"mallard" poems
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
It is easy to romp and play
In lighthearted levity
When the sun doth shine so merrily
And the mallard flies so free
Yet to laugh when the stygian dark clouds grow
To dance when the gale winds blow
To smile & bow to the Reaper spurned
Is staunch strength well earned
Is God's fuel well burned
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
Shimmer and flow
Wood Lake at sunset seems to emit a soft glow.
Waves like edges move and dip
Feathering out, tumble and flip.
I hear the giggling of happy little girls
Dunking heads underwater and wetting their curls.
Scraggly young boys jump off a long pier
Showing their bravado that they have no fear.
Mallard ducks and tan little birds soar and float.
Passing patient people fishing off docks, or in a boat.
As I watch natures glory a gentle breeze caresses my sleeve.
I am at peace with myself with nothing to grieve.
I am very grateful for the time I spent here.
It gave me the chance to think with a mind that is crystal clear.
I was in my own world relaxing on my inflatable chair
With the sunshine as my companion floating here and there.
This quaint little lakehouse is a Godsend to friends
Who need some time to heal, make changes or amends.
The owners are loving in spirit, generous and kind.
They open their home as a haven for the heart, soul and mind.
Copyright *CindyRenouf @2010
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/Cindy1128
Jul 27, 2010
Jul 27, 2010 at 7:32 PM UTC
The moth with newspaper wings sat under the arrow lungs of the eyeless
blood dripped falcon, more whole than the super-glued roman sculpture.
Next door a 50’s con held up church with a roulette table in the kitchen,
and boarded up the massage parlor
downstairs.
The eye of the man was a centrifuge of ducks, mallard and hen, spiraling
outward into evaporated roach-ground
asphalt.
Next door, slits in the picket fence displayed perfectly formed **** & broach,
empty shoes made of feet below, blending
fields.
The marble foundation formed from twine lollipops and fuzzy candy tabs,
ice-etched to the frequency of splintered seashell
angels.
Next door through the forest of knives a spaceship bearing gargoyles peaked
bodies through collages of faces in technicolor sepia
mitosis.
The heiress molted into tiled pieces, her own dog and sunhat caught in blizzard
cuneiform, kaliedescoping again to fractalled inchworms cemented in motion.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 9:55 AM UTC
Donald quacks. We better duck.
Tell the Cubans to mute that trumpet
While we, together, improve our luck
(or end up ruled by a Socialist Strumpet.)
The mallard was rebuked by Mitt;
adversaries began to bray.
The ducklings murmured: *guy’s unfit
to be elected anyway*...
Mar 4, 2016
Mar 4, 2016 at 5:52 PM UTC
I sat by the lake
sipping coffee and feeding the ducks.
In between breadcrumbs,
I dialed his number.
"Your call could not go through."
I grinned;
Could not, not would not.
Long since the city summers,
I finally found our stillwater space:
a sense of security that felt
as serene as my remote arcadia,
disturbed only by the footstrokes
of a hungry mallard passing by.
No breadcrumbs for him.
"Call failed."
Call failed, not I failed,
and I picked apart the stale bagel
to dip in my coffee
and feed to the ducks.
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 4:50 AM UTC
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.
This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.
His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.
Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.
A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
You are a poet lacking poetry
A composer who never penned a symphony
A clown plagued by misery
A broadcast not shown on T.V
A duck pond missing mallard mates
A panda without panda traits
A perfectionist who makes mistakes
A pacifist who fights and hates
_
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
His claim he staked, the mallard drake
Beside a little pond
Two female ducks were round about
They would return anon
He watched me work all morning
A feather he would preen or peck
I reciprocated his respect
And studiously ignored him
He was content until I went
A bit too close for comfort
His head and neck he laid down low
His movements they were slow
As if to bid the executioner
Or will the grass to grow
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 8:28 AM UTC
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over
In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to
The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across
Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge,
Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then
Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my
Cuyp.
Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling
Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens-
Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields.
Twenty more colours to mix.
Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I;
prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing
Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of
This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each
Milky white shade, rushing out into the aurulent sunglow. .
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC
Raindrops,
falling on water
that was still.
Creating sweet unbalance
at one with natures will.
Timeless moment,
wanting nothing from the world.
I listen to its whispers
to see what I might learn.
And the mallard,
his cheeky little eyes
are throwing me a knowing look
as he glides on by.
I watch it now in motion.
I wonder bout his world.
All that he embodies,
with no one to serve.
A sense of truth
a sense freedom,
which seems out of human reach.
I watch the world around me
to seek what it may teach.
There's anger in the bracken
and anger in the grass.
It sweeps down from the valley
and kicks me in the ****
It plays with my emotions,
as sometimes anger can,
and then it asks me questions
about the fruitless quests of men.
It leads me to an ancient ruin
where time has took its toll,
there's anger in the mortor,
and anger in the stone.
It wraps itself around me
with a promise to let go,
if I can live a truer life
if I can learn to grow.
It leaves me with an energy,
yet tired on the sand,
it told me it may still return
for anger is unplanned.
It leaves me with a message,
as only anger can.
Yes anger is an energy,
an energy unplanned.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
And they all taste cotton candy sweet
While I am the bitter aftermath of cigarettes smoke
Because when you're a mallard in a sea of swans
You start praying for the echo of gun shots proclaiming duck season
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
The first signs of autumn
are appearing this morning.
The sky is a paler blue
with ominous dark clouds all around.
The birds are much quieter too.
although I did hear a pair of mallard ducks crying out.
The fleeting sun across the lawn
Is quite pleasant
The Invasion of house flies
seem to have subsided.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 9:39 AM UTC
It's raining.
What a lovely morning
after all that sun.
The Mallard ducks are out.
I can breathe again..
It became too warm.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Jun 10, 2016
Jun 10, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
As boys we sat atop a bridge
And saw the trains rush by
Steam flying out of funnel stacks
We watched them pass with a sigh.
The Royal Scot was a favourite
The Flying Scotsman too
But the biggest thrill we ever got
Was when The Mallard raced right through.
Such a beauty she was in livery
All blue and shining and bright
And to children like us in the fifties
She was such an amazing sight.
She was the four four six eight
And she ran on four six two
You couldn’t see her funnel stacks
For speed they were hidden from view.
They’d built her up in Doncaster
Through a wind tunnel she had passed
And when she flew along the tracks
You caught a glimpse and gasped.
Steam trains of course don’t run now
Except on heritage lines
But smelly and ***** as they may have been
They were a glorious sight in their times.
©JRW2014
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
Before the storm, the river had all but given up,
the guttural roar of wind and deluge
rattled all souls, except her
and in the aftermath she swelled
and bore delicious weight again
and my eye-contact
with the pageantry of the green headed drake
told all the muddy truths:
to underestimate is to lose
Nov 28, 2021
Nov 28, 2021 at 9:09 AM UTC
fifteen minutes or so
the pilot lumbers out from the ladies room
she weighs as much as our cessna.
perhaps now she's lighter.
she grunts into the cockpit
and ensures her girth has not switched on or off
any vital instruments.
safety is our number one concern.
i've been more confident in lawnmower engines.
this rumbled like rapture.
i shook, but so did everything else.
we flew like a mallard
over lakes and forest.
we saw a shipwreck that now hosts
families for lunch.
as well as a few baseball fields.
the air was a force.
it asserted it self, to be certain.
i sensed its angst.
it translated thoroughly.
she rambled on
it was her tenth flight today.
i looked behind,
my love was green.
Jun 23, 2011
Jun 23, 2011 at 8:13 PM UTC
Back and forth do I sway, an unfamiliar ripple has disrupted my directionless flow. Curiosity; an attribute I all too well, know.
I am a mallard.
Following the trail of nourishment, it has led me to you...The bread giver.
Beautifully unfamiliar you are, allured by your whisper.
Nearer do I drift so unsure, for you stand ashore, so certain in manner.
I am but a mallard.
Limited is my understanding, for I hardly float, and you stand.
I, on water; you on land. Dusk draws close, be where you need to be, bread giver. The edge waiting for you I will be.
I long for your nourishment. At dawn I will learn to stand with you.
For I am just a mallard.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 3:02 AM UTC
when i am king
you will be strange
and my better angels will laugh
at me, but i will behead
the little piggies.
too gorgeous
to be besmirched
i will unearth your drama
and disown you.
i'll throw flying carpets
at mundane rugs
and shrug an Atlus
at Promethean
worlds
where
i have disfigured
the swan and the mallard
but not the lake.
taking care
to give you nothing
but the very best nothing
my Karma
can mock
and a dime for
your trouble
and be
gone.
for a price.
Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
There's something special about a named train,
the Mallard, the Royal Scot,
more romantic than a mere number.
Ours was the Red Rose, pride of LMS.
The London-Liverpool express
flahing North, four-thirty on the dot,
a sight not to be missed, exciting
street players of jacks and hopscotch.
She thundered through the blue brick tunnel,
erupted into the grass-lined cutting,
swallowed our footbridge in smog and sulphur.
The we loyal fans ran home to eat our spam.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 1:50 PM UTC
Blue mid-winter noon
Fat mallard nipping tails
Snow is here at last
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 12:46 PM UTC
He was a man
A lizard
The one that crawls out of its skin
Camouflaging ‘till it’s sweating the rocks
Keen on what it wants, what it feels
That very moment
Is all that matters, all that fills
Him
His fibs
were a well-tailored fit
But he bit his own head off too often
and stood empty
Like a wishing well
or an abyss,
The pit in which I threw my dreams in
But he couldn’t fit the sentiment
Wishes were demands that bared the skeleton
Their little mouths crunching
and talking to him
He calcified his judgement to acquit the fugitive
And he blowtorched my size, my wit
Until he could no longer
speak of it
or enjoy it
I had been burning for days
Up until the day he palpated the shame
Of the impulse, of the way
a man could perfect his death
Behind the mountain of skin, undressed
the tongue was hissing in his pit
I sat him on the chair, roped to one question
Why did you do it
And if guilt is the sharpest
tool to deface him,
the man
couldn’t look at me
A mallard too limp to admit
his interests were monotypic,
only equipped
to fit his own ****
I should have de-plucked it
Drained and throat-hung it
For the many nights
I made love to a liar
But, I let him keep all of his fingers
so the man
may continue
******* himself
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 11:10 PM UTC
Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.
The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.
Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.
Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.
Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?
A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.
A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.
© 2012 Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
The Platypus
(a limerick for adults, teens and older children)
by Michael R. Burch
The platypus, myopic,
is ungainly, not ******
His feet for bed
are over-webbed,
and what of his proboscis?
The platypus, though, is eager
although his means are meager.
His sight is poor;
perhaps he’ll score
with a passing duck or ******
Keywords/Tags: limerick, double limerick, humor, light verse, nonsense verse, platypus, ****** duck, proboscis, nose, beak, feet, webbed, flippers, eyes, eyesight, sight, vision, myopia, myopic, animal, nature, ****** erotica
The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch
The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his ***** boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!
Dot Spotted
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a leopardess, Dot,
who indignantly answered: "I'll not!
The gents are impressed
with the way that I'm dressed.
I wouldn't change even one spot."
Stage Craft-y
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a dromedary
who befriended a crafty canary.
Budgie said, "You can’t sing,
but now, here’s the thing—
just think of the tunes you can carry!"
Ballade of the Bicameral Camel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a camel who loved to ****
Please get your lewd minds out of their slump!
He loved to give RIDES on his large, lordly lump!
Clyde Lied!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a mockingbird, Clyde,
who bragged of his prowess, but lied.
To his new wife he sighed,
"When again, gentle bride?"
"Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied.
Other Limericks
The Better Man
by Michael R. Burch
Dear Ed: I don't understand why
you will publish this other guy—
when I'm brilliant, devoted,
one hell of a poet!
Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie!
Fie! A pox on your head if you favor
this poet who's dubious, unsavor
y, inconsistent in texts,
no address (I checked!) :
since he's plagiarized Unknown, I'll wager!
"Of Tetley's and V-2's" or "Why Not to Bomb the Brits"
by Michael R. Burch
The English are very hospitable,
but tea-less, alas, they grow pitiable...
or pitiless, rather,
and quite in a lather!
O bother, they're more than formidable.
Mar 8, 2020
Mar 8, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC