"pecking" poems
looking at
sedona red
rock layered majesties
against bright, cerulean sky
and marshmallow clouds
droplets dripping, pecking our cheeks
sitting on
the balcony of a casita
holding hands with my peace
surrounded by forest green
and buzzing honey bees
they mingle with the flowers
and i mingle with my peace
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
Depression...
angry vultures pecking at my mind
Depression...
crying glass out of my eyes
Depression...
a pretty portrait with only black lines
Depression...
defeating the purpose to fall in love
Depression...
street roses red of mistrust
Depression...
scars hidden under an innocent cut
Depression...
suicidal thoughts as an only option
Depression...
OCD with a lot of precautions
Depression...
misbehaving to fill a little noticed
Depression...
irritating as a bleeding nose
Depression...
an excuse non excused of sickness
Depression...
told to get over yourself and weakness
Depression...
coping with life by stress eating
Depression...
looking for another high in an addiction
Depression...
sounds so wrong when you're Christian
Depression, depression, depression, **** this depression
Nov 18, 2022
Nov 18, 2022 at 3:39 PM UTC
Suicidal serial killer bashes the bones hoping to feel nothing
because that would be something
A Swelling self-image pops in the distance
is chewed,
then inflated over and over
this routine never fails to cycle, disappoint, and please
Ethanol injections cuz oral doesn't do ****
give it to me ********
***** I'll munch your muffin just fo nuthin like I'm ****** with y'all
Cuz I surf to fall and smoke to die
In the high where life is inconsequential
to question and I feel less than short
Of supernatural
Who are these new kids?
They dress in tights and pick fights
I can't see your face but I trust the feeling
Damsel's are rescued
blood is spewed
Yet insanity is gushing
The drugs are running out
We might just be super
We might just be heroes
Entropy enters me ripping the glamour and with a stammer I know
This isn't a comic book
Marvel
In awe at these elaborately induced fabrications
and schemes to change the pecking order or chisel
the universe to perfection
The line of schizophrenic and degenerate flees
for the hills
that now have eyes
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 5:44 AM UTC
I've never gone anywhere
without seeing crows.
In fields and malls,
classrooms and bathrooms,
they're never missing.
Sometimes they'll come right up
and those moments are petrifying
because there aren't any breadcrumbs
but the bits of fears on shoulders.
When they land before you,
you can feel a massive pressure
on your chest, trapping you
and catching your breath.
I know other people see them too.
I've seen people cursed
with crows always hovering,
whispering in their ears,
pecking at their insecurities,
and screeching self doubt.
Mine is never far behind me
and he'll never leave.
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
Im successful head on my shoulders straight
I have my full portion love family job and money on my plate
Im the type to smile every time you see me
But i keep running into angry birds on the street
Im happy can have any girl i want
Im flawless what you see is what you get no need to stunt
I can be whateva a ***** need and i guess they see
And thats y you angry birds keep pecking at me
Gossiping throwing dirt on my name
Saying im not **** added by wanna be truths yall claim
Snatching my nerves one by one
Boiling my blood some one give me a gun
Im bout to go on a hunt for these angry *** birds
Naw not the game im not throwing you ******* at pigs
I dont need you hoes to get to the next level ***** please
But im about to toss you hoes straight rag you in the streets
Im feeling bad for you birds so every now and then i throw yall bread
And in return you hoes ******** on my head
**** these angry birds
Tryna hatch hate on my life
Jealous cuz im a dove and they pigeons thats not right
For all my successful ladies who is a go getta for hers
When these ******* try to dog you, and pull you down just say i feel bad for these angry birds
Hahahahahahaha
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 10:27 PM UTC
The Woodpecker sings,
In a tune we don't follow.
Pecking endlessly,
Like there is no tomorrow.
Words drawn from the heart,
Lost in the long beak.
With piercing eyes,
A little attention it seeks.
Pauses a second to tell us,
The story of his mother's pain.
Forgets not the cragged branch,
Chisels hard, the Woodpecker again.
Oblivious about the emotions it brings,
Endlessly the Woodpecker sings.
May 4, 2014
May 4, 2014 at 4:17 AM UTC
typewriter rhythm
clacking away new beats
tempo exchanges
computer lab concerto
fair-weather phonetics
hunt and peck symphony
symbolic of the system
poking at inmates
pecking at the enforcers
attempting to gain an education --
floating above the ruckus
offering research aid
I sit at the desk seeking only to enlighten
service work for those
suffering servitude
serfdom
post-modern slavery
complete with subsidies
scamming the con-men --
white house looks best
through prison barred windows
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
Offshore Oil Exploration
Months of preparatory work,
Permits obtained.
Maps explored, sited,
Ground and beneath scanned,
Each contour drawn, plotted, named.
Equipment assemblage.
Platform designed and towed,
Pre-commencement government inspection
Constant.
We test. Slowly, the loose, easy dirt,
Gives in. No rejoicing yet, premature.
The diverter in place, functions well.
The deeper the bit, the harder the resistance.
The camera's eyes monitor until
We reach depths too deep for their functioning.
The derrickhands order about the junior roustabouts,
Check the mud pumps, check the pH levels,
Do this, do that. The pecking order on board clear.
The kings of the rig, the drillers, in charge.
Then, disaster.
Oil spill.
Worse.
Not only smiling,
She has
Opened her eyes and
Ceased purring.
P.S. This would as is my custom be,
Re-entitled properly:
First Poem of the Day: Offshore Oil Exploration
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 7:02 AM UTC
“Beautifully Oppressive”
she called my work
“beautifully oppressive”
did she mean like the stifling pall
of equatorial heat?
what lines had I writ
to elicit such truthful and prodigious
adverbs and adjectives?
I can not recall being more flattered
or believing more that it mattered
what one said of my
delirious desultory delusions,
my petty pecking indulgences…
I believe I was recalling a dream
that spoke of elusive, fickle salvation,
the perennial curse of the chosen ******
and their haunting hunger for implacable peace
when I evoked that response from her
“beautifully oppressive” to feel such a fate?
the promise of heaven for those trudging through hell?
what other beautiful oppressive story could I tell?
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
*The woodpecker wouldn't reveal,
the secret kept closer to her chest,
but the telegraphic messages
meant nothing else I gather it thus:
"Don't you give up midway
slog, till you are fully satisfied,
that you've reached there
where, what you are searching is found"
In wooden notes, she proclaimed thus,
goes on pecking making,
the noise louder and louder,
it's now more and more clear-
that in standards she'd never compromise,
never would she lower her esteem
even if her sense of urgency sometimes
creates some discordant notes
that she accepts as her fault
and keeps her ears perked up for tone and tenor.*
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC
the hens
have raised their fowl fists,
protested the pecking order,
debated the Cuckoo Clucks Clan,
and started a coup in the coop.
they have a bird's eye view from their fort,
truly an eggcelent perch to reside in while they gather resources and
duck when enemies fire.
joining is a nestcessary evil to end the corruption.
so, my dear,
please don't chicken out.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 1:29 AM UTC
Rows of starched green and yellow paisley feather stalks
Marching in ordered lines along the road to 57 Eldon Way
Hot dogs and char burgers charge the air with yesterday's homecoming
Buds of moxie memories tipping long ears to big blue
Listening to the chickadees vocal pecking at kernels from the past
Morsels fall to the dirt signal life again for those willing to root
Pulled magpies to lines spy intimate joy-scattered seed below
Promising fortunes creased by hourglasses settled sand
White washed porches with rose printed borders
Nestle a "his and her" swing vantage over familiar fields
Imagined better-time scenes from selfie soaked movies
More real than all the forgotten stones ever stepped upon
Sweet tea sugar fills tall glasses of yarn spun dreams
Glory red and navy rippling a windy beat
To the clang of their steal pole clasp
Dance
Swing with them and recall a time of slower horizons
Of richer baskets
Of brighter springs
Of longer summers
Take a dip in the swimming hole
Naked, together, and happy
© 2019 MJL
Mar 11, 2019
Mar 11, 2019 at 7:43 PM UTC
You at least went.
so that meant the party could finally be awkward.
that's homeroom
at your personal Harvard
your low self esteem was the head dean
[ claimed you had promise ]
then promptly vomits
but you promised to maim
your lollipops with hot topic's
most goth night-shade of hemlock
iron-on, henna tattoos
for your thin lips.
like two gates
to a birdcage
where you keep
ravens...
pecking the tip of your tongue
where your brave words die
for lack of oxygen... pecking
the flesh off the skeleton key
to the heart of your insightful
comment,... stymied -
a black raven
savors the succulent eyes
of your hurricanes, so
braille maps for blind rage
fly off the shelves... fly like
led zeppelins to
fresh hell.
you lose your window seat
on the wing of a prayer
to Charles Bukowski.
now you're scowling a gilded smile
at all the Ed Hardlys'...
good thing you brought Jello Biafra Shots
to the shindig... cubes of gelatinous absinthe
each with a sugar box
lodged in supermax insecurity prisms...
fey emeralds.
monochrome rubicons
you pop
when cross.
like wainscoting the panic room
that came with a deejay
who thinks you're
a boy who got
lost.
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 7:10 AM UTC
*Blackbird:
In a field, pecking corn;
At a pond, drinking;
At dawn, stretching;
At sunset, disappearing;
Chasing dinner, a bug.
Blackbird:
In flight, bringing the storm;
Circling my house, waiting;
Over sea, with the wind;
Spiraling up, diving down;
Quoting Poe, nevermore, nevermore;
At the window, knocking;
Bringing omens of trouble.
Message delivered:
Blackbird in a tree, observing me.*
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
You were supposed to be my forever
My heart ached for you
I was was blinded the moon
Never looking deeper into the clouds
My thoughts were birds
Pecking my fingers
Letting the ivory bone show through
I knew then
That it wasn't meant to be
That I was trying to feed my starving soul
With paper
And I cut to let my desires bleed out
Until a different pair of fingers
Brushed my skin.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 10:51 PM UTC
I know my way out of this prison
but keep pecking at the trigger
for the food
that will never come again.
the sweetness of lust tinged with hope of love
the hope of being known
hope of being held in safety
the yearning to have it be real
I know the way out of this prison
but keep looking backwards
for the hands
that are closed on empty air
the sweetness of hands reaching out in yearning
aching with a promise
burning in their own dark loneliness
the hope that this might be real
I know this way out of my prison
know if I keep on walking
the walls will fade into mist
the light and air clean on my face
the sweetness of honesty and life
reclaiming what they've nurtured
my heart is safe in my own hands
and I hold today, which is real
Apr 6, 2010
Apr 6, 2010 at 11:58 AM UTC
This small talk kills me
when once it was so easy.
I remember when I
was the favorite.
This was before her first car
and sixteenth birthday,
movie dates, weekend sleepovers,
and high school crushes.
This must be how old toys feel,
played out, aged,
traded for the new and bright.
On a sand dune,
we sit shipwrecked,
stranded,and talk carefully
like strangers do about
sea birds pecking for food,
dead jellyfish,
and the innocence of sand castles.
Dark glasses disguise
my quick views of bikinis,
fitness thighs, and smooth dark tans,
mask her sneak peeks
at young muscle, flat stomachs,
and cute boys with fashion haircuts.
She burrows her toes into the sand
to pass the time.
I try to think of jokes
to make her laugh
but no punchlines come.
We share a fancy grilled cheese sandwich,
shy giggles,
and a pink lemonade
before she can no longer hide
the boredom in her eyes.
I know its time to leave.
She reclines her seat back
and sleeps the drive home,
leaving me alone
with miles, empty highways,
and whispers of classic rock
from the radio.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 10:53 PM UTC
Good morning rooster
How do you do?
It’s the crack of dawn
You cock-a-doodle-do
You sit on your perch pride fully and woo
Standing mighty and bold you call your brood for food
Sleek and graceful you do the cockerel waltz
Strutting vaudeville statuesque
Crowing to proclaim your territory
You stand protecting your roost
***** and brave
Watching for predators coming your way
The alpha male
Your earlobes and crown are blood red like a bird of paradise
Your steel beak as strong as a saw
Your feather mane chestnut drapes over your back
Your breast fuchsia and emerald quill
Your silken tail an extended fan
You run free reign on my ranch
A thousand chickens roost in my barn
You rearrange my garden while pecking for nourishment
Eating up all the insects and brown recluses in my yard
In dust you and your flock bathe
You even watch over the hens eggs
Your calls distinct and powerful
When you are still and content sweet singing rings
You are friendly to humans
And can even be domesticated
Stay here Roo
We will protect you
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 7:10 AM UTC
so what, they're slobs, but at least they're not cannibals... then again, maybe they are too, although i haven't seen it... then again i only write within an empirical disciplination... and i have seen these pecking cannibals... maybe it's an innate feature in all animals, then again these chickens were domesticated, there was no shortage of food, then again maybe it's some version of a religious tendency: translated directly into christianity... poetic cannibalism is not exactly my choice of events that follow a book written by kant; after seeing those chickens cannibalise that head of the sacrificed hen, and sipping the blood, while the head was still agitated into movement by the oozing out of electric currents... you know... i still managed to eat that chicken broth.
i don't understand this critique of pigs...
i have relatives living in the countryside...
and i was once upon a time engaged
in catching a chicken,
and upon the stump of wood
her head was chopped off...
why complain about pigs being "filthy"
when chickens behave like cannibals,
no, actually: chickens are cannibals,
the corpus was taken into the house,
while the remaining chickens sipped,
picked and nibbled the decapitated head
of a chicken to a non-existence...
bewildering, pigs are seen as filthy creatures...
finally, god is the counter-perfectionist
who sees some sort of imperfection
in his lie...
i don't mind a ***** animal...
but i've just seen chickens become cannibals
once one of their own gets its head
chopped off, and they congregate, peck
at the decapitated head and sip pecking
the running blood on the stump of oak...
huh?! pigs are bad...
yeah right... you haven't seen what chickens
do then one of their charles the 1sts gets
the chop.
Sep 23, 2017
Sep 23, 2017 at 6:38 PM UTC
Words, words, worms! My mind is swarmed
With them. Ants file in through the sticky
Canals, chattering, stamping their little black feet.
They use me. I am their harboring medium,
A visitor in my own head.
Black, empty mouths flutter and dance and signal
Amongst themselves, crowding my skull,
A murmuration of phrases and guttural sounds.
I mustn't tell fully what they say.
They draw forth black and bubbling swamps,
Wicked crows, the yawping millions, pecking,
Pecking, gouging with yammering beaks
At every smooth, young innocent.
There is death in this tumult of words.
Let it not take me.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
been pecking the pole since the forties
we think,
how delightful.
yet it must be changed and moved
in case it falls down, what would we
do then? he asked.
i decided not to think about that, and
rejoice in the creosote
of the new thing.
may be the woodpecker will
too?
sbm.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 1:29 AM UTC
Christmas is upon the masses
The white flakes fall, but
Hanging
Swaying,
Dripping
Upon the crisp white
A puddle frozen of crimson red,
Baubles of the deceased
Upon a branch, eyes bleed
Baubles,
Red,
Sightless
Eyes, cracked within, as blood
Drips between the cracks,
He hangs them with tinsel rope
Glistening in the sun,
Inscribed,
"Merry Christmas"
Still fresh from the cut
Blood like a leaking tap
Drip,
Drip,
Drips
Upon pristine snow,
"He is the tinsel hanger"
He waits until the white covers
Then he begins his
Christmas list,
He thinks them naughty in is eyes
So they now sway above the ground,
There is not always one,
For what is a tree with but
One
Bauble
Hanging,
More must adorn a single tree,
"Happy Christmas"
"Died Smiling"
"Jolly Dead"
Were his trademarks upon dead flesh,
Birds perch upon limp shoulders
Pecking, upon the dead,
The last things heard,
As he records his crime,
*"Please don't **** us"*
"Have a heart"
"A heart"
"A HEART"
Pleeeasss....
And then there is but muffled sound
"Thump"
Lifelessness now upon the ground,
Another Bauble
For him to hang with tinsel
Above the freshly powdered ground,
He is the Tinsel hanger
He thinks the white gives purity
To his twisted deeds
Pray* that your not just left
A Christmas bauble,
Hanging,
Swaying,
Lifeless
Above freshly white snow, because
You'll not be alone this cold night,
Family will also be hanging around, tinsel shimmering off moonlight.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
I look through Nana's broken window so many times
However, today it seems so different
watching the blackbirds in the
avocados trees pecking at the fruits
Nana harvests the best ripe avocados pears
The color of dark burgundy, and green
All came from that old worn out tree;
Every year we would carefully inspect each pear
before packing them in the brown barrel
they were moist and delicious on the inside
so easy to peel , those lovely ripen pears.
Here I am today about to,
open the last mark box of Nana's things
I unfold the last item slowly;
All wrapped up in old newspaper
was her bread pan;
the one with the two handles
an old burnt crumb lodged in the corners of the pan
I smile, I weep,
Hello! To you too Nana
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 1:03 PM UTC