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Sir B Nov 2013
I have a story to tell
It's a tragic one as usual

A day goes by. Silence reigns and birds cuckoo
While this happens..
Two people sit under a tree
Using it as a rendezvous
For usual meetings
They met...
In ten days

They enjoyed it
I helped another person
and he tried to help me
I did a better job of helping him
that's what I think..

Anyways, once they met
they enjoyed it
they would talk together
and climb a tree
Play with a dog, which was a
golden retriever
They are big!
It was a lot of fun
Often playing Videogames
Mario kart..?

That was a day
and it happened on
an occasional basis
when both of them could spare some time
from their daily *time consuming


One day however
A bright sunny day
A sunday afternoon
filled with birds flying about
nearly the end of the school year
It was all going by wonderfully

We had met another time
because you called me
and told me to help you out
and just to relieve the stress
that the school year had put on us

We climbed a tree
with a rope on it
it was pretty tall
about 10 feet high

I remember talking about self harm..
..and ways to **** oneself
and I gave up climbing and jumped off
the rope
6 feet
straight down
on my back/ankles

It hurt like batshit crazy
but i told you I managed through it
then later
when talking to our friends
I let it slip

I told her about my failed attempt
I was really depressed after that
It actually FAILED!

Well, now more people knew about it
and these rumors spread fast
as you would know
I was still fine with school
just.. I  became more depressed
My grades were fine
I was nearly at the end of the year
nearly there.

And then
I realized
are similar to humans
they don't talk much
at the time of crisis
but they remember
it, and pass it onwards

They don't lie.

*Mockingbirds dont lie
A possible true story, also a possible last poem. Unlike the other one.. which was a horrible one. This could be the last one for a year/maybe not. Also posting on my birthday, 2nd Nov, woohooo!
Tom Spencer Oct 2018
pulling back the covers
dimming the lights

an owl calls
from the holly tree

just outside
of my window

the garden below
has grown beyond my control

weeds sprout vines tangle
in the summer squirrels gnaw

on the green holly berries
littering the courtyard

with half-eaten haws
in the spring mockingbirds

gorge on the bright red fruit
their florid songs

light sky life sun leaf air

closing my eyes
I think back through the decades

to when I planted the tree
it was a time of hope

a time when we dared dream
of a world without

mortal enemies
when you could imagine

shaded islands of calm
hidden coves immune to rancor

now look at us
heads down lost hurtling

under a trance

we have turned on one other
distracted by those

who grab wealth and power
under the cover of night

confused by the constant
trumpeting and alarms

blind to what we share
we retreat

into the darkness
of our fears

Tom Spencer © 2018
Rob Rutledge May 2013
The Aces check their sleeves,
Hearts rippling across the breeze.
The Queen arises
Torn dress ripped at the knees.

The Jack saw his fill
And quickly took his leave.
Stood trembling in a doorway,
Mind struggling to believe...

The King was an alcoholic,
It was widely known to be so,
Each eve he would sit solemn,
Wine in hand and sword on show,
Clapping to the Jokers' japes
As he danced and sang
About love and fate.
But how was the King to know?
Not two rooms away
His wife had lain,
With a smile and a *****.
Creating a cuckold and a fool...

The Jack had had enough
And promptly marched
To the throne room.
Armed with only knowledge,
Unleashes inevitable typhoon.

The winds will rise,
This house shall succumb,
Imploding inwards
Till the house is done.
And all that remains
Among ash and decay,
Broken hearts and broken spades,
Is the Jokers last laugh.
A mockingbirds call as daylight fades.
Keith Anderson Mar 2013
There's a place for me
in a field of Bluebonnets
under a Pecan Tree, with
Texas Longhorn lowing
to passerbys,
and mockingbirds flitting
about cloudless, grand skies.
Quick poem, just for some mental exercise.
I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart..    .    .
        After the sunburn of the day
        handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
        after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
        the pearl-gray haystacks
        in the gloaming
        are cool prayers
        to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels..    .    .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.    .    .
        Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
        The mountains stand up.
        The salt oceans press in
        And push on the coast lines.
        The sun, the wind, bring rain
        And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
        A love-letter pledge to come again..    .    .
      Towns on the Soo Line,
      Towns on the Big Muddy,
      Laugh at each other for cubs
      And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up..    .    .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples-
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short..    .    .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river-
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators-
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
        what brothers these
        in the dark
        of a thousand years?.    .    .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats..    .    .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
    O farmerman.
    Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
    Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
    **** your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
    Hack them with cleavers.
    Hang them with hooks in the hind legs..    .    .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple *****.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair..    .    .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
        Marching corn-
I saw it knee high weeks ago-now it is head high-tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears..    .    .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire..    .    .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
        loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
        in a smoke-red dust..    .    .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a **** in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
"The shapes that are gone are here," said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa..    .    .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird's nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs..    .    .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way..    .    .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs?"

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting-your lover comes-your child comes-the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back-
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley..    .    .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water..    .    .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
  a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
  only an ocean of to-morrows,
  a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
  at sundown:
        To-morrow is a day.
Yenson Sep 2018
Listen to the slivering  paths of the Autumn breeze
The coming velvety skies drenched in ink reflecting silver stars
Wave goodbyes to the elusive flawed brown stone with pensive eyes
A heart will gasp years ahead for callousness past shown now in tears
Remember those golden sunsets for now woeful days are never azure
Watery eyes and wrinkled mask lament a time you could have shared
A King's ransom at your feet twined with an  honest heart assured

Hear the whisperings of the mockingbirds and muted cold choruses
Rainbow starlights betrays pots of gold hidden never to be found
Maidens dance retro and the harpist pluck for painters with brushes
By sunkissed shores blends of contrasts joyous in customary ponds
Smiles pure from honeyed caves same when as waxed spears plunges
Save me a place in the delights of Troy and tell Helen to send a sound
Bring me home to peace and love, rescue me from lions in golden cages

r Jun 2014
Lazy me.

Still in last night's Rust Never Sleeps T and boxers. Unshaven. Hair pointed in cardinal directions while blue sky frowns down upon me for smokin' up its air.

Mockingbirds playing the guess me game again. Bluebird splashes in the bath giving me a subtle hint.
Mr. Cardinal and Blue Grosbeak
compliment each other on their choice
of colors.

Yellow and Orange daylilies compete
in their own beauty pageant while hibiscus shares her flowers with bees.

Humminbird humming a happy song.

My sweet mutt Daisy is embarrassed to be sitting out here beside me.

Time to go in and let nature bask again.

r ~ 6/15/14
   |     Lazy day.
  / \
Carla Marie Jan 2012
Black Texas dirt
With Grandfather Trees
That the sun shines through
In dust moted streaks…and
Ponds and Creeks
I use stones
To cross with
Sometimes slippery
Gray stones…
Covered in moss… with
Sharing space with frogs
And trailing ivy
And bee hives in logs
And butterflies
That flutter by
And vie
For attention
With hungry hummingbirds
And COUNTRY Mockingbirds
That can’t DO
Car alarm…

Perhaps a summer cabin
Or even
Working farm
With wrap-around porch
Flanked by Four O’Clocks
Shielded by Climbing Roses
Guarded by Morning Glories
Shading two big dogs
With cold wet noses
Pressed to my face
That wake me
And shake me
Back to this reality…
Which is oh so far from
My mind’s dream place
And I’m somewhat dismayed…
But it’s still okay…
Cuz there’s
Nothing wrong with dreaming…
Nothing wrong with dreaming…
Jon Tobias May 2012
She is salty lipped ocean throat
Warm morning fog
Mixing with her overcast

I want to place my head on her treasure chest
Listen to her wet ruby cascade and thump
A metronome for people who dance lightly

She is a mildly ******* mermaid
Born with the deformity of legs

We were all born a little bit broken
I tell her

I know you’re a body of water I want to drown in
When home feels like it’s so much bigger than these four walls
But not much stronger than the skin I’m in

So here’s to jumping off cliffs
With the hope to land a little painfully
So evolution might give me the wings I was meant to be born with

She walks like a riptide
Often risks drowning in the off chance

Nature might be kind enough to understand
What it really means to have sea legs

This is for the soft shelled crab
Who was tired of the heaviness of home

For the mockingbirds who never studied music
So they copy sound
Sometimes really annoying sound
But they hear the beauty regardless

For the Dumbo Octopus
Who clearly watched too much classic Disney

The beluga whale who can crane its neck
When its sonar song of home is not enough
To know their kids are coming back to them

For the penguins
Who are fine being flightless
Because they’d much rather swim

They didn’t think it was stupid
When they wished they could be different

And she is the ocean
Hips sway like a high tide approaching
Hiding sirens’ secrets
Skeletons in her closet
Lovers who have lost
And drown in her pitch black

She wears the water like a second skin
Smiles like the wind is pressing back her cheeks

She chokes on sea water
Drowns a little
With the hope that this place might feel more like home

Sometimes home is the hardest place to get to
But there’s nothing wrong with going home
This will be the summer where I will actually go to the beach regularly.
david badgerow Dec 2011
the mockingbird is four yards in front of me.
it is 5:47pm.
it is just barely December,
but already my heart has frozen.
i am no longer able to turn the great wheel of the stars.
i am but a fragile stem on a withered rose.
the old grandfather of winter has come to live in my heart.
night has wearied my bones.

the mockingbird is perched low on a cushion of oak moss.
he is taunting his feathers the way mockingbirds do.
he is basking in the sun.
he is wearing a beautiful coat of indulgence.
he is twitching his tail and quickly bobbing his neck.
he is deflecting and dodging and eating flies out of the air.

i decided to take aim.
i have no rhyme or reason.
i have a slingshot.
i flex the rubberband once for tension and twice for luck.
the bird sees no evil intent in me, nor i in it.
i place a single devil's eye marble into a warm leather home.

mr. mockingbird is surely mocking me.
this one's pure observation.
T Zanahary Oct 2012
Everyday I am born to gods relaying
lineage through winged messengers.
****** radiance enkindles immaculate retinas
in solar flares
and picturesque mornings' idolatry.
Tones entrancing, blue jays
or northwest mockingbirds,
their range of majestic differences
eluding attentive innocence,
elation ebbs to pain's perpetual flow,
streaming hypno-suggestive claims
finding me inexorable
to beliefs I've not died.
Impassioned voices usher me through,
by mid-day I've learned
to speak their tongues,
strange hisses
and twisting trebles
an attempted appeasement for
conforming to continued cyclical living,
instinct selection seeking final detention,
rebirth a trapped evolutionary trait.
Dreading each twilight,
coping through whichever maiden
may allow my musings
to conform to her form
for the night,
overlapping until I
am but a shadow
dominated by her presence,
her brilliance illuminating every scar
of the side perpetually left
to the dark,
enlightenment held
in the warmth of her touch
until she too
falls beneath the horizon.
Sun setting upon this silhouette
and whispering tomorrow
in stagnant sleep speak,
settling to sacrifice's sufficience.
I fear this rest.
Gleaning premise from barbaric genealogy
qualitated as residual spatial pandemic,
leaving this life cycle
reduced to just one more death.
r May 2014
The day was good,
the sun shining, a breeze
winding around the pines.
Two mockingbirds
were playing
guess me.

Cumuli loitered
above ground shadows
with cats jumping
from one to the other
in a game that only
they understood.

I felt the stirring of precipitate
motion on my cheek as a shadow
passed by whispersing the words
of an old song by Townes
about going down to see Kathleen.
I never meant for it to rain.

r ~ 5/7/14
/ \
NT Malas Feb 2015
Lest the gamers forget the petals doused with blood,
Slayers bequeath their chine.
The guidance of wisdom is deemed for crud,
The sparkle of existence lay bare on the line.
Mockingbirds lost their techniques,
Before dipping their feathers in grizzling red.
Their sentiments shut along their broken beaks,
Symphonies out of tune,
Recorded grünes are that of the dead.
Long lasted the gloom of winter,
As if protected by a permanent warrant.
The only bids are that of a sprinter,
Losing his soul for a bribe, or the steams of the first torrent
How loathsome becometh the living, in a world rotten and vile,
Even I don't guarantee forgiving
For that, I'll set my sail and be gone for a while
Emma Jan 2018
Mockingbirds are known for their ability to mimic the calls of other birds

Using their voices as a way to deceive others

Perfectionism is a mockingbird that constantly jeers

Interrupting any rational thought with its incessant noise

It takes the voices of others

Projecting its expectations as their own

As your own

The bird expects nothing less than success and fame

In order to compensate for the tragedy of being human

Of being imperfect

Mockingbirds use their calls to scare others

Driving them away to prevent them from seeing how small and fragile it truly is

Perfectionism expects nothing less than the impossible

And screeches when it gets less

“Work harder and you’ll be better!”

“You’re worthless if you constantly make mistakes.”

“You’ll never be anything worth loving.”

Its cackles drive one mad

But no one around can hear its song

One thinks that such a small, frail being could never be detrimental

A problem simply remedied

However, no demon is ever expelled with ease

And the bird truly is malicious

For its power lies not in the sharpness of its claws or its beak

But in the scathing sting of its cries

Convincing one that what it wants is aligned with what everyone they love wants

A species’ main purpose is to survive

And the mockingbird has done well

Their population has exploded

Now everyone’s in hell
david badgerow Oct 2015
my eyes opened to find
the thin lizard dawn gleaming
after the gutter drank its' fill
of the moon last night
the tambourine
buried in my lungs still
vibrating like these walls
papered with cheap roses

last night i found comfort the
only way i know how
in situations like this
beside a girl wearing
a pretty ribbon
twisted around her waist
pomegranate lipstick
wet clay & tragic glitter
smeared across her eyelids

we spent the night
roped together by
half-removed clothing
& my fingers third
knuckle deep
counting the pulse
of the heart
of the universe

while the wild fox
barked on the hill outside
& the mockingbirds
played riffs in the lilac bushes
her ******* ran tight
around her shins &
she sputtered the dark
lyricism of bees
twisting her tongue
backwards around
itself in my ear

our bare bellies
slapped together as
my tongue found her
tooth enamel &
the trees formed
a tight center loop to
harness the sky
for us & i
held my breath
waiting for her
to breathe first

i can feel her chest
& plump **** now
quietly throbbing
against the tight young
flesh of my back but when
i roll over & see her
eyes darting
green like a thin
ocean laser avoiding
my dynamic gaze &
her pouty mouth emitting
a pink yawn i can tell
she's unhappy & ashamed
of me

i tried to run
my fingers through
the butterscotch tumbleweed
of her hair but she just
popped her gum
& sent me
high stepping through
the soft warm mud
& chest high cattails
of her driveway
callow under the clouds
stuck like gnats to
the fly paper sky
SøułSurvivør Feb 2016

everyone has a voice here
every note will flow
some of us are nightingales
some of us are crows
some of us are magpies
collecting shiny things
some of us canaries
which in the coalmine sing
some of us are larks
singing in the copse
some of us are ravens
gathered 'round a corpse
some are Laughing *******
who scream to beat the band
some of us are ostrich
with our heads in sand
some of us can "Twitter"
how we love our "tweets"!
some of us are silly coots
with funny orange feet!
some of us are toucan
with beaks that are outgrown
some of us are parrots
with a beak that's not our own
some of us are robins
hopping on the lawn
some of us are lovely
angelic, graceful swans
some of us are mockingbirds
yes, you could fit that bill
some are birds with feathers
which make a lovely quill
some of us are peacocks
great beauties, but a bore
some of us are hawks
which o'r deep canyons soar

some of us are eagles
symbols of our call
I welcome you to
where we are poets


(C) 2/4/2016
All except for the parrots.
They need to be plucked!

What kind of bird are YOU?

Paige Serbin Jul 2011
it rained yesterday,
and as we walk today onto
the soaking track,
the long and circular
track, ***** puddles
assault us,
bearing the floating,
struggling corpses of
worms that escaped
the drowning underworld
only to be swallowed by
the waves of the
upperworld, where we humans
run and play with each other and
with nature, but as much
as we can change in our mother,
we cannot quell her lachrymose heart,
and so we walk
gingerly among the
vain attempts
at survival which manifest
themselves as bodies laying
split and ******, pinned
to the earth by natural needles
(their fluids drying over
their skin, sticking them,
melding them,
to the ground) as
though someone has
prepared them for dissection.
but no one save i
attests to the sincerity
of ****** science;
i am the only one
to delve into their
infirm bodies
to seek their minds
and travel
down their tracts and
empty their glands
and poke at their five
or four
hearts, however many
worms have;
i am the only one
to dissect them, yet
lay one digit on them i do not.
i dare not,
for what would i discover
but wormlike attributes,
and who would ever
inside a worm but
defeat in its own birth,
ostracism for having
been derived from something
so lowly as a
creature without limbs,
which eats,
yes eats,
the very black vile
we stomp our mighty
feet upon.
worms have many hearts
(four or five,
however many) and therefore,
more blood to spill.
and so,
from that logic springs forth
the idea
that the blood of an earthworm
(in comparison
to its body)
flows four
or five
times as heartily,
more guiltily.
but no guilt touches the ones
who scream and swerve as they run,
avoiding death scene after
death scene in the
short films of worms' lives.
it confuses me, however,
how these worms came to be
lying dead atop our
artificial turf,
for isnt it fact that
a worm comes to
the surface
when the earth floods, and
so isnt it fact
that artificial turf does not flood
(for it is solid and immovable
through and through, and
so no worm's tunnel
can penetrate the
hard rubber) and
so isnt it
that these creatures
have risen to the surface
from a subterranean lair
that doesnt exist?
pondering this,
i stop and i let the rest
run past me,
kicking up
brown water with an odor unknowable--
the stench of death in summer.
i look down to the
ghastly sight, and
i know suddenly that
worms have hidden
and that rain has found and
injured them,
and that we have dismissed and
killed them.
and i think to myself,
i know why worms hide.  
knowing this,
i look up to continue
trampling these mockingbirds
of the dirt
(for who would take pity on a girl
taking pity on worms?) but
i stop when i see a young
boy lingering on
the side of the track,
studying the turf
i so carefully studied
moments before.  
i study him.
and i see him delicately
scoop up a worm,
wriggling at life's end,
hold it between
his fingers high in the
like a golden chalice
to be blessed,
and drop it whole into his open mouth.
i wrote this poem on march 31st, 2010.  i was fifteen then, and i have high hopes for my future as a writer.  i can take criticism, and i want to become better, so please, if you don't like this poem, tell me.  let me have it! don't hold back.  my style has changed considerably since last year, so if you don't like this poem, please take the time to read another more recent poem of mine.  i would really appreciate it.  thank you!
Sarina Apr 2013
Daisy ***, patchwork dress, lalala
I baked you cherry pie while you chatted a wizard
hope it kept warm in the oven.
Dear, the contents partner our cheeks
a good-natured face, freckled of breadcrumbs at
each of six circadian meals to come by day.

Everything is rosy in this hobbit hole –
flowers, and mouths, and food laugh all in sync.

I reckon when you digest
we shall scamper off to our twin bed.
Lalala I sing, and lalala you sing, raccoons are so
close above the wooden beams
that I know their supper is dandelion stalks.

Tucked in, this is what is christened a perfect fit
your foot the extent of my head
and kissing at my toes, their lady stubble.

(You, the skilled shoemaker
who will not tolerate me hiding in pelt moccasins)

If the moon arises, we do not see:
lalala, mockingbirds sing the garden to sleep
but the vegetation dances
like a dwarf’s beard, though blonde somehow
saturating ginger for a reading nightlight
bellies full of sweet cakes and dinner number four.

You kiss me our Eskimo way, then as halflings
I whisper about the ariel orchard today
(Rosemary, red-cheeks, lalala) afore first breakfast.
Lucy Tonic Nov 2011
When did the world drive you mad
You angel, caveman, protégé
Surrounded by cardboard and insensitivity
Who told you your worth was determined
By riding above your painted tires?
**** the mockingbirds
Stay in your beautiful garbage world
Surfs ablaze, ocean waves swallow the buildings
And Bennie brought the jets, gliding in armored cars
Did you open your tequila factory up there?
I'll make sure to ask the tour guide
Or get a road map, when I get there
(Your head met your hands in a way only you could understand)
Inspired by Basquiat
Andrew Switzer Apr 2014
Intermittent scribbles in a brand new leather journal.
Hoping even just one line becomes something eternal.
Searching for the perfect words, or poignant points to make,
I lay there, thinking, three a.m, and I'm still wide awake.
Pretty rhymes to pass the time, if no soul ever reads,
I write these words for mockingbirds and fun, no thoughts of greed.
The verdant, rolling plains of the space within my skull,
Spill forth in excess on the page when life is feeling dull.
Words give life to drying ink, a pause between each line,
To choose the words which through the years remind me what is mine.
Olivia Kent Jun 2014
She stood in the dock,
a ruddy gibbering wreck,
very flushed and very frightened,
The stern judge was a vulture,
dreams of chewing her flesh,
Counsel for the prosecution,
was a rather noisy crow,
In her defence,
an eagle stood,
Clutching close her feathered brood.
the courtroom clerk a budgerigar,
with yellow breast,
and mottled feathers,
chatting and typing litotes,
although not really listening.
The defendant for the trial today,
was a bright pink flamingo,
with googly legs and googly eyes,
that poured out such pink tears,
the way the case was going on,
she could be locked away for years,
the jury consisted of mockingbirds,
who laughed at everything they heard,
the evidence was null and void,
not really heard above the noise.

Having heard what he could of the evidence,
the vulture judge got rather cross,
he called upon a dove,
"members of the jury,
we have to acquit  this pretty flamingo,
because I believe that I'm in love".
If I had a mix tape
It would be thirty one hours long
Get the cassettes ready
Poetry was something I chose and we're going steady
Sometimes I draw details out tediously but sometimes I like to get with the program already
They say Rap is Poetry
But I didn't compare my work to the McDonalds bathroom floors
The disrespect towards women, money and drugs
It's a dog but it's not as cute as a Pug
Someone end this concert, pull the plug
We used to have a standard and kept it snug
But even the Snails are laughing
We're too slow to realize
That were accepting bile with our eyes
And we're encouraging it
I have a mixtape
But I'm no legend
But neither are they
I just hope my influence is here to stay
Because as the clock arm sways
I get older another day
And I want to be sincere in a way
That will dramatically improve your day
I hope you feel the warmth of my heart hotter than May
Because it burns for you
And we don't need to pull out the other thirty mixtapes because I only need one
Let the repugnant trends come undone
I'm a song that's been left unsung
But that's okay
Because I want you to sing it
It will be more resplendent than the harmony of the Mockingbirds
And it tunes out the geese
That make me act the opposite of PeeWee Reese
And pull out a shotgun
Ernset Hemingway was relatable in that way
SøułSurvivør Jun 2017


Mourning doves
        lament the dawn
The air is filled
           with clucking song
        sing sweet and high
Pigeons reach
                  to touch the sky
Gamble Quail
             swoop low to ground
Cactus wrens
         make chuckling sounds
Desert Thrashers
                go "tsk, tsk, TSK!"
Flickers pound
                  the satellite discs
Feathered finches
          search the stones
Light as clouds
                  with hollow bones
I wake up
           to symphonic calls

Desert birds...

                   I love them ALL!

(C) 6/11/2016
Sitting outside I love to watch
and listen to my neighborhood
buddies. They ROCK!

There's GOT to be a God to
               make such creatures!
Blind Aesthetic Feb 2015
what is beauty if not the setting sun?
Or the blooming of flowers in the spring?
What of waves dancing across the ocean?
Or of the songs that all mockingbirds sing?
Are people capable of acts divine?
Capable of beauty replication?
Or in the eyes of Gods are we but swine?
We were not destined for such creation
But, it's your hand that paints the setting sky
You're the warmth that lets plants flourish once more
Your heart is the beat that all things go by
The conductor of its musical score
You are life and all that there is to see
All that is known and lies in mystery
Hi Mrs Dowd it's Carlos from your creative writing class. Adding this here just in case you come across this in a google search.
Kagami Nov 2013
We are not pens, ourselves, red ink is not inside of us.
But we do have sensitive blood that is discolored, same as that utensil.
Difference is: it poisons us, gives us rashes and thoughts that we are not worthy to have. It wrecks our minds with ancient tools that were once unaccepted. Silly poppies can not
Ruin us like that. I know what can.
The things that worry us, teenagers and babies, parents and pedophiles;
Cease your worries. I pity you, teens.
"It is fun, it is fun." I know I know. But is it worth the risk?
Cease your worries parents. You don't need to stalk your own children.
They learn from their mistakes. They cry for a while and then get stronger.
Like I did, why I kept my mouth shut for so long,
I was better. Until you began to read. I couldn't go to you specifically for that reason,
Tightening your hold on me, mother. I am already a prisoner in my own mind.
I don't need another warden.
A century long breakthrough gave me something,an understanding that not all children accept
Their parents. I don't feel at home there.
It is not one. Just a house that I stay in, people I live with. They are family, by blood only.
****** ink: my savior. My hero, love, is you. You inspired me to digitalize, write with graphite.
But I am still contaminated, mind wandering,

History repeating, sounds piercing, a test is too much when I did not study.
Help me. The trials this has put me through are unfair. Give me my pen to sign a contract, but I
Poison myself instead. Only okay after after a needle enters my streams and takes it out.
A mechanical vampire, I prefer you to bit me instead of metal fangs.
And now I dream.

Or maybe I am not. We have lived as such long enough. But, still,
Write about it. Tell me how you feel. But be careful not to poison yourself.

I have experience with that. The pen has a hidden blade. It cuts you with every word you
Lay in front of you. May I be a word? Scratch my love into your skin?
I will not intoxicate you as it would. I will give you something else entirely.

But my dream ends. Reality steps on me and takes my breath from me, I am suffocating in this Hellhole. Give me a firehouse so I can put it out and drink away my parched lips.
They need to be soft so I can speak, but first... I need to
Sew my lips shut. If they are dry, they will rip and open. We don't want that.
Keep them shut, don't tear open and bleed; you would give ink poison to
Mockingbirds if you do. They mock me, copy me. They tell me they are jealous.

But why? They don't know they've been poisoned.
It is a cycle. Everyone will die of it in the end.
William A Poppen Feb 2015
no silence
by the water,
flies buzz, mockingbirds
try for a Grammy
airplanes roar
land, leave
touch tarmac like
sparrows gather
crumbs beneath
the feet of tourist
who dine on patios

no silence,
by the water
no holes in the water
only holes in the sky as
contrails churn up
nature's cycle
no silence
buzz, sing, roar
no end
Daniel Nikov Feb 2013
the day ends, dusk approaches
i sit across from a glaring monitor.
eyes glazed over, mind aflutter.
information streams into my brain in waves
(only some of it managing to stick).
i try my hardest to soak it up, and to let it wash over me,
wash my troubles away.
in a way, instead of bottling my trouble,
i wrap my shaking hands around it forcefully
plunging its head under the murky water
to muffle the yet inescapable drone that follows me
(but it won't give up the ghost
and my arms get tired sooner than stress will set me
alight from my cage).

see, i've had this
feeling lately.
between the hi's, hello's, and how do you do's
this sense of incredible, indelible
looms over me like a weight.
beneath the paper mache mask of humor,
avoidance of heavy topics,
and general gleam that is the man everyone knows of me,
there's a boy
and he's confused, having feelings he's never had before
wondering things and asking questions,
experiencing things that he never read of in health textbooks,
attachments, bias, beliefs, respect, and fear of failure,
learning things the hard way that he never would have expected
(having read only about mockingbirds and shakespeare).
he bottles these thoughts and doesn't know where to put them,
scrambling to pick up the pieces in a flush of embarrassment,
hoping no one will call him out as the
("what? no! i got 100% on this test because i bs'd it so hard. i'd never actually try.
what am i? a
he's alone and he's
stressing, calculating, hoping, dreaming, loving, hating, lusting, wailing, and
teetering on the edge of the precipice of the
abyss that
softly, soothing, sultry.

but the tricky part isn't the looming weight,
nor the calling and the teetering;
i could almost bear its press on my shoulders almost to the point of breaking
or the tremble accompanied by a height that i couldn't possibly comprehend.
but some nights
(and i mean this
twists above me and wraps around my neck.
and what scares me most of all is that sometimes it feels
like a breath of air escaping from the very furthest corner of my lungs.
or a promise,
a secret panic door
with the key to a lock that i know i'd never open.
it coils around me like a noose attached to nothingness.
12:30 am
Senor Negativo Aug 2012
One, where the dark sea assaulted the pale shore
With a single mighty wave,
Turn away from the city, as a tower is erected;
And rapidly run by the white path, to it
And see how the tower dominates your gaze;
And from nearby you feel vibrating prayer chimes
Calling you to worship.

Along the lighted path, she lazily walked with me,
Her eyes never leaving mine
And not a thought wasted, on the silent staring people.
With hush of condemnation, and numbered suits . . .
And it seems to her, gradually, she is being led
that he could rescue her, there in the howling evening air,
These deep and vocal things . . .
And she follows him away from the city, to leave here behind

Along the lighted path, beneath cherry trees
That released their scent, as we quietly lie.
Beside her, mockingbirds perch on the shore of the sea of cattails.
Beside her, a single lover smiles and sings.
And life is concealed beneath subtle sighs,
And death with laughter and pleasure
And the trees grow bright and the moonlight kisses our lips
And we pluck candies from the sky, and drown in each others eyes.
Looked me and started laughing
I said what happen?
Mockingbirds dances and flew
In the breezy clouds
Whispering to each other
Saying to sky wonderful weather
And he is inside the door
Drinking and lighting cigarette

come out dear!!!
Lethargically no gain
Chill out outside!!!

Run and jog
Thrive hard...
Enjoy beauty!!!

Look orchard and dews drop
And think is cigarette is better than nature's wine art? If yes
Get back to sleep
And wither and dry
In the dangerous polluted air..

Think just think!
Listen to your heart
Go for fresh start
And cheers the daisy smile...

Lotus and Lilly
After all
They also enjoy
If you enjoy them...
Unpluck them and stare the beauty
Beautifully with love looks...See the magic...
Slowly magnetically more attached emotions
Develop in nature's heart...
And natural disaster may vary significantly
cherished nearby nature
Protect them
Love them
Mockingbirds again came to me
Gazing lovingly
And smiled and smiled...
And again flew to vast sky...
With no boundaries.
Just love and contentment

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot

The still grass
Stands near alone
Before the final crew comes
With trucks and blueprints and concrete
To slap together rent fortune
For the white cadillac man.

Summer swinging madly
Over empty lot

The post oaks
Hesitate along lot edge,
Wait to see what happens
To the few brave mesquite:
Better to stand on edges
And wait
Than venture
To vulnerable heart
Of empty lot.

Summer winging madly
Over empty lot

The birds wing madly over
Rarely dropping
To the grass for seeds;
They sit upon the postoaks
At the edge
And keep a watchful eye
Upon the road.
All wing madly to the edge:
Grackles, swifts, and doves,
The mockingbirds, all
Save one persistent meadowlark
Without a mate
That sings each morning
From the wire,
One silly songster
That loneliness has blinded
And brought to chime
Its idyll
Summer song
Over empty lot.

Summer singing madly
Over empty lot.
Joseph S C Pope Jul 2013
In the morning, I awoke
                               to the smell of burning rubber--the bats in paradox
with their champagne necks broken,
                                                         ­            telling stories from atop
                                the blisters on the celestial skin.
A sublime masochism with irises that devour events, and ribs of sunshine,
and this was the gong of the eleventh hour somewhere after four a.m.
when the mockingbirds lie bodies in strange angles,
                                                         under tracks and atop cars.
Garage underdogs howl at the fog
after self-inflicted shotgun wounds lying in the corner
of the greats things lost and the worst things gained

                the bleach corrodes the bombarded sidewalk
that you almost hear smoldering, whimpering on the empathetic verge
                                                                ­                                   of the ocean
                  where mini-stars explode, civilization ribbons coat the throats
                                         of you pedestrians, humanitarians
        all dressed and gifted
                                         to the ****** of equivalence,'
            and I am tooth drunk
                         on the placebo slide, carnations washed beneath the broom
                                  clinging to morsels that ***** blue sky down on the trumpeters.
On the fall of the eleventh hour---Carpe Diem crushed by sweaty palms into ***** work
and screaming
dance parties.
How low?
He, they,
it, I, she
throw lives away like ships
slicing through the ocean, the same reckless, but disciplined authority.
Sarina Jul 2013
I will read Stag’s Leap again and again until
it stops making sense to my heart, is not my problem anymore.
My mother never told me the story of how she lost
her first husband, much less the second
but I have all these ideas in my head of how she could leave
dad from poetry books like yours,
Sharon Olds. It is what I picked up when my
sunrise split into two blades of grass the wind would carry across
the states, thinking a man I loved could disappear
any time – forget how I picked barbed wire from his chest and
not in the way an ocean forgets it has waves.
Not comfortably. I read your
poems when the world looked like it was made of granola,
eroding from the inside out, I read
Stag’s Leap again and again when he said, no, we do not talk
about her, but it was too quiet not to. I wanted to
talk about things that there are not terms for.
Only so many words one
can say of their memories and feelings because to no one else
are they real – he does not know that the last time I felt
okay with him it was when I fled
his boarding station, smoothing my skirt down
so the train’s breeze wouldn’t touch me. On that day, I wanted
nothing but him to touch me ever again
and there he went, south, leaving with mockingbirds. I
would have waved had I known we were on
a countdown, in the final silent moment of our relationship.
I always knew the hour we last had ***, since Stag’s Leap I now
ask why it is that way. No, we don’t talk about her
but I wonder if ******* a married person still counts as
premarital *** and if I can mourn a man even when he’s right here.
Haven't been writing much recently, but here is one directed towards my favorite poet - Sharon Olds, author of incredible collections such as Stag's Leap.
A Burnell Jun 2012

I have grown up too fast
Without you guiding my past
This prolonged façade has ran on its rampage too long
And will rest its weary legs when mockingbirds stop singing their songs.
Unless we do something to stop the shadowy overtaking,
The tricks of time will become heart breaking.
How could I grow up without you by my side?
From this issue, we cannot hide.
From here and now, to be forever more
You’ll realize what I have in store.
You, the one who taught me to be truthful and brave
Courageous and caring, with a skills of which to rave
Will reunite yourself with me.
Put yourself where you ought to be.

— The End —