"parakeets" poems
I find my refuge in poetry.
For in twisted stanzas,
that passionate-scribbling,
I can read of blue skies,
write amber waves,
dream rusty signs squeaking,
flapping in hot summer breezes,
oil rigs pumping & wavy-trees,
behind broken screened doors,
I hear phone’s ringing,
laughing children screaming.
I can eat biscuits & gravy,
savor catfish & string beans,
see the rolling plains,
feel the clapping thunder,
listen to yellow parakeets
as the morning sunlight
peeks through stained-glass,
the pitter patter of gentle rain.
Sitting on porch swings,
watching ripples on streams,
inhaling rivers of cigarette smoke,
I visualize hay rolls & barbed-wire fences
under flocked geese in flight.
Soothing wind chimes in c-minor,
jingling, meandering
through lace curtains,
I lay on lily white tiles
crying, clutching my tissue,
trying to make it through
another starless night.
Rocking with Eric’s slow hand,
wearing Tony Lama’s & driving Buicks,
this random selection of cells
I cannot keep inside me.
There are millions of things hidden
in my stronghold of words,
yet to be written.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.
(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.
He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.
Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.
But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.
He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.
3.1k
They have been uprooted from the only life they have ever known,
the poor things.
New so-called family, new barred cage, new fake toys.
Scared shitless. (Literally.)
They will try to tempt you.
"Pretty bird." "Pretty bird."
Don't you dare trust the humans.
Don't you dare let them clip your wings.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 10:55 PM UTC
There was a vicar from Crewe
Whose congregation were few
To make amends he brought in his hens
And they all lined up on a pew
Then he compiled an avian choir
(For the singing voice of the hens was dire
And the only song the cockerel knew
Was cock-a-doodle-do)
The church fell silent as we heard
The Lord is my Shepherd from the minor bird
The vicar invited us to pray
And we got the Lords Prayer from the African grey
There followed a rendition of psalm thirty four
Performed without fault from the tenor macaw
The parakeets squawked and scratched their fleas
As they jumped up and down on the ***** keys
The vicar was thrilled it was going so well
The geese gave a honk as they pulled on the bell
But then there appeared right at the back
An evil sparrowhawk poised to attack
Calamity reigned inside the church
The African grey fell off his perch
The first to escape was the tenor macaw
As fast as he could through the open door
The chickens shrieked and went home in a flap
The minor bird had a heart attack
The geese walked away back to their pen
And the church fell silent once again
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
Sara L Russell, 27th Oct 2015, 00:50am
I send you out into the world my dear ones.
Here is light and shade; and I see that it is good.
Here are the waters of life poured forth in shimmering splendour
all for your delight and to nurture your thirst;
behold, here is a paradise of sunlight scattering
diamonds of fire on the ocean,
sunlight filtering through the leaves of tall palms and little olive trees
in splinters of dappled emerald light and shade;
here are dazzling white sands and shady mangroves
it is all for you, for I love you, my children;
you belong to me
and to all of the earth.
I send you out, dear ones, amid the steamy jungles,
out to swim free in the dancing liquid light of rivers and streams,
I set you free in a garden of plenty.
Here are fountains and waterfalls overhung with intoxicating
swags of white jasmine and scarlet hibiscus
entwining with vines heavy with ripened grapes.
Flamingoes and bright parakeets fly out of the
greenery before you, in a flurry of rainbow fire.
Rejoice in this life I give you
and take care of this beautiful domain.
Keep it safe; make it last
and you in turn will last;
safe in an infinity of peace.
I send you out into the world my treasured ones,
free to walk naked, resplendent in the satin of your skin;
needing to conceal nothing from the sun's nurturing rays
or the eyes of beasts, or each other's loving gaze.
Behold, you are pure and untainted with shame;
you have the freedom of earth's bountiful beauty
and you are lovely as the flowers that carpet the forest floor.
Taste freely of the berries and the sweet delight of earth's nectar,
Let the pollen of the lotus bring you dreams of deep serenity.
Only touch not the fruit of the tree by the dark
fountain sealed. The Tree of Knowledge
is mine to know and yours only
to behold in silent wonder.
Mark this well, my children,
for it is my only rule.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
as the morning breeze wafts
over fragrant jasmine and bela
and the parakeets roost
in guava trees
and the slant of the mango tree
welcomes the sun on dewdrops
i hear the call to prayer and my heart supplicates
my body trembles and i kneel
my hands fold in prayer
my fingers run over the holy beads
and as my body surrenders
to words as old as time is told
i feel the rivulets of sweat down my back
my body continuing it’s dance of offering
and as i hear the raucous chatter of the birds
and the sounds of the house stirring
i give thanks for another morning
and give in to the pleasure of being
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 6:14 AM UTC
walking through the big flea market
off of highway 19 north of Tampa
looking for whatever and something
curious and kitsch or campy
merchants selling in the parking lot
used blenders and old cameras
burnt out or faulty devices
DVD cases and game cartridges
old rednecks shout out opinions
in a cacophony of drawled signifiers
representing visions of despotic rulers
reigning a tyranny of taxes and decline
old glass containers and windshields shine
scattering high afternoon sunlight in the Sunday sky
sitting and resting used and content waiting
waiting for the wear and reduction of time
the market continues into indoor aisles
criss-crossing within a ramshackle structure
plywood walls supporting sheet metal roofing
an aroma of every greasy food wafting into one
people wrapped in worn fashions
whites in Ts and denim
muslim women in headscarves
a black deputy strapped down in uniform
the deputy enforces commerce laws
around the alternative marketplace
a variety of commodities are still available
bongs and e-cigs and incense and **** ****
parakeets cry out down one aisle
a stack of blue aquariums drone a bubbling hum
the stench of cedar and rat **** and hamsters
reptiles basking in the arid glow of heat lamps
all is right in America’s America
the flea market is the floorboard of that promise
an opportunity for anyone to begin
or start again and over and over
a liberal conservatism can be guarded well
with rifles or tazers at bargain rates
a conservative liberalism is applied openly
in the atmosphere of everyone for anything and everything
the dream of the flea market
a black market and a carnival
all of America’s cheap art on display
its people swirled into one
equal in their struggles and desires
reaching for resources and derivatives
buying low and selling higher
stealing and selling short
walking through the big flea market
on a hot and cloudless Sunday afternoon
looking for whatever or something
it’s a fun thing to do
originally posted to my blog https://sublimeobscenities.wordpress.com on 4/27/2014
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 1:17 AM UTC
Indiscreet Parakeets
*Lovesick parakeets,
Eager wicked fornicators,
climaxed with a shriek.*
Bat Trick
*This bat, wants to act,
Only in a position
Other species find
Hard to imitate.*
The Serpent's Last Chance
*Hissed aloud, in vein, none seemed impressed.
Swished around, **** it's polished marble floor.
Only makes miserable after all the false moves.
No escape route found after so much struggle.
Serpentine arrogance desperately seek a burrow,
Finding the lethal poison of King cobra useless.
In a situation too slippery to bite or frighten
He could only coil in dejection, pretending dead.*
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:01 AM UTC
In deep layers of silence
I used to hear music,
without words or instruments
it did flow,
the birds used tell me-
secrets of listening to nature.
Parakeets spoke in resonances of green
crows and egrets
complemented again and again,
the music, I thought, was a divine hallucination,
but now
it all turns upside down,
You, complain
you keep on hearing someone crying,
from within.
I see eyes welling up,
which are those memories
that blow up, surge out?
Shh..keep quiet for a moment,
a commotion is getting nearer and nearer,
the ice caps are melting,
but who cares,
the crowd has no mind,
they are braying for blood,
Whose blood?
their own, but can the blind distinguish?
*"come, this is my blood, drink it,
cut this bread in to pieces,
eat it, be satisfied.."*
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:24 AM UTC
We live in a house, simple and nice
With a garden lined with crotons in rows
Not so neatly trimmed or pruned as before
And a lawn not always well manicured
But abounding in plants with blooms of varied hue
From shady corners, orchids peep
They bring forth flowers in bunches and mass
Only on certain seasons, not the year round.
Then a visual treat to the eyes, indeed!
Trees big and small border our land
Mango trees and jack fruit trees
Coconut palms and guava trees
Twining creepers with globular passion fruits
Bushy plants of sweet and sour berries
Rose apples, papayas and Chinese limes
An epitome of country abundance!
In front of the house was once a stretch of fields
Lush and fresh with paddy plants in June
And in autumn, bent with arching sheaves of corn
Green parakeets used to come from far
To eat the grains ready to be reaped
Having their fill they would fly westward in flocks
Such scenes were a source of instant delight
But sad enough, those fields were gradually filled
In place of paddy and other seasonal crops
Industrial units, big and small have emerged
By degrees, the quiet and coolness of the place
That once soothed our frayed nerves are gone
Now an exodus of men have landed here
Laborers who have come from Northern states
To eke out a living in a better clime
Speaking languages, Bengali, Hindi and Tamil
Leaving the area noisy with incessant chatter
Along the road that runs parallel to our house
Now speeds past, motors in unbroken row
Honking horns and raising a screen of smoky dust
Spoiling the ambiance of our verdant setting
And badly impairing the neat surroundings
But with every change of scene and setting
We, like nomads cannot change our stay or dwelling
Well acclimatized to all noise and commotion
We now stick to our home, our humble haven
And strive to create within an inner landscape
Not polluted by the ravages of time or clime
Home is the sanctuary where we roost and rest
A sweet dwelling, more than all mansions blest
And it should be an abode of love where hearts embrace
Every turn of life, grim or merry with no fuss but with grace
How sweet it is to dwell beneath this roof
Our wedded life’s enduring love’s living proof!
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:35 AM UTC
I’ve strode this road of war and love
And born it’s bile and spleen,
I’ve wept at death and laughed at birth
But nowhere have I seen,
A sweeter place to live and die,
To quest for things supreme,
Than to forge these days of hard forays
In the Land of In Between.
Candied apples hang from boughs
Like jewels bequeathed by Queen
And silver sounds of bubbling brook
Cascade to tumbling stream,
Parakeets in vivid hue
Fly by with shreeking scream
In forest’s green majestic light
In the Land of In Between.
Paint no man black or vivid white
Whilst points of view be gleaned
With race and politics ignored
Then manifest, obscene.
Where labour be a man’s reward
And filthy lucre screened
As noxious be a spider bite
In this Land of In Between.
Where hate be strangled to the end
Then with a keen blade ,sheened,
Be put to death with avarice
No guilt or guile redeemed.
Leaving in the pristine wake
A countryside so clean
That God be queuing up to live
In this Land of In Between.
All ****** love be sacrosanct
And soft endearments seemed
As normal as the light of night
When by the moon dust preened.
And that laughter be our currency
Affection always seen
As bonding in fraternity
At the Land of In Between.
M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ.
30 January 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
i have a feast full of love for you, darling
that is waiting for you on the table of my heart.
every time i see you,
you say that you are starving. you sit there
with wide eyes and shaky hands, devouring
nothing.
i have a feast full of love for you, darling
that is waiting for you on the table of my heart
but I am afraid it is slowly turning
into poison for the parakeets.
because that’s what happens when you love someone you
can’t have, you want to give them everything
but since you cannot, it just sits there,
slowly rotting, gently decomposing with heartbreak
covered in flies. this hurts
more than i was expecting, i was not planning for this
to happen again.
i am beyond furious at myself for cultivating a love
that is going everywhere but inside of you,
down the drain
in the trash, in the bellies of a flock of geese flying in
the opposite direction of where they belong.
even though you said you will,
deep down i know that you might never make up your mind.
which means i have to make up mine regardless of
if or when you actually decide to.
there is a fine line between hope and heartbreak
there is a fine line between love and longing.
this is the part where i choose not to be stuck.
this is the part where i clean up the table, do the dishes
open up the cage of parakeets singing love songs inside
the gazebo of my heart,
and set them free.
whenever you think of loss,
i hope you always think of me.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 5:39 PM UTC
A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!
The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.
They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:46 PM UTC
String vests with spittle trailing
Budvar to invariably show independence,
they snare the spectacles of the respectable evenings sheen,
later calling the night ***** and kicking hoardings
as if they had wanted to disinter the dammed.
The former love of parakeets,
by once fine people,
also released Yellow to this New World
matching the jaundiced jab
of a hooligan denying his head
Nov 27, 2012
Nov 27, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
Driving through the old town
where my father was born,
I'm stunned to silence while
he tells me the stories of houses.
This man I've always feared
who acts like he can't remember
mistakes or childhood,
legends and accidents,
who I'd swear was never born,
just always existed, strong,
who my mother claims
is incapable of memory and
sentiment, tells me, quietly and
unannounced, about an old woman.
Sat on her porch, Sharon,
at that house there on the corner.
He tottered over and talked to her
at four years old.
She had blue and green parakeets.
Took a drag of her cigarette
watching the world pass her by
wearing memories only she
knew the pain of bearing alone.
Nov 3, 2011
Nov 3, 2011 at 10:08 AM UTC
A flock of mandarin parakeets found themselves a perch amidst the strategy play in green palace trees, for which they are responsible, having laid not one single claim upon future tyrannies. However, the forests in their emerald, sensing disarray, took on a maternal stare while attaching silencers to those beaks in nests where, cries of newborn chickadees may attract the murderous affairs of flight invasion. The young baby birds now protected inside carefully wrapped tiny leaf cones. How unfortunate for them, with their cruel linear perspective of this cylindrical summer!
The army of parakeets pitch up their parachutes in invisible tents. They do in fact plan to stay for awhile. As they keep close watch over the tree terrestrial, their heads spin 360 degree tropical smiles.
They have come to avenge the ****** of color orange.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:05 PM UTC
Parakeets arrive,
munch starfruits delightfully,
bid a loud goodbye.
Sep 26, 2025
Sep 26, 2025 at 11:47 AM UTC
Go where the sunsets spill from sapphire skies,
Where mothers are rewarded for how hard they try.
Where parakeets dance and sway as they fly,
And where men are punished for the lies they supply.
Please take me to the place where we play in the rye.
I want to go where crows no longer cry.
Sep 22, 2025
Sep 22, 2025 at 5:55 PM UTC
~
Staring,
as I often do
This distant place of wondering
Afforded of a mystic view
Raising flags,
woven free upon the wind
Across the sea
In your pocket
to remain
A piece of me in charms upon
a silver coated chain
Floating of its own ebb and soul
Waving as forever comes
Sent of lost and feathered shore
Grinning ear to ear
Taken from a prison camp
Framed in ocean’s mist
Found and lost and found again
Something I can not resist
Each day I reach,
in lengthened gathered steam
Drinking of a lemon scent
and foaming parakeets
Dancing on the beach of wings
Searing on the feet
Floundering, dreaming, asking…
When will you come to me
Fingers shade the sun
Bleaching on its way
Bountiful of endless love
So, so far away
This distant place of wondering
As I often do,
staring
Hoping to find you
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 7:11 AM UTC
~
Staring,
as I often do
This distant place of wondering
Afforded of a mystic view
Raising flags,
woven free upon the wind
Across the sea
In your pocket
to remain
A piece of me in charms upon
a silver coated chain
Floating of its own ebb and soul
Waving as forever comes
Sent of lost and feathered shore
Grinning ear to ear
Taken from a prison camp
Framed in ocean’s mist
Found and lost and found again
Something I can not resist
Each day I reach,
in lengthened gathered steam
Drinking of a lemon scent
and foaming parakeets
Dancing on the beach of wings
Searing on the feet
Floundering, dreaming, asking…
When will you come to me
Fingers shade the sun
Bleaching on its way
Bountiful of endless love
So, so far away
This distant place of wondering
As I often do,
staring
Hoping to find you
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:54 PM UTC
.
Pressing patterns patiently protecting priceless pillowed pleats
Proudly pasting photographs of proper preening parakeets
Pushing plastic pinwheels past the park where purple peacocks played
Panoramic pixies practice prancing down the promenade
Paying people for providing pizzas to pentathelets
Picking peppers privately, politely pleasing prom petites
Painting pulpits perfectly in places preaching pastors prayed
Posting pretty poetry on paper pages on parade
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 2:21 PM UTC
Over the hills
where the daffodils grow
cross the pond
where the honey flows
If there is one
place I would
rather see
oh it would
be grandma's
place for me
birds in the cages
birds perched in the trees
hawks owls finches
and showy parakeets
muffins for dinner
**** roast in the morn
oranges and porridges
served at noon
better get it before
a skunks licks it
clean off the spoon!
no rooms are without
a heart or a soul
grandma is quite eclectic
if not the least eccentric
If there is one
place I would
rather see
oh it would
be grandma's
place for me
monkeys snoozing in the closet
pidgeons roosting on the stools
rats in the cellar
and koi fish in the pool
many games as animal's names
polo with the zebras
boxing against the roos
wrestling with the bear
though I'd sure lose
If there is one
place I would
rather see
oh it would
be grandma's
place for me
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC
It's been a long day. You
died so soon ago and we notice
your noise is gone, the parakeets and me.
You should comment somehow on
the oddness of things
since your disease.
The paranoia and lies the dementia
played made your dreams seem like
waking and your sleep tore into
you with fantasies and confusion.
You shouldered the nurses by
telling them you felt fine. That
lie pushed you to more agitaton.
I never knew you would get well.
I was cursed with a colder reality.
As I drove to see you in the cocoon
of the nursing home I wondered
would you be crying or well.
It was the crying I never unfolded.
in your room where we so carefully
braided the colors to your whims.
The colors are the same today.
Now wilted, the bright sun's rays
like the daylight dim but your harsh
yellow teeth spread around my
name and you saw me beaten
and unforgiven
You took me with you to the
Hell of brass urns. I thought
to ask you why but the look
on your framed face said you
were waiting and your yellow
grin dared me to be quiet.
I saw the years in stark
isolation.
You in a painted slicker,
I knew you
loved me once and
briefly. Your journey
was a long one. Mine is
to shower daily your burnt
name across the
yellow ******* of
chared Sorrow
off.
Caroline Shank
May 15, 2022
.
May 15, 2022
May 15, 2022 at 7:51 PM UTC
In a dream,
I see the raven
fly into the night;
his dark song beckoning
from his beak.
Shiny black wings promise
flight,
but to where?
I watch as the
pair of doves bellow
their songs of love
and with a rush of
angels wings
fly heavenward.
I hear the
bluebirds and
sparrows little hum of
hope fade softly into
the afternoon sun,
and I wonder,
what does it all mean?
Then I see them, and
many other kinds of
birds, with beautiful bright
colors,
Parakeets and parrots,
eagles and herons...even
a dodo and they are
all rotting in cages.
Some of the cages are
open,
others are closed,
but all the birds are
lying on their sides,
sad dead eyes,
staring blankly,
finished and flightless.
and I get it.
May 5, 2020
May 5, 2020 at 11:22 PM UTC
wash my sins and tumble dry,
a coin is on what most rely,
give two sniffs and call it clean,
have no cares long as it gleams,
pay no attention underneath
stitches come apart at seams,
wicked seamstress knows my secrets,
fixing pieces now she keeps it,
***** hamper tucked away,
filled with words too scared to say,
save them for a rainy day,
burn them all to keep it safe,
unload bags like charity,
smother squeels like parakeets,
flapping, flailing, i repeat,
same mistakes most every week,
wander back to laundry mat,
separate my whites from black,
poison bleach is my combat,
social accepted attack,
convinced its clean but its a lie,
wash my sins then tumble dry.
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 7:50 PM UTC