"mallards" poems
I saw my world again through your eyes
As I would see it again through your children's eyes.
Through your eyes it was foreign.
Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens,
A mystery of peculiar lore and doings.
Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes
Emerged at a point of exclamation
As if it had appeared to dinner guests
In the middle of the table. Common mallards
Were artefacts of some unearthliness,
Their wooings were a hypnagogic film
Unreeled by the river. Impossible
To comprehend the comfort of their feet
In the freezing water. You were a camera
Recording reflections you could not fathom.
I made my world perform its utmost for you.
You took it all in with an incredulous joy
Like a mother handed her new baby
By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy.
It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood
Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece
Came that black night on the Grantchester road.
I ****** the throaty thin woe of a rabbit
Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse
Where a tawny owl was enquiring.
Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions
Into my face, taking me for a post.
7.9k
At Ellis Lake, an overcast Sunday afternoon.
A lake divided into two, oddly shaped bowls in the middle of the city, surrounded by a constant stream of birds, wind, and traffic.
A spotless white swan cleaning herself on a grassy knoll, ferretting out whatever filth lurked deep within her feathers, then smoothly sweeping her sideways bent head across her back, as if to remember the long forgotten affectionate touch of an absent lover.
A gaggle of four grey geese combing the lawn for food, waddling in unison side-by-side.
A line of five mallards barreling down the hill into the water.
A multilateral crescent of black and white pigeons receiving harsh dictation from a trio of angry snow geese strutting before them.
A red-faced duck slowly approaching in the quiet expectation of food, then the arrogant acceptance of the lack thereof.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
rain
little girl
rain with
hair
rain until
the sun chokes
rain with
your dis-attuned nails
rain
running Pisces through
my head
rain
another word called
rain for
some mallards
rain on
boy
rain
rabid 90’s hip hop
we listen while driving
to the theatre
rain pounding
in the car
in the eyes
rain
the sky seems to
penetrate
my car’s roof
and this poem
breaks through
water uprising
your grey hat
your almonds
and my chin
rain
I wish I could make it
for you
nightingale
I wish I could hear your
breath
in the morning
Jan 14, 2017
Jan 14, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
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
Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.
And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.
The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the
ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.
Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat. The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.
There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes. This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.
Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty
This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and
a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake. Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of
the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:38 PM 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
The Canal stands out in
early morning splendour.
Freshly painted small boats
Line up in the early morning sun.
Mallards duck and dive
Across on the far side.
The white clad houses reflect
In the water in mirror fashion.
The Red of the boathouse stands
out against the Green of the
summer dressed trees.
Yes, sometimes it's good
to be alive.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 4:35 AM UTC
The sunlight, like a mother’s touch,
lies gentle on the water’s face.
The last warm breath of summer past
Not ready yet to yield its place
And you and I walk, hand in hand,
Around the long and winding path
Past where fledging Mallards stand
And weeping willows sweep the earth.
From beyond the rushes comes
the soulful melody of a horn..
All else is still, no sound intrudes
upon the bassist and his song..
Above us Ninja squirrels fly
And bomb the path with acorn shells
If they should hit me do not laugh
Odds are that they’ll get you as well.
I’m glad we came to Oakland Lake,
To watch the waterfowl at play,
And have a quiet conversation
about a nearly perfect day.
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
Lurking sun behind high trees,
Winking slit at frequent breeze,
Beside was ocean spread long,
Motion hides curious pride prolong.
Intrepid waves too rush bright,
O'er open moisture shell delight.
As sailor goes somewhere light,
My enthusiastic step dashed slight.
Little congestion were prizing there.
Children's cry with bodies bare.
Abrupt, I feel soft voice puffing,
At distance bicycle two girls coming.
What they bore transparent base.
Deem secure from hot dog-days!
Their fleshy hold when seemed glee,
Ready out squirmed complete free.
Movement one crack to another,
Wrestle sure no bound further.
Disperse time cheer pleasure thermically,
We drift precise melodious absolutely,
Make jest discover His kind wish,
Avert call ancestor's wistful kiss.
Soon trait the poser acute nip,
Alarm each on demand by mysterious sip.
Along whirling current find both,
Clasping a pair of mallards growth.
Place before dense shrub appear.
Glorify beauty lead Kollam fair.
They stumble seen disturbed but,
These prospective eyes supported yet.
If virtue exists in thy soul:
Hands touches blind gloomy goal.
Man's error might be exempted,
Delay punish hooligan, cruelty awarded.
Hence provide defense to deserving ability,
Taste joy, greed, reach gate wide extremity.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 4:41 AM UTC
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats
The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam
Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven
Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now tumultuous fate in a salted heaven
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled
At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds
Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks
The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air
Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted
Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
Jun 6, 2021
Jun 6, 2021 at 3:36 PM UTC
I stand on the gleaming rocks
and gaze out toward the pond.
I've been coming here for years now,
ever since I could throw
bread crusts to the mallards without
screaming and running away.
Across the lake are mansions
dripping with frosting and gumdrops,
but their pretention gets no heed.
I dream of inhabiting the island between us
that measures about six steps wide and just as far long.
There's a "no boating,
no fishing,
no swimming" sign to my left,
so I don't know how the dilapidated shack sits
between two steps and four, but I
want to sit there forever and
stare back at the people
who stand on the gleaming rocks
and stare out at me and
don't run away from the shrieking mallards
or the East Eggers on their gingerbread balconies
who rock back on their heels
and laugh at the show as birds
rip open their sandwiches
then turn to top off their schnappes.
I'd pay attention to that island, though.
I think it's made of breadcrumbs.
I don't own a boat,
fishing is useless,
and I'm too afraid to break the rules.
So I let the waves lap my feet
and convince myself that I'll come back
and do the deed at sundown,
even though I know I won't.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 1:47 PM UTC
The valentine sky is swept by scotomas
As swooping murders shade the overhead
They dot the broccoli tops
Because they know
Safety not in numbers, but Being is found through others
The swans flap-walk cross the loch
And air their hind to dive
Black and white share fish and space
Because they know
Worms aren’t picky, and eyes are stupid
The brave diablos plummet from the castle ramparts
Clear the cliffs and meet gusts head on
They do not slow their descent
Because they know
Life is not too short, but too long to live with fear
The mallards wade through garbage scraps
Bright male with paler mate
They never leave each other’s side
Because they know
god is in the pair, a worthy life is shared
Feb 26, 2012
Feb 26, 2012 at 2:31 PM UTC
I was born into flame
The son of parent stars
But stars burn out
And have to die
Leaving me,
The Dieing Embers
Of a dynasty
That used to rule the sky
I joined this site so as a poet
I could shine and grow
I call myself the Common Raven
But really I'm a crow
Mums and dads stroll past our pond
Hand in hand with little ones
They bring their dogs, some are old
Some are little pups
My parents they are mallards,
Nothing rare as such
So I was consequently
Inevitably raised by ducks
In heaven swearing is allowed
I didn't know, did you?
But someone went a bit too far
And turned the air quite blue
He was celestially expelled
It was the only thing to do
And now is known as
Angel of Profanity
To the likes of me and you
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 12:56 PM UTC
Help me, help me...
Who am I talking to?
I need help can't you see
What do I expect someone to do?
The hunters are camouflaged
Lonely as a mallard
I could try fly
Hoping to avoid their eye
Or I could just walk
Then maybe they won't talk
Talk about me
And what they think they know
This mallard can't fly
The pity of its lifeless body
Would, in its grave, make it roll
It would be brave to fly
And Avoid the barrage of bullets
But how could it try
When that could be it's life
Although The mallard is not afraid to die
He can't bare the thought of the pity
For to fly and die
Is many a mallards life
But to fly,
die
and feel the pity from a watchers eye
As it lies there
Incapable of showing it's ability to fight
Is a death of its soul
Not just it's life
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
As she swayed to the tide of music nobody heard
The ghostly rhythms of my own forgotten soul caught FIRE
Tap dancing tenaciously on the tightrope of the void
Calling forth cascading cataracts, callousing over the mind, a cacophony of Mallards, flying south for the winter,
NEVER AGAIN TO SEE THEIR MOTHERS.
She tied my brain into a rope and swung across the chasm
Laughing like a Mameluke who had just discovered his feet.
The camel was left behind at the gate
The Babble went on till the break of dawn
Till it stopped.
And collapsed.
And felt weak as a Sunday Noon Tide Carolers
Bunchcake, Fun and Dry, Severing again and again the Hair twine
Randal Slappy Blimp map candy man Cadillac attack
A BOTTLE OF WINE AND TWO LEFT FEET LATER
A scumaladdoodalla frigate-splayed poodle-cups
When finally she agreed to let me into her preschool
I had already given up the hope of ever having a career in the arts.
Bean friends. Are the only friends. That accompany you. To heaven.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 3:50 AM UTC
It must of been the summer the Schuykill unearthly ignited into flames from an errant cigarette, discarded by an eel fisherman into the effluent runoff from Mr. Oink-full's Scrapple plant.
Do you remember that evening? Night air cumbersome and pungent, brimming with the smell of burnt feathers and piercing quacks. All those fateful mallards drowning in flames upon the boiling river rotisserie. Blazing ripples dancing in a stunning kaleidoscopic noxious borealis.
While entranced in this sight, it was with a tap on the shoulder from the Manayunk Marbler that would indelible reshape my belief in interconnected theory.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
(Voice of the Swan by Eric Idle from Monty Python.)
Don't you ignore me,
I could break your arm you know.
I could cut you down with a well placed puncture wound.
I've got important friends, oh yes,
I'M protected by royal statute.
Oh, I see, NOW I have your attention.
NOW you're taking notice.
Well, just you listen,
you might get away with your cheek with those common Mallards,
but don't think it will wash with me.
Now, give me some of that there cake
and perhaps I'll leave you be.
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 5:34 PM UTC
Walk by the River!
Cob and pen dance a rhythmic waltz over the rivers gentle flow.
The mallards bob for apples.
The moorhens check for a little bit more.
Sat on the boughs of the bare necked trees.
A bird cries out.
Sounds like a sneeze.
The dog runs in lunacy all over the grass.
Knocking a little one on to her ****
Flaming stupid mutt.
Mother so cross has a go at the owner.
Pays no attention to the whingeing old moaner.
The kid she gets up.
She chases the pup.
Pup gets excited.
As child he invited.
Calls him to come and play by the river.
Mother was cross.
Child was not.
And the dog was forgiven.
Mum got hold of the child dragged her off home.
So she could make her daddy's tea.
Mum checked out the child after the tumble.
Found she had a big graze on her knee!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
The weather's mild for winter
like a January thaw
perhaps a quirk of some kind
of nature's improbable law.
We get rain instead of snow
we get snow instead of rain
it happens frequently
**** here it is again.
A t-shirt & long-sleeved shirt
they keep the chill away
I hike a spotted muddy trail
as morning leaves its stay.
The sun plays hide and seek
with cotton colored skies
the lake is hosting mallards
I hear their winsome cries.
It doesn't seem like winter
in fact, it's more like spring
and as always, I'm enchanted
by what the weather brings.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 10:21 PM UTC
Well ducks, it was the place to gather in those days.
There were ceiling fans that made one think
that Baron Von Richtofen might fly in at any moment.
I wondered whether a man wearing coveralls had to climb
up on a ladder each morning
to heave the blades into motion.
They served a concoction of fruit, gin, crushed ice,
the low notes from Hernando's Hideaway, and who knew
what else. It tasted like children's party punch
but made our high perches start to pitch
on the rough seas beneath our jelly legs.
Down some white stone stairs, there was a blue pond
someone had stocked with mallards, as green and gold
as my jewelry. They were free to fly
but could never leave--the desert
would have turned them to cardboard.
We slept with scorpion nets. One night I dreamt
that a handsome man in a uniform of water lay with me,
told me my hair was good rope from India, and
that I had been a snake charmer
in a previous life. He kissed me and it stung.
Ah, love, there you are looking at me through your new
telescope, your young face behind the lens like an egg.
I gave up gin, and traveling, and most other things long ago.
Now I'm talking to you with my bird beak,
free to choose but forbidden to leave
except via packing box, to be sent by air mail over the dunes
to the oasis bar, c/o my younger self, cash on delivery, payable
in florins, code phrase "wing walker." The Baron will be there waiting.
_____________
Aug 13, 2025
Aug 13, 2025 at 9:44 AM UTC
When it was far away from everywhere
and we were there together
watching Mallards
skipping across the ripples of the lake.
I took your hand in mine and gently kissed your cheek
which was dimpled by the morning Sun and you
told me that it could always be like this time
and every time I am far away
I think back to that day and did those Mallards fly away too?
After what seemed forever,far away
I answered
like we were in a play,
'My Dearest beloved, I shall surely love you for always'
but always is far away too
and like forever that never came true
but the memory holds fast and what is,is what's cast upon the waters where the Mallards flew.do you
think back to then
when at the end of faraway, in that summer morning that seems so near today,I kissed you tenderly,
are you the same as me when it comes to memory and you can't let go
does time still last for you
like the time that flew
far away?
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 4:16 AM UTC
I still think in-sync with the ceremonial intro.
Even though its reduced to unclaimed brick,
I visit naughty corridors and assembly halls
decorated in sports equipment.
After showing off my award,
I ***** out candles
and bolt that horse to a new port village
where clubs buried in earth
begin to dent
my naivity.
But tweed remained fashion.
A collage of uniform, green fields and tennis courts
resembled my life in the trench.
Words like 'posh' and 'snob' were the only examples of difference
until I became a witness.
Discovered homelessness
meant vagrants. They
became as common as a boxed sandwich.
Everybody has their own intoxication of choice.
Bargain of choice, newspaper
of choice, where Brookside
is a crossword answer
filled whilst feeding mallards
white bread in the park.
Writing that
makes me the biggest hypocrite of all.
I grew fond of plays. Began to write poetry.
What would they think of me?
A **** football match where the ref cost us the game
still pumps through my veins,
I assure thee.
That left ventricle breathes here too.
War has never been declared
but the battles have existed since
before Shakespeare wrote Hamlet.
It's estate versus estate.
As much as I'm up for a fight,
history won't change overnight -
especially in an election,
selfie posted
or status shared
with a handful of friends
who actually voted.
Living in the middle of Common-
wealth is a lonely place.
But there will be a hotel monopoly of vacancies
built on my mediocre grave
if I acknowledge the better
or lesser sort
themselves. After all,
I ate processed chicken breast
and ignored politics myself.
Perhaps now,
it's time
to act like the squirrel.
Barks become growls, become
quacks, become
the fool
again.
Sep 28, 2020
Sep 28, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
*We notice our reflections on -
'Looking Glass waters'
November zephyrs send duck feathers -
like sailboats across the pond , nervous Geese
hurry along , ten curious Mallards greet us at the shore
A tickled Crow burst into laughter , a stern Jay
follows soon after
Sugar white clouds with blue and pink wisp
A moment in time with laughter from our lips
Skipping stones , snuggled in winter coats
Zestfully sharing , exploring , unencumbered emotion Continually falling in love* ...
Aug 25, 2016
Aug 25, 2016 at 12:05 AM UTC