"partridge" poems
There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet,
Because I think that is sort of sweet;
No, I object to one kind of apology alone,
Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal,
And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal;
They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests,
And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests;
If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott,
And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot;
They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can,
But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them,
I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them,
Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious,
And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious,
And what particularly bores me with them,
Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them,
So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf,
Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
23.7k
Give me a doctor partridge-plump,
Short in the leg and broad in the ****
An endomorph with gentle hands
Who'll never make absurd demands
That I abandon all my vices
Nor pull a long face in a crisis,
But with a twinkle in his eye
Will tell me that I have to die.
5.6k
America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain
a green lance rose,
was covered with gold,
to grace the heights
of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard
fluttered in the field
above the tender teeth
of the young ear.
Then the husks parted
and fruitfulness burst its veils
of pale papyrus
that grains of laughter
might fall upon the earth.
To the stone,
in your journey,
you returned.
Not to the terrible stone,
the ******
triangle of Mexican death,
but to the grinding stone,
sacred
stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter,
strength-giving, nutritious
cornmeal pulp,
you were worked and patted
by the wondrous hands
of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize,
whether into the
splendid *** of partridge, or among
country beans, you light up
the meal and lend it
your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into
the steaming ear beside the sea
of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you
as your aroma
spreads through
blue sierras.
But is there
no end
to your treasure?
In chalky, barren lands
bordered
by the sea, along
the rocky Chilean coast,
at times
only your radiance
reaches the empty
table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope
pervades America's solitudes,
and to hunger
your lances
are enemy legions.
Within your husks,
like gentle kernels,
our sober provincial
children's hearts were nurtured,
until life began
to shuck us from the ear.
5.1k
I introduced the birds to the flock
the dove was awkward, the sparrow, excited
but the falcon towered
and the partridge left
and the starling was left to cry
with the eagle just standing by
and who, you ask, who, who am I?
I am the flamingo.
Do I belong?
Not I.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:17 AM UTC
He's that to me,
What sun is to a sunflower.
What rain is to the peacocks.
What moon is to a partridge.
What dream is to a person.
And what words are to a writer.
He's my muse.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:59 AM UTC
When spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,
The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.
The fragrant birch, above him, hung
Her tassels in the sky;
And many a vernal blossom sprung,
And nodded careless by.
The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.
But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes, for him,
With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.
They little knew, who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset;--
Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild-cat stole
To banquet on the dead;--
Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,
And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.
But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;
And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.
Long, long they looked--but never spied
His welcome step again,
Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.
3.4k
In the sordid caste
of flowers, the wild
rise on their stems
for a name,
and rupture into light
through the copse of partridge berry
distances tumble over the wet colours,
like mauve tongues
along the thighs of an eventual sunrise,
that comes moaning free
of the unforgiving dark,
in the wet jazz soliloquies of light
and suddenly, through the lips
of Septembers lovely grind,
to bind the Summers cunning wounds,
your hands reach far into the blue hordes
of wildflower,
and redolent fevers, kindled
by some hummingbirds blurred
and exquisite agitation, you
are the body of my confession
and South
marks the same
unfathomable distance home,
over the prairie
that tonight grants calm,
in the balm of C minor,
a mute, sibilant liquid dream of rain
soothes, my voice grows hoarse
and stills, though from the hush of willows,
rasps the vast reservoir of wind,
as the jay, a blue throb in the holly, casts
my hue in lush cascades of desperate, abandoned braids
lift the fevers muslin depths
and these unaccompanied words, sing
a sonata
proverbs in petty sounds
spill from a cracked jaw
and a parched throat,
in the Sabbath of the heart
heaven never thought to map
this distance and its jubilee
over wildflowers, I bear
your name to stay the mauve hour
of devout crickets,
crouched in the rain,
dying in the thick falsetto of mist
and the sordid hum of birds, dim
in their hollow cote,
and sudden blue, sudden blue,
how I adore you....
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 1:03 PM UTC
Backwaters.
Violins and pipes
played together
abreast
of different rippling
waters;
Uileann throttling
forward
over hills and downs -
the hunt, chase, ****
or loss;
thrill of being,
spontaneous
in hilly jump,
stream, rock,
hedge, mountain,
mud and pebbled with soup,
partridge, pheasant,
trout and salmon
horizon.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 10:41 PM UTC
Love is a real gamble with no loss and no gain
So a lover should be ever ready to be just a loser
Love is not as simple as it seems to be just plain
Beloved is a winner but a lover can not be chooser
Let my love play this gamble whether lose or win
Real love is sheer worship in front of whom to bow
It is a supreme emotion it is just not a blind sin
So Let us promote our love with out being in row
My sweetheart for your sake I can go to any limit
Let me love you like a real partridge loves the moon
Let me quench my love thirst with beauty bit by bit
Let us be totally wet in drizzling rain of monsoon
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 2:59 AM UTC
Though frost and snow lock’d from mine eyes
That beauty which without door lies,
Thy gardens, orchards, walks, that so
I might not all thy pleasures know,
Yet, thou within thy gate
Art of thyself so delicate,
So full of native sweets, that bless
Thy roof with inward happiness,
As neither from nor to thy store
Winter takes aught, or spring adds more.
The cold and frozen air had starv’d
Much poor, if not by thee preserv’d,
Whose prayers have made thy table blest
With plenty, far above the rest.
The season hardly did afford
Coarse cates unto thy neighbors’ board,
Yet thou hadst dainties, as the sky
Had only been thy volary;
Or else the birds, fearing the snow
Might to another Deluge grow,
The pheasant, partridge, and the lark
Flew to thy house, as to the Ark.
The willing ox of himself came
Home to the slaughter, with the lamb,
And every beast did thither bring
Himself, to be an offering.
The scaly herd more pleasure took,
Bath’d in thy dish, than in the brook;
Water, earth, air, did all conspire
To pay their tributes to thy fire,
Whose cherishing flames themselves divide
Through every room, where they deride
The night, and cold aboard; whilst they,
Like suns within, keep endless day.
Those cheerful beams send forth their light
To all that wander in the night,
And seem to beckon from aloof
The weary pilgrim to thy roof,
Where if, refresh’d, he will away,
He’s faily welcome; or if stay,
Far more; which he shall hearty find
Both from the master and the hind.
The stranger’s welcome each man there
Stamp’d on his cheerful brow doth wear,
Nor doth this welcome or his cheer
Grow less ‘cause he stays longer here;
There’s none observes, much less repines,
How often this man sups or dines.
Thou hast no porter at the door
T’examine or keep back the poor;
Nor locks nor bolts: thy gates have been
Made only to let strangers in;
Untaught to shut, they do not fear
To stand wide open all the year,
Careless who enters, for they know
Thou never didst deserve a foe;
And as for thieves, thy bounty’s such,
They cannot steal, thou giv’st so much.
2.4k
her heart soars straight over cloud nine
when she holds the number seven to her chest.
her fingers are adorned by five golden rings
and she trusts in the holy trinity.
she follows the partridge to the pear tree,
and her eyes bore into mine,
expecting me to follow her every step,
but I can only stand and watch.
Apr 11, 2022
Apr 11, 2022 at 9:27 PM UTC
In God We Trust, For He Invented Reasonable Doubt
In Courtroom of the State of New York, Part 62,
where the only decoration extant,
in gold leaf letters,
a magnificent joke,
In God We Trust.
Words so incongruous
to the real time drama,
a poorly acted Law and Order episode
of which I partake,
(as Juror No. 1,
ergo you may address me as
Mr. Jury Foreman),
they stun me into stupefaction
every time we enter and the
Bailiff pronounces with much gravitas,
"Jury Entering"
A potpourri of a dozen Manhattanites,
with wisdom acquired
by the singular virtue of
having attained the robust age of 18,
noteworthy for being free of
criminal record,
having been nominated
to sit upon the jury that will decide
the fate of one Eric B.,
for what he may have done upon West 11th Street
one Summer night in
June Two Thousand and Eleven,
If adjudged guilty,
New York State can take,
incarcerate him for up to
15 years of his life
Predicate felon by the age of twenty seven,
Eric's resume consists of
four felonies,
two misdemeanors
a wife and two little children,
and a partridge in a pear tree.
Facts turgid and muddy,
Eric tells a story
one juror calls a confection of lies,
no one murmurs
much disagreement in the
tiny, overheated room
we have been sequestered to
replay
the 2012 version of
Twelve Angry Men.
But I am not his peer,
nor am I a seer,
common sense says
if appearances are what they seem to be,
he aided and abetted
in the forcible taking of
a nice Connecticut lady's cell phone
with his brother who just happened to be
released from prison earlier that day
A convoluted tale
ripe with inanities is told,
upshot is our defendant's tale,
his robust defense,
portrays him as the unluckiest man
in the whole world,
a good Samaritan,
*{chasing after the thief,
** ** his bro}*
against whom events have conspired
In Manhattan can be a harsh place,
where the natives
a tough lot,
tougher than the Indians from whom
they stole it all.
Our bridges we sell to out-of-towers,
all it takes is one to say,
what the heck,
reasonable doubt is
a ***** to overcome
so let him go
Jan, 2012
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
#
Along the priarielands--
rolling hills previously
roamed
by wild buffalo.
Grouse
sage hens
prairie chickens
pheasant
hungarian partridge
and now you--
You, in that pretty, flowing
summer dress- walking that
line.. between planted field
and wild prairiegrass
and not a blade is broken.
Wind-- moving the grass and
nearly-ripened crops like
slow rolling waves
out on the sea.
Me.. watching you
move.. just watching you-- move..
along that line between
beautifully-planted
and natural..
and moving with understanding;
flowing--
ever-growing
knowing.. sweetly knowing
that there's a glowing
from what you are showing-- me;
Not a blade of grass or crop is
ever harmed by your movements
instead.. like me, they thrive--
leaning into you
whenever you are near.
. . .
I am the grass
the blade
the crop-- ready for harvest
the bison
and the upland bird
the forever wave hello
of the tall grass of the prairie.
And you are as much a
part of it all
as you are of me.
Like the native grass
and the native Lakota
that have both
always known its ways..
you were always meant to be here.
#
Sep 11, 2022
Sep 11, 2022 at 2:11 PM UTC
TikTok comps
Russian bots
Makeup tutorials
"I'm not like other girls"
Trolls and incels
BuzzFeed articles
Gay fan fiction
Many a pun
Demonetization
Censorship
People hiring hitmen
Buy some hair clips
Twitter ramblings
Anti-vaxxers
Flat earthers
And a partridge in a pear tree
Aug 2, 2020
Aug 2, 2020 at 8:52 PM UTC
There's carollers outside my door
With the dreaded Christmas curse
They sing and sing and sing and sing
But, they only sing ONE verse
They ring the bell beforehand
All stand back and start to sing
I'm gonna do some rewire work
So my doorbell does not ring
They're from the church
They're from the school
They can not sing in tune
I can not wait for Boxing Day
I hope it gets here soon
They sing for cans of goodies
They open up their souls
I just wish they'd learn the whole **** song
Or they'd just all shut their holes
They come out every evening
They come out every day
I bet they've never heard a jingle bell
Or even ridden in a sleigh
Now, I like Christmas Choirs
It's not that I'm a Grinch
But, learn the words before you sing
It really is a cinch
It's a partridge in a pear tree
Not a bird stuck in a bush
These two cent hacks are able
To turn the nicest songs to moosh
Just knock and stand back silent
For three minutes, silent stay
Then I'll give you all ten dollars
So you will all just go away
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
A
partridge
in a pear tree
a partridge in
a pear tree a par
tridge in a pear
tree a partridge
in a pear tree a
partridge in a p
ear tree a partr
idg e in a pear tr
ee a partridge i
n a pear tree a
partridge in a p
ear tree a partr
idge in a pear tr
ee a partridge in
a pear tree a par
tridge in a pear
tree a partridge i
n a pear tree a partridge in
a pear tree a par tridge in a pear tr
ee a partridge in a pear tree
a partridge in a pear tree
Nov 25, 2014
Nov 25, 2014 at 6:32 AM UTC
I’m sick of the lies
I’m sick of the guise
Be an ******* to my face you piece of ****
Cut me out like a man
Don’t ****** walk away like I did you wrong
I’ve given you nothing but love from the beginning
and you snap it back in my face
***** I can your disgrace
and this race of ungrateful haste should rethink their approach in the presence of a kind heart and unwavering loyalty
boy,
you pushed me to the edge
and so I pledge
to never trust a soul
cuz this tossing and turning in yearning cuts deep
and I don’t get enough sleep
so count your sheep and be gone without a peep you ******* creep
I’m too real to pretend
In a world of fake embellishments to conceal god’s embroidery
I really thought you’d mean more to me
but you blend n bend just like the rest and to me
you’re just a guest so save me
the best
As I attest to never rest my pen for a pimpled partridge laced to dance to the tune we all know is rehearsed
I’m different
I see your past
I see your essence
I know your actions before you make them and lemme tell you
I could sell you here and now but you wouldn’t be worth it.
Don’t name me n game me like your dame to-be cuz I hear your hesitation and bruises
look like ******* on wanna be bad boys
**** all that noise
I’ve done that ****
I’ve lived that life
And I can play ***** less flirty and more wordy than a whole gurney of gays with no praise for your plug’s percocet purse you’re tryna nurse cuz no curse will salvage a sick man’s mind
Next time, don’t even bother
hittin me up for a quick ****
cuz you blew that chance a long time ago and I’d have to be on twice the amount of **** I was on then to **** you now
Ha! Like you’d even know how!
I’ve seen your hickeys of conquests Do you think I’m blind?
And that shows you’ve still gotta brag
boy, I’ve ****** your whole family with out a scratch so catch a disease cuz you’ll never please between my knees
You were beneath me from the beginning
But I gave you the doubt
And still
you’d rather smash for the clout cuz your way out of this drought are delusions of grandeur
not credible candor
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 2:09 AM UTC
554
The Black Berry—wears a Thorn in his side—
But no Man heard Him cry—
He offers His Berry, just the same
To Partridge—and to Boy—
He sometimes holds upon the Fence—
Or struggles to a Tree—
Or clasps a Rock, with both His Hands—
But not for Sympathy—
We—tell a Hurt—to cool it—
This Mourner—to the Sky
A little further reaches—instead—
Brave Black Berry—
1.6k
Screaming through out the room
Everyone stands
Punches land with a boom
****** noses and hands
No one moves to help
They film the carnage
blood flows from one girls scalp
Screaming like a dying baby partridge
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 10:50 AM UTC
Man nestles further in his falsehoods and fabrications
The subdued hues alluding to something...Lesser
Rough yet rigid, in pillars frigid and
Stone.
Barely fitting, barely standing
Hardly loving, hardly meaning to go
Choked like an asthmatic child in the smog
We are the snow in a blizzard after the world prayed for sun
The wolf at the door with teeth gone dull
Don't worry of the time
You've plenty to mull
It over.
In the face of the storm we comprise
The sun to bright in our losing eyes
We must go.
Lest the scars of our past strangle us like a partridge for dinner
With loss there's no winner at all.
Meet my eyes even if you don't love me with your heart
Don't be
Harsh.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
A fine feathered partridge she is,
he listened to her moving tale.
A game bird, pathetic, but
her story has holes, he easily detects,
yet he sat through, willing to believe.
In the middle of contradictory attitudes
now he wonders, how strange is this
willing suspension of disbelief!
This is how tragedy creeps in,
right in front of one's opened eyes,
yet he is with her, ready to buy trouble.
A fine feathered partridge she is.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
In the old pub
That a change in style had not replaced
Sat a couple
In drinking pints no shame
Dressed up to the nines like somewhere to go
This their local,This their show
Old music played some song from then
A smile cracked ,his toes began
She looked at him with fonded eyes
Proud to be sat on his side
His flattened cap began to quiver
as broken hands came out a shiver
Many times had come and gone
Yet here they were and this their song
His rise of proud'ness won her heart
In a flutter time to start
Dancing shoes all for the ready
Whisked away a shimmer Freddie
Year's no age this time was their's
Dancing laughing life's weekend beer
Many more for them to come
Down the Old dog and Partridge... done !!!
Nov 6, 2012
Nov 6, 2012 at 2:21 PM UTC
I feel the strings attached to my limbs;
Begging, pleading for me to give in.
“You’ll feel better if you give in”
They whisper in my ears, much to my chagrin.
But maybe when their judgment comes
At the hand of the one above;
I will be freed.
But there is no one above
No pretty partridge;
No savior dove
To be free would be to die
So for now I guess I’ll just sit and
Cry.
When they tug my strings
I move to their dance.
And if they force me down
I’ll kick I’ll struggle
Like a fly in their web,
And just like the spider
They’ll eat me alive
Because
With no one above,
In the gleaming temple
Lies a cold dead dove
Killed by the hands
That puppeteer my strings.
But to be free would be to die,
So again I sit here and cry.
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 10:14 AM UTC
Our souvenirs.
In a little box I've stowed—
a secluded veneer.
A lot of times you bestowed
The prettiest things.
A deck of just kings,
Lilac seeds.
An anklet
not a ring
with rolled paper
as beads.
A painted sycamore tree
and a carved partridge.
A butterfly, unfree
and a rusty London bridge.
Many more, I have burnt
A simple jewelry box,
a medical syringe.
A vintage, whimsical clock,
ripped pages, a stockage.
But this last one, I gave away
It wasn't mine for a keepsake.
The most special,
an epilogue; crucial—
the last smiling
photograph of us.
the last reeling
scene of us.
It was candid
it was real.
But look at what you've done.
Look at how all these objects—
merely flashes and ashes—
are perpetually gone.
Look at how you never
talked about leaving
but did anyway.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
"partridge foot," she'd say, hiding her smile with a book.
"partridge foot," i'd say back, bringing a coffee cup to my grin.
Sep 9, 2019
Sep 9, 2019 at 3:47 PM UTC