"preen" poems
There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.
Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen
And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
Birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
black, blue, brown their cute colours
short, long, slim, heavy, lightweight
wings and flight memorable
all in hurry to have fate
chirp in low high sound, fresh mood
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the start
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough to quench thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
a cute gay bird, find it first
while the lyrics touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their tweet, song
making a norm; fresh my mood
melodious their sweet song
ripe fruit there serve passer-by
there were trees to grant a shade
there was rule 'No Restriction'
beauty of leaves not yet fade
pan was waiting to serve them
one sharp sip hurry to fly
child fell down while knocked at rock
help! Help! Shoutinnocent cry
sound dangerous, **** of earth
crackling, falling, housing, wall
help, no rescue love or hate
site was changed in front of all
no charm, fame, concert at all
there was no work, club or shop
speech for help was useless try
any search team, rescue flop
winking eyes now teary one
no-one could found there a bun
there no signs of living one
no care there, no deal, no done
birds ate there all eatables
flapping their wings as a dance
trimming and preen of the wings
jump here there, losing no chance
chirp, chirp sad song low high sound
they were neat, beautiful smart
search everywhere want of food
giving an end, at the star
each one looking for some good
bit sip enough, quench the thirst
no one waiting, for its turn
cute bird could not find it first
while the lyrics, touch my soul
chirp, chirp, chirp was their sad song
making a norm, my sad mood
melodious, fair sad song
no fruit there for passer-by
no trees there to grant a shade
they were buried, there, somewhere
no green leaves at risk of fade
all the owners slept and pressed
sound dangerous lifeless rock
ruined everywhere tragic song
mud, stone, sand, all-cause of shock
no help, care there, love or hate
there was silence as no play
no pan waiting there at all
birds could find a broken tray
you reveal it then I know
my pangs are more than a sea
there is link between the two
soul and body, You and me
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
From the woodlands of Madagascar
To the highlands of Ethiopia
Dwell nine species of lovebirds.
Their genus name is Agapornis,
From the Greek agape (love) and ornis (birds).
The French call them Les inséperables
While affection between compatible pairs
Can be a joy to behold,
Lovebirds can be quite territorial
And will defend their nest.
Sexually dimorphic they mate for life.
Like all parrots they need to be well
Socialized and taken care of.
They are very vocal, making loud
High-pitched noises, especially
In the early morning time.
Stocky little birds
With short blunt tails
You can hold them
In the palms of your hands.
They love to snuggle,
They love to preen.
Happy birds: together.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
*Wont rupture one’s
Spleen
But it’ll preen
One’s sense of keen.*
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 4:14 AM UTC
Sitting past the reeds
upon a willow tree
the kingfisher surveys
his watery larder
With keen polaroid eyes
a victim he spies
and measuring distance
he makes his next move
A flicker in thought
his blue metallic wings
now do go into action
such a beautiful thing
Down from the branches
wings folded back
he darts into the stream
by the banks waters edge
The minnow that was hunting
has now become the hunted
and out of crystal waters
the kingfisher is victorious
Out of the stream
with feathers to preen
after a hearty fill
of minnow and bream
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 18, 2013
Nov 18, 2013 at 8:53 PM UTC
A forgotten tale, ensconced in stone,
A murmered doubt, said all alone,
I preen my ears, for these little secrets,
Smothered in their prime, yet blazing with heat,
I long to know them, those long lost legends,
The forbidden stories, with unfinished ends,
For I seek the weapon, to make all enemies cower,
Hidden atop that chest, perched in the highest tower,
And so I search, through the witches hour,
I search and find secrets, the only true power.
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
these tempting and tumultuous times,
when the insect bite of attraction nibbles
your cheek, and first blood thickens with
intrigued,
the blood heated by, with a bewildering new sun's glow,
then bubbling boiling
over
with phantasmagorical fantasies,
and one endeavors to coax, to tease,
to preen, to adduce how best to ******
this persona, imagined or imaginary to be,
whispers a silent "no thankee''
and first bloom curls into a deathly brown doom,
you,
chastened by amorous hastening so quick evolving,
and the hither in come here, withers to a ghostly silencing,
one wonders, reminisces, and sadly recalls then forgets
the entreaties so eagerly received, how one wants to be
deceived,
for the once lay-buried-arousals now well recalled,
and quick to appear, faster to dismiss disappear,
and disaster cones and goes with light-speed velocity,
having fling,
now flung,
having crushed,
now crushing,
you caught laughing at your self,
still evolving long past the time
for youthful deceptions and silly indiscretions,
but not unhappily, for it was an acknowledgement
that good love poetry yet within resides, alas, alas,
it reciprocity seeds need replanting, and that notion
is quite pleasing...
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
dedicated with hope to all of us
Imagine a Human Family Picnic
where everyone shows -
from every sect and hue and nation -
gathered at a common table.
The Almighty swoops down
to speak the blessing:
known to all from Torah, Q'uran and Gospels
and countless other books of wisdom -
author of our souls' aspirations.
After supper the Holy One
would call us to the sacrificial pyre.
*“Brothers, sisters and cousins,
images of your creator,
every unholy war
desecrates the face of God
and there is no other kind.
Cast your pride into the flames
and live together in peace!”*
Obediently, we'd toss our
pride into the fire,
recoiling from its smoldering stench.
The Lion would lie down to preen the Lamb's fleece
and Universal Love, released from her chains,
would walk free in every land.
August, 2006
Jul 31, 2013
Jul 31, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
Flamingos aren't naturally pink
But not for the reason most think
They preen and they dye
And they leave it to dry
Before rinsing it off in the sink
The magpies send me into fits
The ducks have me losing my wits
The crows are a blight
And they crow all night
But I do enjoy watching the ****
Vanessa McRafferty-Fryer
Set alight to the **** of her squire
She took a few shots
Of his privatest spots
And then laughed as he ****** out the fire
A penguin called Panama Pete
Had no love of the snow on his feet
So he stayed for a spell
At the polar hotel
With a pool and Jacuzzi en suite
I met a quite curious swan
By a lake I was boating upon
It tickled my ***
And insulted my mum
With a flurry of wings, it was gone
I know of a Gerald McFitz
Who arouses himself when he sits
For his favorite chair
Is the shape of a pair
Of voluptuous wobbly ****
and one for that special someone...
Your pancreas really is grand
Tis a thoroughly marvelous gland
You've a cute little spleen
Though it's seldom seen
And a nose growing out of your hand **
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
The first brave buds of spring burst forth
In shades of yellow and green.
They stand sentry at my door
Like fierce mujahedin.
They expel the bear of winter.
They sneer at frightful frost.
I wouldn’t want to be the snowflake
That they chance to come across.
In the seedbed things are stirring,
germinating beneath the sod.
There’s a riotous revolution
that bespeaks the touch of God.
Flowers are like people
They can be kept down just so long.
Then solar warmth will melt the snow
And birds break into song.
The garden trees are setting buds
That soon will dominate the scene.
It is Heaven enough for now
as things bloom and grow and preen.
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
Give me a spring morning, far from winter’s troubles.
On an earth axis-turned toward the life-giving sun.
Announce it with tulips and trumpets of yellow daffodils.
Watch as young, colorful, impressionist, bluebell,
dogwood, snowdrop, and primrose blossoms preen,
in the candid radiance of the abaxial springtime sun.
Enjoy new life dancing, playfully on tactile wafts of warm air.
Inhale that air, freshly fragranced by flowers in luscious bloom.
Catch the bright chirp of new life and hear the humble
buzz of bees hard at their work, spreading the pollen of life.
Then lengthen these hopeful, verdant days, like a blessing.
Mar 19, 2023
Mar 19, 2023 at 1:48 PM UTC
the doom puke treacle of our dim sum sundays, asunderous.
the bluff of our taurus. the trim thumb, green on the terrace
of our epiphanies; wondrous.
the crease in the pleat of our borealis. the allusive chalice
of our majesty. the dead kingdoms we relinquish to the roiling unjoy.
the thunder of our feet to the heel of a shadow. our peter pan in the fire.
our kettles black.
the opposable lovelies. the lovelies that preen jewels. the extreme youth of our gods
now at the hour of our foolishness. our funny bone. and the fracture.
the actual damage to our heaven. and the near after.
the gross bloom of our anguish
and parade.
and the bells. and the comma. and the laughter.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 10:24 PM UTC
Oh, I should like to ride the seas,
A roaring buccaneer;
A cutlass banging at my knees,
A dirk behind my ear.
And when my captives' chains would clank
I'd howl with glee and drink,
And then fling out the quivering plank
And watch the beggars sink.
I'd like to straddle gory decks,
And dig in laden sands,
And know the feel of throbbing necks
Between my knotted hands.
Oh, I should like to strut and curse
Among my blackguard crew...
But I am writing little verse,
As little ladies do.
Oh, I should like to dance and laugh
And pose and preen and sway,
And rip the hearts of men in half,
And toss the bits away.
I'd like to view the reeling years
Through unastonished eyes,
And dip my finger-tips in tears,
And give my smiles for sighs.
I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds,
And tap at fastened gates,
And hear the prettiest of sound-
The clink of shattered fates.
My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs
That cut and burn and chill...
But I am writing little songs,
As little ladies will.
2.9k
♀↵ϖ†∅↨⊕☺☼↑↓
Apples will be cantaloupes
depending on their nurture;
and so I cherish rainbow hopes
for our collective future.
Oranges elect their hue
improving Nature’s seal,
while pronouns stifle what is true
suppressing the appeal.
Fruits may choose to change to nuts
and fowls select their plumage.
Why settle in Tradition’s ruts?
Such rigid roles do damage.
Nuts in turn, may feel like flowers,
picking how and when to bloom.
So ambisexual thought empowers
androgynes to court their doom.
A leopard, too, may change his spots
(or turn into a vegan bunny)
No law’s tittles, neither jots
make Speciesism funny.
If you decide to see it so
the sky above is yellow.
Perceive as pink the grass beneath
and better times must follow.
Gender? Merely social constructs –
preach it to the masses
until tradition self-destructs
and *** takes off her glasses.
Babies need no Dad (nor Mother):
sexist labels, obsolete.
Love is blind. There is no other.
Bats must bark and chickens bleat.
Integrated water closets
show how far we have evolved:
urinary bank deposits
(with no member account involved).
Foolish thinking from the past
(like water being wet, and such)
calls for re-education, fast.
The State will lend its human touch
compelling all to sing the hymn
with genderfluid motions…
so birds can preen their scales and swim
in dry and waveless oceans.
(Yet “hymn” sounds sexist said out loud –
we ought to sing a “her” instead…
no – make that “us”, since we are proud,
lest misconceptions be misread.)
Shake a healthy dose of salt
upon this strange post-modern food.
May God re-set us to default
with human common sense renewed.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:05 PM UTC
A leaf fell, twisting in the Fir Green Square,
Like a spear thrown through the air;
A dog, distant and real,
Has barked five hundred years on Sheep Street.
Holy Trinity, the bone keeper, keeps doors open.
The Avon, not so sweet now, flows on;
Swans swim and preen, and tonight,
Henry will rage on Agincourt again,
Calling on his brothers, and me,
To breach the vicious cycle of lonely barks
And the immutable march of time.
Take my hand, look into my eyes,
My brotherhood of men.
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:23 AM UTC
Lost your *** and spent your gold
Drunk all night and you were told
The Murphy girls have brothers ninefold...
So, have you an inkling this mornin'?
Don't say you had no warnin'!
Gee those Murphy girls sure are pretty
But now your listening to this "told ya so" ditty
Got a bit fresh and way too giddy...
So now your hurting this mornin'
At least last night wasn't boring!
So next year's the same when put'n on the green
Remember the date it's March Seventeen
Kathleen, Maureen, Colleen do preen...
Just to count your gold in the mornin'
So don't be a leprechaun hornin'
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
A chirpy little bird
A notion reaffirmed
From egg to box to room
You preen your emerald plume
I love you, Roombird
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 6:49 PM UTC
Grievous grace, has due yesterday’s blue
Autonomous avarice enigma entity’s hue
Identity crisis guidon guile’s due
Mystic symbiosis’ existential true
Apostrophe sabbat transcendental kitsch
Consortium liaison’s libido’s glitch
Translucent opulence’s lambent’s a *****
Metaphysical mystique is black as pitch
Terrestrial equestrian tellurian's terrene
Adamant tenacity’s obtusely obscene
Obstinate loquacity spiritually serene
Maniacally meticulous dexterity’s preen
Lucid cogent fecund’s maieutic
Incarnate’s manumissional eidetic
Spatiotemporal telemetry’s fanatic
Logistical tactician’s primal ecstatic
Chicanery dynamism’s opulent fealty
Intrinsic innate retrospective cruelty
Indigenous endemic inherent frailty
Corrupt costume counselor subtlety
Gambit alluvium aloof impunity
Immunity is epicurian absurdity
Who are we to us credulity
Nimbus nimiety nihilism’s congruity
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
His claim he staked, the mallard drake
Beside a little pond
Two female ducks were round about
They would return anon
He watched me work all morning
A feather he would preen or peck
I reciprocated his respect
And studiously ignored him
He was content until I went
A bit too close for comfort
His head and neck he laid down low
His movements they were slow
As if to bid the executioner
Or will the grass to grow
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 8:28 AM UTC
I want to know—
What only lips can know,
I want to see—
What only Falcons vision,
When they stoop from the heavens,
I want to preen and lord—
As only Jaguars can, regal,
In the tangles of purple jungle sun,
I will climb these ancient steps
Holy and of forbidden stone,
If only, you would
Surrender,
Love.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
Beyond the dense woods of
scented sandal trees,
where pairs of wood ducks
ecstatically mate, squeaking,
and at the end of **********
leisurely preen and groom,
near the pond, so tranquil,
its water, the clear hue of ultramarine,
lies a stone seat
where my true love,
used to sit, eyeing the path
thinking about my arrival.
Now, the pale sun reluctantly sets,
like a hopeless lover with
broken heart, returns.
The ducks had flown back,
long before. Alone, I sit here
not knowing why!
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
I want to know—
What only lips can know,
I want to see—
What only Falcons vision,
When they stoop from the heavens,
I want to preen and lord—
As only Jaguars can, regal,
In the tangles of purple jungle sun,
I will climb these ancient steps
Holy and of forbidden stone,
If only, you would
Surrender,
Love.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
It were perhaps too good to preen,
This thing, this much elided stream,
To rest therewith, tremulous ream
Of thoughts forthwith from misery.
Let not the beggar hear my words:
There is no hope in timely dress;
World it cares not for men deferred
From caring press and relatives.
Too much it cares for common things,
A word said soft, need not for pain,
Yet broken in its gleaning thoughts,
Suff’ring not well deserved stains.
These things, I say, they cast a sea
Before dim eyes, make blind men cry,
Rob their sight, ev’n in sight’s drought;
This I say, casts little more t’me.
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 7:26 PM UTC
A Mean machine in obscene gang green
The Candlelight flicker in busted T V screen
Scream queen Ilene in paralyzed dream
Dean Irene exploded her spleen
It seems when she ate some beans
Kathleen drank from a canteen of benzene
Said sardines soaked in saline make the best cuisine
Eugene came between Kristine and Janine
When they went to the ravine in Racine
Teens hopped up on caffeine convene
With Thirteen marines on Halloween
On routine to clean and preen the latrines
I’m keen to notice the things that you’ve seen
?
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
??
? ?
? ? ?
? ?
?
What if you could unseen what you've seen
Apr 6, 2012
Apr 6, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC
You'd know him if you saw him,
When he appears out of the air,
He could make you jump without even trying,
With his grin ever there,
If you ever meet him - You'll find him in a tree,
Smiling at everything - He never seems to care,
His body seems to come and go,
His head and smile still seen,
When he vanishes completely it's never for long,
His coat always soft, with a smooth and silky sheen,
That Cheshire cat - A crafty one he is,
He may talk in riddles - And always does he preen,
The cat that can best even the greatest Magicians each and every time,
Helps as he pleases and watches without a care for never a nickel or dime.
Jun 5, 2017
Jun 5, 2017 at 2:42 PM UTC