"pecks" poems
some people think its gross
some think your being a *****
but i think it is a wonderful thing
when done in the right mannor
when you feel so good about yourself
you want to show your body off
then that is wonderful
for most people i know
including myself, for a while
would never have dreamt of doing so
so i say
flaunt what your mama made!
be proud and state it loud!
but do not do it just to get attention
from that guy you like
or your girlfriend
"do it because you think
wow, my tummy is adorable
my face looks great
my pecks are on point today
or even
my chest look so cute"
because thats what self love is
and its a wonderful thing
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
Flamingo high,
flamingo low,
when flamingo stretchy-leggy, then flamingo grow.
Cheeky beaking, shifty sifting, lifting up a flipper;
notty neck and naughty pecks,
while dancing with a kipper.
Flaming heck and flaming Oh!
Flaming flamingularonimo!
I tango and flamenco
and I imitate a swan,
but this winking pink flamingo's
blinking going going gone.
Sep 22, 2011
Sep 22, 2011 at 11:28 AM UTC
sunrise, sunset
birds fly, land, and fret
doctors mend, treat and heal
write wake, write and feel.
sunrise, sunset
the fish swims while the parrot pecks,
the bees nestle back into their hives
as the moon lifts, and the sun dives.
sunrise, sunset
the diaries cease to forget
when all go back to rest
with the sunrise, sunset.
so as the babies mumble and the children cry,
the world lives and nature thrives.
the mother yawns and resets
with the sunrise and the sunset.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
A robin hops, looks, pecks.
Looks, hops, pecks.
Pecks, looks, hops.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
So there’s this woodpecker
He pecks all day
Peck Peck Peck
Peck Peck Peck
Pecks his life away
Ever seen him stop and wonder?
At the glories of the world and beyond?
Did you ever see?
Him staring at a tree
And thinking about Joyce Kilmer?
Nope, can’t recall
Any such incident
So why should I stop
And smell the flowers I don’t see
Why should I write a poem
As beautiful as a tree
When no one else gives a ****
I should be hanging around friends
Rolling joints with the money for my rent
I should be the eternal narcissist
Like the one who sits above
But we’ll come to him later
Right now what I wanna know
Is what gives me the right to control
Everything I see
And everything I don’t
Coz frankly speaking
There’s a lot I don’t know
What gives me the right
To play with someone’s life
And blame it on ignorance?
I thought someone could tell me
Someone could answer
The stupidest question in the world
But if I ask someone
Why they’re doing something
They all say the same thing
Coz everyone else is.
Good.
So now we’ve got that cleared.
I’m doing what I’m doing
Because everyone else is doing what they’re doing
And everyone else is doing what they’re doing
Because I’m doing what I’m doing
To sum it up,
None of us know what any of us is doing
Or why they’re doing it.
Looks like we evolved backwards.
At least the apes knew what they were doing.
Sleep. Eat. **** Have *** Sleep.
That simple collection of words got what the people
Who call themselves the brainiest guys in the world didn’t:
Logic.
And I’ll tell you why they didn’t get it
Because they were the birdbrains
Who came up with the idea of a nuclear bomb
Which has really set the bar for human stupidity
No one can surpass that.
Because the ‘logic’ behind the nuclear bomb is
“You give me what I want
Or I’ll blow up your country”
People in the highest position of their respective countries
Spent money exceeding ten times the number of their population
On such nuclear bombs.
Which, in fact, they’ll never use.
True story.
Tell you the truth, I’d rather be a woodpecker.
Jun 6, 2012
Jun 6, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
The Pigeon Gent,
He woos and coos around the river bent.
Pursues his muse with artful dance and skillful prance,
With inflated neck and ruffled plumage, until his energy or luck is spent.
He then resides by ebbing tides to ponder on his next advance.
"Now Now", "Whats This" the gent exclaims,
A shadow looming from the skies.
With ***** and claps he glides and lands with full surprise,
He spies the intruder, "A fellow Brooder".
Pigeon gent cant believe his eyes.
Pigeon Gent cannot believe the sauce,
The scurge seems intent on taking his prize by force.
At once he knows he must respond,
And force this illbread vagabond to abscond.
At once chest puffed and muscles flexed,
With wild eyes he jabs and pecks.
To teach this ruffian respect,
So on his actions he may later reflect.
He stands his ground both large and proud,
To make example of this foul winged burglar from the clouds.
"You insult me sir" he shouts aloud,
To make his intentions clear for all the crowd.
For several rounds they fight and scuffle.
With intruder retreating, feathers ruffled.
Then bested suiter fairly parted,
The quarrel ends as fast as started.
The vanquished victor displays and grooms,
As peace and honour now resumes.
Soon the ripples upset the green,
An armada of ducks come on the scene.
Alerted by the heightend coos,
They race to see what act insues.
The mighty mallards, Kings of the river,
None contest their right of way.
Their ways of conduct such generous givers.
Majestic river royalty, the law is always what they say.
On bank or shallow pebbled river they have always been,
They love to feed and breed amongst the river scene.
There royal cape made up of browny reds and shimmering greens,
reflects and intejects on mirrored water skies and evergreens.
To their mates for life and lady lovers,
The mallard gent is like no others.
Such loyalties are seldom seen,
In modern times and different dreams.
Fine and lean with striking features,
Best examples of river teachers.
But at any moment no matter how abrubt,
A river duel may easily erupt.
Battle can ensue and rage,
As both apponents approach and engage.
For they mate for life as duck and wife,
A rarity in any age or life.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC
*chaste pecks from the super-sonic youth
numb lips flutter to the hollowed cheeks of normality
no longer the hand-prints on the guide book to hostility
a pamphlet of rudimentary teachings;
the principles of tolerance and rebellion and acceptance of human beings
a concoction of suppressed psychotic behavior, quick wit, and center of satirical tease
constantly moving with heavy footsteps and heavier hearts
their minds and bodies plagued with actions from a deserted youth
soul lusting over the naivety of people before self-actualization; how crude
do they call it an existential crisis or the daily life of a agoraphobic nobody
shouts from the depths of caged fears that scrape the oblivious flesh in their brain; a bit gaudy
mother, sister, brother, father how your words crush the knots of comfort that line my internal organs
bleeding from the pores of my screams; streams of moon-beams shooting out my eyes; oh, not again!
stomping our metaphorically spiked toenails against the idealism of pop culture
oh, my, how adolescence is the worst kind of torture
cherry slushies lined with cigarettes to create a whirl-pool of nostalgia
recreational drugs and ironic situations to ease our instinctual sense of proverbial nausea
loud-mouthed demons spawned out of clothes-hangers and emotional turmoil
show up in our nightmares that we nick-name ‘a good place to contemplate suicide’
repeated imagery stacked like flap-jacks in the mouths of blissed-out sociopaths
too self-indulgent to include us in to their personal stories so we can observe, record, and assess
i don’t perceive doctors to be particularly and predominantly just and true
but i one time met a doctor who told me ‘being a teenager is perhaps the hardest thing you could ever do’*
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 10:20 PM UTC
The final breath is entreated by the breaths of wind,
the sky returns again as the stormy clouds depart.
Droplets of water, from seas all over Earth
Puddles of mud which use to be dirt.
Centuries of creation all about,
Weep as fast as the swimming trout.
The morning birth of the turtle doves,
peaceful and sad to see the dark night.
The atmosphere of peace in might,
As it pecks its way out of shell.
Beneath the bone of its mother,
She nurtures without a bother.
The evening loss of dogs of war.
At last the threat returns,
****** turned out of sores.
Teacher sick of burns.
Fire of skies tormenting,
Precipitate of dirt fomenting.
The freedom of the snake is not so seditious,
It feeds on the nest of the turtle dove.
Protect O mother-bird your love,
Jettison the hatred deep inside,
And **** the snake with severely brutal guile.
The final wind is shakened by the quakes of ground.
Hurt is one dove but there is three.
Enough to go around,
Eaten as food by thee.
Hurt I'm, Hurt I be, nature you sicken me.
Nature you sicken me.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
AYE,
I’m about to take ya back in time
A heartless little boy with a beautiful mind
A diamond in the rough, society been trying to find
Gives his mama a hard time but she the reason why he grind
Never worries about stress…PSH, sorry for lying
A place in action, they all constantly ask him, “Why you write with so much vigor? So much passion?”
Try to unmask him, but he locked like Rikers
He’s not selfish with his thoughts
He’s just a silent writer.
Who puts his words on the line, but writes like he’s fine…
If simplicity is a crime
Put him down for a lifetime
Talking sunsets, no regrets, kinda mindset
Can look at a beautiful woman and not only think *** weight on his shoulders but heart beat works the pecks
Yearning for future earnings
Drive to be New York Cities next
Even at best, puts everything into one quest…gives everything his all and not an EFFORT…less (haha)
He’s use to the people just sleeping on him. DEAR GOD! The lord just beating on him
Cause he aint went to church in…lord who knows?
He just sips for the highs and makes music on the low,
Red light, Green light, Dougie, it’s time to go!
Ya seconds to fame started about an hour ago
You need to cut the bad habits if you want ya flower to grow,
Stay humble in your journey, that’s good for your soul,
Ya never too old to make a new goal, just remember life if a highway and we all gotta pay the toll.
Spreading love with each verse, even if haters start to curse
Cause they best efforts can’t compete with you at your worst,
No reason for bragging, in they face laughin…use they words as motivation, hard work is everlasting (echo out)
LEAVE THE WHOLE WORLD, "WHEN'S HE COMING BACK?" THEY KEEP ASKING! (EXPLOSION EXIT)
-Dougie Simps #LostLoveWriter
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Trill of beak into birch. Dawn spooks
the graveyard into silence. A heart
hardens at God’s withered finger reaching
but not reached for. I trim the hedges
and the whir of weed-eater disturbs
a nest of yellow jackets into tornado,
dust devil, of translucent wings and sting.
I walk among the dead three times a week.
I am learning their language. They relearn
the mundanity of white noise above
and quietly forget, quietly forgive.
This hill is the crest on a wave of coffins,
each one a boat through the world below.
Submerged in a bloodshot morning
I listen to a woodpecker in its throes
of building a home out of the depths of bark.
In the chill, the soft fog rolling, it pecks
and it knocks. The doors to these lives
long closed, I hush. I do not believe God
will visit these grounds to reclaim his clay:
I plant flowers in it between the plots,
each name engraved of marble a blank stare.
The flash of red flushes from budding branches
and I return to work. No one answers.
I relearn the dead’s language, their silence,
relearn every day how to repair stillness.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
I sit on a droopy windowsill and gaze out
at the stars above me in the stately sky of coal.
I let the smoke fill me, pollute my corrupted lungs,
‘til it plugs me, completely consumes my sticky soul,
and midnight sorrow blanket hugs the heart in my hole.
I sit and I consider the sky
with its million-and-one jewels
that adorn the vast carpet of night
and its one, lone cloud that slowly drools
fat, drippy drops of deep fed'ral blues.
The ashy, burnt taste is still in my throat;
it lingers- a dull, cloying candy cane.
The muted flavour chokes and jabs and pecks
persistently, in the back of my brain
and leaves a steel blue/gray trailing stain.
Vague memories of fourth-grade English lessons
take me with a deep sigh to forgotten thoughts
of Roger McGough and unrequited love-
dazed recollections of school poetry taught
in obscure slate-blue classrooms, littered with blots.
It seems feeling unreturned affection
isn't quite as great as I’d thought after all.
I must've been wrong, all those hazed years ago,
when I yearned to feel unrequited love’s fall,
convinced it would be a wondrous, dazzling ball
Instead, I'm just ******* in the pale-ing sky
that seems to be growing into lighter hues-
the navy’s turned to electric, to powder,
matching the sapphire in my soul of glue.
I'm suppose I'm feeling somewhat, slightly blue.
.
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 11:21 AM UTC
All it took was three steps up
Doors swung open before me
I approached Him, who sat still and unmoving.
unaffected by Time but ravaged by the pain of doubt and ignorance
All it took was three steps forward
Then, strength and courage left me
Worn-down
Beaten by life’s merciless hand
My knees sank as Life’s hand grasped my shoulders and I felt his burden
My whole being collapsed upon the marble floor
The sound echoed and cruelly dealt a strike to my ears,
My senses and my soul
As if Moses struck the rock with his staff
The water came forth
Flowing freely from my soul against sallow, weary skin
Hands trembling
Body aching
I closed my eyes
I saw darkness but an image appeared
****** and bruised
It took all my strength
To utter three questions:
Why (to the Father)
Why does the grass grow, rich and fertile
only to provide for those that destroy it?
Why does my neighbor strip me bare and steal my coat
To leave me unsheltered from the cold wind’s bitter punishment?
Why must I walk this lonely and sullen earth
While the black crow pecks violently at my flesh?
Why? For I have loved but have been despised in return.
Who (to the Son)
Who is the snake that lies?
The brother that prays and the brother that kills?
The husband that beats and the wife that endures?
And the ****** Mother that reigns over all, even you?
Even me.
Who? For I know none and all of them.
Where (and to the Holy Spirit)
Where does the sky end and the Earth begin?
Is it where the body ceases to be and the soul takes over?
Is it where I made my first steps
And tumbled right after?
The indeterminable line between sea and sand;
Truth and lies
Where? For I have looked and looked.
My lips, salted and mad, trembled
Pain pierced my soul
I felt it all
And felt it again
My body began to thrash
I felt it upon me
Misery, sadness, death, despair
I became Samson, tearing down the pillars upon the accursed Philistines
I raged and roared
For hope, wisdom, strength, and faith
I opened my eyes
And Light filled me
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 2:27 AM UTC
I have observed brightly lit stores...
window displays welcome
with wide open arms.
Kaleidoscope of colours,
dancing to catchy music...
adding on to the allure and charm.
Droves of shoppers have identified this
as their slice of heaven.
Flagging retail therapy
and finding their
pocket of Eden.
I have observed some laying down.
Relaxing...
unwinding...
On patches of grass.
They stare at the sky
with much adoration,
as wispy clouds float on by.
These skygazers have chosen this
to be their little slice of heaven.
With the ground on their backs,
grass between their toes
and azure as their witness...
this is their pocket of Eden.
I have observed a couple of lovebirds,
seated at a café...
immersed deeply in conversation.
In their own private universe,
their own little bubble.
Employing hugs and frequent pecks as punctuation.
There's nowhere else they'd rather be.
From their eyes I know,
they've found their unique slice of heaven.
In each other
they've found their pocket of Eden.
I have observed myself...
I thought myself to be lost
for the longest time.
Seeking a place
for the voice in my head
that only spoke in rhyme.
All is not lost when
I finally found that place.
My little slice of heaven.
For almost a year ago today
I decided on Hello Poetry
as my pocket of Eden.
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 1:20 PM UTC
I am born again
this September morning as
each thorn on the rosebush
breaks pink with the sun
the hummingbird buzzes by,
echoes and springs in
the mist of chamomile flower—
a yellow-bodied bloom and
liquid-sugar disco running over
conscious body,
conscious mind
a chord is struck and
pecks the roof twice—
*tap…
tap…*
and I see god for what she is—
suddenly and always present as
two birds dance their wings
over a cradle of planted flowers
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 5:49 PM UTC
I yearn for the smell of your bare skin,
Salted sweat drips forth from mocha pores,
Touching silk of no other than human,
That feel makes the soul fly and soar.
His strength envelops my very being,
A man with power in formed structure,
He bids me to fall at his own will,
A look to feel its way and puncture.
Warm bodies clasped together in lust,
Kisses electric on lips of pure wetness,
Face to face of no apparent battle,
Not forcing but dealt of our kindness.
Entered minds and men abound forever,
I moan in hands that lay on solid pecks,
Sensual learning is always with practise,
The heavenly traits of ****** gay ***
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
It could Satan's cohorts cause, what portly
Political figures earn, to forsake his camp
And anon join the fray to the fat fiscal treasury
Of the country squander; and that to a cramp.
The pay plus pecks in a year they receive
Will most citizens in their lifetime never sniff.
So some who covet crazily such a mega-cheque
Also seek the same office for the easy favours.
Since our paunchy purse will at their own beck
And call be, they thus make elections endeavours
A dagger thing;--that if they cannot God's gross
Gold get, they must anyhow have the devil's dross.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
Build.
I was told that woman are made to build.
But wait...
What if I told you that my gender identity was as messy as raindrops as they hit the ground?
What if the only thing I can build are stanzas in some wanna be poem.
Yes, I do have a ****** but I bind my ******* so tightly I cannot tell the difference between breathing,
And a panic attack.
I am not a woman.
I am not the type.
I am your type.
When I am asked what I would like to be when I grow up,
Isn't it sad that that the first thought that occupies my mind is,
"I want to be a man.."
My mother pushed out her precious baby girl and keep in mind I had a brother.
Have a brother.
*** and gender are two completely different things, darling.
When someone asks what I want to be when I get older,
I will say a carpenter.
Because at least then I can build myself to be a man.
From the ground up.
But for now I will have to settle for pecks made out of metaphors,
And the thought of a ***** as long as my lyrics.
Would you still love me if I was a man?
If not,
Then have fun choking on my poetry.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
I got this voice, you see?
No.
You don't.
You don't see the way I do.
You don't hear the way I do.
You don't feel the things I do.
The world just isn't the same to you.
You don't understand how important this is to me. To the very fiber of my being.
It's just pen & paper.
It just words.
No.
It's not.
It's having an entire life revealed to you by watching someone smoke a cigarette.
Sounds of the greatest song you've ever heard, but haven't written yet.
The nagging poem about a heartbreak you can't forget.
It's not that I see.
It's that I'm shown.
The world telling me all the things it wants to be known.
Still I tend to fear that all the best stories have already been told.
I have an order.
To you it's a joke.
I just want attention.
I'm making excuses.
It's sounds totally crazy.
Maybe I am.
I'm ok with that.
Are you?
When I speak in lyrics & it sounds dumb in your head,
When I allow myself to be giddy over something I'd just read,
If my shoes belonged to someone 50 years dead.
Does that bother you?
I find wonder in all the trivial corners of the world.
I don't reject any little joy.
Infinite possibility.
How often do you refuse to be pleasured?
All grown up, no fun little boy.
All this chaos is my beauty.
It pecks away at the disease trying to contain it.
Thanks Doc, keep your pill.
This is my test of will.
Obsession.
Compulsion.
Dis-order.
******* irony.
My madness lies in my heart,
Given the whole world to make my art,
& my brain, at least some part,
Tries to control it, Kayla you need a chart.
THERE ARE NO RULES!
You can't see what I'm fighting.
You can't see my own mind being held captive of its own accord.
Key to freedom.
Just break that glass.
Then what if I shatter too?
You control what you allow in,
I cannot.
I'm controlling what I let out.
Afraid of the things I write down.
It's begging not to be forgot.
Tiny, tiny steps.
I'm afraid to crush the flowers
Trying to grow in shadowy ruin.
Creation is finding it's way through the cracks of what was.
Foundation.
Deterioration.
Inspiration.
If you wage war with yourself,
Do you ever really lose?
Until you can dance in your darkness,
You never really find your muse.
What you can't understand is the way I love my demons.
Most people run from theirs.
I dine on blood with mine.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC
Thee lust of commandments
The same blood
You have my eyes and I have your nose
Hidden love wrapped in poetry and midnight pecks of love
I am your safety blanket
I am your lover
Once our lips caress the other
Our blood completes us and binds our dna in an entanglement of lust and secrets.
We are infinite in this moment
The moment of being alive
Alive in this universe
Together we shall not be parted again
Hand in hand
Same blood
By God we shall be punished with the wrath of society
A taboo of unholy nature
Brotherly love
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
You should see my rooster,
he's a lively un-hooded fellow.
All day long,
he pecks & he crows,
and at night,
if you listen closely,
he'll scream loudly
just for you,
a personal,
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
O Darling,
do you hear him...
crowing,
now?
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:08 AM UTC
A yellow belly cardinal launches itself at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or should I make him the subject of my next poem
He became my inspiration, and I his adversary
It slurred whistled phrases calm my inner soul
After a while the pecking annoys my daughter’ cat
So, here I am compromising myself and not caring
Because I am about to compose a piece:
About war and peace: title
Fluffy and the **** bird
I took out my camera and zoom in on its beady eyes,
and realize that it was as blind as a bat
Teeth-chattering, tail going from side to side,
doing the war dance this **** cat,
A blind cardinal with a sweet melody
what more can I asked for, but to watch and learn
from the intruder, the spoil feline and the observer,
A yellow belly cardinal launch at my window
Pecks away at the old window pane,
Should I chase the intruder away?
Or let my daughters’ cat razz it?
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 9:23 AM UTC
The reason my thoughts don't follow me home.
The reason my feelings remain unknown.
When I try to think,
My heart starts to sink.
This blackbird won't leave me alone.
This blackbird won't get left behind.
It hits me with no warning signs.
It endlessly haunts me.
It tweets and it taunts me.
My life is stuck in rewind.
This blackbird sits and pecks at my bones.
The remorse it feels may never be shown.
It pecks at my hips.
It kisses my lips.
This blackbird won't leave me alone.
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 3:12 AM UTC
I'm found wanting the lion's share
of life,
often reaching for the stars and
taking the moon as well.
Youth courses through my veins
like gemstones as
blind ambition promises the world to me,
served on a platter forged of wanderlust and
childlike curiosity,
as a dowry.
He pecks my cheek and speaks of
what's to come,
of our progeny-
every wish that's made on a falling star and
every innocent kiss between lovers.
These and more I'm to have-
nights spent under foreign skies,
sincere love notes that were never delivered,
and cherished songs who lost their lyrics but
are still hummed to little ones.
Because of him,
these are to be my gifts,
they are to be my children,
they are to be my legacy.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 1:03 AM UTC
Dining Hall
The day that Darwin dies
you call me at lunch
surrounded by raucous boys
who would ridicule your tears
Milk
You’re downing a glass
as I sip my wine
Separated by years
and words you don’t know
Our preference in beverage
is the space between us
The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack
Lullaby redhead croons my fingers bend three at a time choking out two-syllable death trap.
Constellating
Sandwiched between
fresh books
spines not yet cracked
Secretive soulmates
sharing espresso-scented
pecks on strawberry lips
Hush Hush
Hands that aren’t yours
hold back my hair
dampened
tears shed
over words you threw
shattering
showering me with shards
of the way you once felt
Day Long Marriage
Air-conditioned summers
bare skin on leather couches
your hand resting
on blue ruffled *******
Happy New Year
Crouching
behind closet doors
your voice
at once comfort and affront
I’ll forget the words you say
still clutching my phone
wishing it was you
The Other Emily
Purest form of you and me
Benadryl-induced delusions
refusing sleep
exhausted
warm and doe-eyed
in the glow of your fondness
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 12:37 PM UTC