 20
Today the magpie cried 'salvation'
As I woke to tangled sheets
Binding bare, shaking legs.
My bed released me hesitantly,
Reluctant to entrust me to the day's devices.
Stormclouds buzz behind grey eyes
That vacantly watch steam rise in wisps
From a cup clutched in trembling hands.
Marshal the troupes,
Pen, paper, caffeine fix in hand,
An orderly retreat into the inner sanctum.
Today the magpie cried in dawn light.
I rolled over and went back to sleep.

Alexis Jan 16
Today I learned if you break your ankle you can still walk on it. 

Your body will take months to heal, but you won’t know it.

Your body does not cease to function

despite the fact that part of you has broken.  

I thought the body was fragile but often

a fracture disguises itself as a strain. Stranger, we haven’t talked

in quite a while. I miss you more than I care to admit.

Let me reintroduce myself. I am the postage stamp girl,

who only started sending letters again yesterday.

I am the spearmint gum girl, who you didn’t know in the summer.

If the swelling last for months, and in the end, it turns out to

not be broken, you’re supposed to go to physical therapy.

You stretch the pulled tendons, trying to mold

them back into shape, to fix where you rolled them out of place.

In all honesty, you confuse me. One minute 

you are so formal, all social cues and social norms.

At other times, in other minutes, you are

something different. That different thing softer and some how

both more shy and more confident.
This was not supposed to be about you, but I

can’t avoid the fact that you’ve worried me
lately. Worried me more than my potentially

broken ankle. Maybe you’re just tired, it’s that
time of year. Lord knows, I’m exhausted.

I’ve always been too stubborn to admit when
I’ve hurt myself. I say the broken parts are just a little

dented. I wish I could give you my confidence.
It might be false, but maybe it’d do you some

good. You are not an object of my pity,
I am quite sure you are fine on your own.

And yet, I want to show you that I care and so I tripped

head on into and not only knocked you over but scared you off.

Note to self: Mind the steps. With a hurt ankle and a magpie
for a heart, it’s dangerous to go walking into other people’s lives.
ATL 3d
i disgrace evolution
in forgetting to feel.

sweet mind
serving body

your existence is a contingency
and i succumb.

for little years
crawling round on carpet

i sat in lint to pray-

in growth i know
that faces are many

inimical wounds
to be left in congregation
on my chest.

i love
to love and be loved
of death and in-between-

to find frailty
becoming diamond
in the eyes of forgiveness

on the cusp of evergreen.
The uniVerse Mar 2017





++ to the magpie that sat outside my window ++
I bent down to her ear and said
Thank you for all you’ve done
Not just for
But for the World
She looked at me expressionless from her chair
I don’t think that she understood nor cared
Then I handed her a little
Containing two lipsticks
And two pencils
I think she threw the pencils on the floor and
Wondered aloud
Why was everyone giving her pencils?

She did not notice that of the two that I gave her
one was stamped in gold
With the one word
And on the other, two
I made no suggestions nor references
I didn’t smirk
I must have appeared a bit sweet
A treacly aberration

It doesn’t matter
I had selected two perfect reds in LA
One a bit more blue
and one
a classic vampish carmine
Blood red can be a challenge even against

Standing in the lift
Fully attuned
she caught me
not merely looking into her eyes
But seeing what I saw
A death’s head?
I hate when I’m caught doing that

Under the fluorescent light
She was dog rough
Pasty with sad sunken eyes
I was thrown, but by what exactly
Her magpie distress?
Her etheric calamity?
Her puffy, aging face?

We sat and spoke for a while later that night
She did not recognize me at all and apologized
maybe it was the next day
that the three of us had lunch
Everyone in good spirits
The mandrake’s screams
Forgotten with smiles and a wink
Memory bamboozled and
Make-up duly applied
She took out the lipstick
And redrew the lines
She liked the shining black case
with the little black ribbon for a pull

She told our companion sitting on a stoop
smoking cigarettes
I like your friend and
I wondered does she realize
that we already know one another?
Vicki Kralapp Oct 2018
The bush, Down Under, beckons me, and calls me from across the sea,
its sirens sing their distant songs, with winged flutes and sorrowed calls.
I walk the haunting memories, while warm winds whistle through the trees,
and watch the ghosts of gumtrees play, while passing wattles on the way.
This foreign land bewitches me, and to my heart it holds the key;
a land where once my spirit played, from where I have too long delayed.

From secret depths you sang to me, to where I’d always longed to be.
You called me forth, your land ignites, the strength within me to unite,
the unbound lass I’d sought to be, with new-found strength to set me free.
I found, much to my heart’s delight, when first I landed at this site,
the beauty of its majesty, I made its land a part of me.
This mystic place on earth excites, has caught my heart and held it tight.    

At once I knew that foreign shore, as if I been there long before;
with memories reminding me, of golden grasses by the sea,
a voice inside of me implored and told me you’ve been here before!”,
This view within my mind foreseen?  Just déjà vu? I can’t concede.
The scene’ry in my mind before, has opened a mysterious door,
into a land over the sea and made this curious memory.

When darkness flees, the day’s still new, when laughter bids the night adieu,
then bellbirds ring the morning in, their chimes float on the early wind.
The loris and the gold finch too, are both arrayed in rainbow hues.
With gum nuts, leaves, and bark akin, all carpeting the floor therein,
along with ****** bushland too, when all of nature sang anew,
the master painter, here has been, as seen in beauty from within.

As sunbeams from the sky break through, all glistens in the morning dew,
and add their magic touch to all; to paperbarks and banksias,
the bottle brush and wattles too, all readied for the day’s review.
Loud kookaburras’ raucous calls, with cockatoos and pink galahs,
pied currawong and magpie flutes, enchanting all who hear their tunes.
All joined in bushland’s magic call, and with this tune, I was enthralled.

I’ve been across this curious land, and seen more than I may have planned,
from Alice Springs and Uluru, and Darwin north of Kakadu,
the Barrier Reef, just off of Cairns, and Sydney with its city grand.
But the place I keep in view, with cockatoos and kangaroos,
in this immense, and distant land; the bush with all its beauty grand.
‘Tis in my mem’ry, pure and true, and with each breath calls back to you.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
Donna Apr 5
Sweet magpie on roof
Embracing life’s lovely sky
Forever smiling
Wonderful birds one of my favourites , see magpies everyday , there nature’s loviest birds :)
Mr Shankley Mar 26
An old deflated football
where the lonely magpie sits,
singing melodies of memories,
of a trampoline and a stolen kiss.

When I couldn't tell the difference
from your smiling eyes of green,
if underneath you were reptile,
or just plain naive.

But with my pocket full of dust caps
it doesn't matter much at all,
run away, take chase,
shoelace slapping against the wall.

And if our little fingers are strong enough
to make a promise that will last,
i'll keep this magpie singing,
until our cigarettes have turned to ash.
You were a magpie

you stole the root of me
bare bones and arteries
and now I am

a shell
stood shaking
in my skin

Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
The dawn unfolds beyond my fractured windowpane
and breezes tease while drapes, like serpents, slip aside
exposing worlds that race and run aground, insane,
displaying scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the streets are stark (last night they seemed so cruel
when demons danced as lanterns 'lumed the lynching tree -
its shadow shuddered, lurking in my vestibule -
within the night, I sense these things I sometimes cannot see).

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which watch the ones that weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave (their time to sleep!)
the alleyways, retaining bitter tastes of untold grief.

Soon drifters (distraught dregs that stray from street to street)
abandon benches, squat on curbstones some call home,
appeal to strangers for a coin or simple bite to eat -
refused… gaze down… left empty-handed in the morning gloam.

Observe with me, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the boy with crooked smile - the one who's seen the  beast -
with tears, he stoops and clasps the cross while wiping off the stain -
the abbey door along the lane conceals a pious priest.

While at the mall, Mike sees some cigs, and stealth'ly steals a pack;
the Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling eight times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the alley now -
to pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line;
computer games (which quake with doom) can help somehow,
so Eric plays with Dylan on the road to Columbine.

The shanty towns have hunkered down as if in mortal sport
while broken bodies' shattered bones repose supine,
and mamas (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contort,
their eyes drip drops of wrath which wither on a twisted vine.

Now Mr Baxter, private bankster (cruising down the road,
pursuing profit pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed)
and jests with all the junkies, while he's dealing with the bonds.

Marauders man the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while kids with swollen bellies beg neath hollow sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel invites us all, though few can ring the prize.

A washerwoman, timeworn, totters from the tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a lonesome distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, downs her final dram -
a magpie quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on the sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God incites each side for good, the other side He hates),
with saintly satisfaction gained provoking pagan ache.

The watchers pry behind our fractured windowpanes
inspect us all, tear down the walls of privacy
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Come, cast a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches sudden death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways in freedom’s final breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers keep the wards.
No sense, no charges nor defense - a verdict? Yes! … grotesque -
the guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
Impartial trials? A travesty instead, indeed quite Kafkaesque.

Now dusk draws near beyond my fractured windowpane
while mankind drowns like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within the rotting corpse of human night.
Ayan Roy May 16
She stood there on the stairs
Having walked up the
Timeless flight.
Holding the hands of her
Grandfather's clock.
To make the time stop by.

The bed lay deserted
Wrinkled with smiles.
As a magpie flew in
Looking for the breadcrumbs
He left behind.
Poetic T Aug 2018
What! the What!
               was that which I think
                              were syllables
perpetrating from the sewer
                 of their open commentary
on my life.

As though it was a live play.

                And they were the voice over
scrapping at my thoughts.
                                  Well if I were you!
When did I ask this magpie of gossip
to intrude on my daily reflections.
       But no you stain that window
               I want to stare outward too.

Mind your own business, I know yours
went bankrupt long ago..
           Never paying dues to what you paid out.
But never counting the cost of what
                          every word cost you.

Now its time to change that channel
                                      to white noise.
All the persistent vocals drowned out.
Now I can watch my life without commentary.
Others should watch themselves not others
             just because your is a repeat of a dull life.
Next page