When first that horse, within whose populous womb
The birth was death, o’ershadowed Troy with fate,
Her elders, dubious of its Grecian freight,
Brought Helen there to sing the songs of home:
She whispered, ‘Friends, I am alone; come, come!’
Then, crouched within, Ulysses waxed afraid,
And on his comrades’ quivering mouths he laid
His hands, and held them till the voice was dumb.

The same was he who, lashed to his own mast,
There where the sea-flowers screen the charnel-caves,
Beside the sirens’ singing island pass’d,
Till sweetness failed along the inveterate waves…
Say, soul,—are songs of Death no heaven to thee,
Nor shames her lip the cheek of Victory?

Look at all the parrots--
Parroting the words
Of all the other parrots--
Of all the other birds--

Parroting profusely
All the same refrains--
Parroting the constant patter
In their parrot brains--

Parroting the preaching
From the pulpit to the pews--
Parroting their parents'
And their parents' parents' views--

Parroting their leaders
And their pompous platitudes--
Parroting their peers'
Pretentious attitudes--

Parroting the patriarchs'
Proselytizing that'll
Put your teeth on edge
With their pathetic prattle--

Parroting the poppycock
Of trite pontifications--
Parroting pernicious
And sly manipulations--

Parroting the pretty birds
Whose pageantry and glory
Appeal to their prurient tastes
In each pathetic story--

Parroting the songsters
With parasitic pleasure
And counting out the rhythm
Of every pitiful measure--

Parroting the powerful
Whose ploys are so profuse,
Leaving the powerless
Pummeled with abuse--

Parroting with passion
Presumptuous prophesies
With putative contrition,
"Humbly" on their knees--

Parroting themselves--
Together all in sync--
How they love to parrot
So they don't have to think!

- by Bob B

as an actor would die on stage
so a poets unfinished poem.

Always another song to sing
for as long as you breathe.

but one day your lips will fall silent
you will have taken your leave.

bowed out in full flow
no more to craft your songs.

a songsters farewell, truth be told
you would have it no other way.

All yesterday it poured, and all night long
I could not sleep; the rain unceasing beat
Upon the shingled roof like a weird song,
Upon the grass like running children's feet.
And down the mountains by the dark cloud kissed,
Like a strange shape in filmy veiling dressed,
Slid slowly, silently, the wraith-like mist,
And nestled soft against the earth's wet breast.

But lo, there was a miracle at dawn!
The still air stirred at touch of the faint breeze,
The sun a sheet of gold bequeathed the lawn,
The songsters twittered in the rustling trees.
And all things were transfigured in the day,
But me whom radiant beauty could not move;
For you, more wonderful, were far away,
And I was blind with hunger for your love.

Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb’s ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock
That on green plots o’er precipices browse:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(’Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest:—and now have gained the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadowed Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea.
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here.

Chitter , chatter chirrup
Three birds of a feather
A friendly chummy posy -
in perfect morning tide pleasure
Trilling , thrilling , touring Thrush's in the noon palmettos
Chiming sweet refrains in the -
broomcorn meadow
Musky , dusky weary
Gold songsters in a bush
A huckleberry trio in the-
nighttime hush

Seductive songsters
woo  with sweet dawn melodies;
grey heron takes flight.

roaming in and out of zones
listening out listening in

writing on the walls of your mind
a way out for your heart

The vibration of song across your lips
words riding your gentle breath

thoughts of your heart
deep feelings you express

solidarity with the marginalised
all your kisses on the wind

sharing of voices mostly ignored
love of your fellows laid down in poetry

all gathered up through the ages
the poets and their songs,

poets and their songs
poets and their songs.

singing a unique song
voice of the Universe
allows mere Humans
to sing along too

The Devils popping the bubble wrap
Hail is bouncing off the front door steps
Blustery tree lines wrapped in sheets of lightning
blue , rivers forming at downspouts , thunder
growing louder
Cars come to a crawl
Peace and violence are poised to draw
Suddenly showers stall , a lull ensues
Quiet resumes , the night is rescued
The treefrogs strike a tune , the June bugs swoon
The timid moon looms , the insect musicians balloon
The oboes , the clarinets , the piccolos and the cellos
Sweet voices , the harps , the guitars and the pianos
A whippoorwill calls the orchestra to order ,
the thrushes , mockingbirds , the katydids , the cricket
chorus , the coyotes , the bobcats , the hoot owls and
the sprites
The jays , the cicadas  and the songsters of night
Goodbye Old Man Squall , may the creatures of the eve
now come to call , may the maidens of the forest render
ballads of rest , may the fledglings of the morrow lay
peacefully in their nest* ...

Gray hardwood Creek saga , hillside natural harmonies
Woodland musicians and warriors blended into
Coweta flora with piedmont songsters
Sip sip cha shree mockingbird melody
Whoo -reet bobwhite chantey from floor to -
windamere operas brushing live oak canopies
Land blushing with evening blue , stippled in
magenta and lavender cirrus sunset* ...

the world of Man
war and oppression
always ready to rise

yet the birds still sing
and poets try
because that's the way they are made

all going constantly around corners
wondering
trying to keep eyes on the moment
concentrating
working through the unexpected
synthesizing

The radio sings obscure Nordic ballad's
in a language long dead.
From the saga's of Vikings blood flows
in a songsters throat poetical;
stories and tales of daring do.
And pilgrimage to Jerusalem to atone for their sin's,
Men and their quest in sea wolves boats, sails set,
all the way to America long before anyone else.

upside down, inside out
not what was expected

poetry can leave you
wondering, deep.

poets are songsters
- they sing

but their songs
are found

chiselled from rock.

There is no dishonour in a back beat poet song
seeming back singer in a backstreet band
all our songs I promise from the depth of my soul
reach the songsters who sing for us all
and for that we have a Gods promise of immortal

When I bring your broken song
back to your broken self,
when I follow your voice
and reach the ends of your shore,
let me into you.
Lead me to that little child
who tries to sing her way out
of her self-imposed walls.
Bring her to my consoling arms.
We will lie down in your depths
and watch you mend yourself
as you sing to the moon.
We will quietly fall asleep
to the rhythm of your words.
Words that echo
in the theater of a still night
and rhyme in accord with
the tides of a forlorn sea.
Words that soothe
our damaged souls.
All the songsters of the night
can never hope to recreate
the music of the world
I have found in you.

days for silence
and silent days

the observing
unseen things

days for weaving
new heard songs

the unburdening
understood things.

Hallelujah Tree Tappers
Songsters of the morn
Signal the warbler , the jay and
the thrasher of the coming dawn

Good day curious crow
Surveying the wetted green fields
of soy and June corn
Alert the valley that a new day -
is born
Hallelujah !

The java grows cold , a pollen
migraine starts to disappear ,
ceiling fans thankfully churn night
cooled air , tunnel vision day review
misery turns to thoughts of poetry and peace
Evening songsters agree on one melodic
beat , a Barn owl assures me of safe surroundings ,
Cicadas stroke both temples , cool porch tile
nurses weathered , calloused bare feet
Visions of clean sheets , a half chapter of Whitman ,
beneficial sleep and good dreams ...

Pretending, feigning.  I said that was the rule of the day.  cough,cough  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXVII)


If we forgot the merry dance erst thence
Wont to ring in this month which Shakespeare's scale
Of notice put down as not lo, t'avail
As perfect as whom he thus cherished, whence?
The winds are ghostly with a teasing sense
In tour of fragile warmth as sparrows hail.
Then ah, the Goldfinch seems to laugh, th'exhale
Likeas a whisper who maunt love from hence?
Did I swear I was "done pretending" fer
Which moment?  Yet who shall not smile now through
Th'effect of these sweet songsters?  I am blue
And would far rather weep, but tears as twere
Won't come.  A robin scolds and scents astir
Upon the wind's suggestion say twon't do.

01May19a

From South River Hill the lights of Alabama shone
Beside a meandering Chattahoochee I once stood alone
To catch sight of a river dancer or skip a stone
To catch a new stars arrival , the howl of a wildcat or
a glimpse of the orange setting sun
Her beauty effervesced , brown waters teased the
muddy banks , an Egret flew low overhead , the calm
surface echoed smallmouth feeding explosions
Becalmed riverwoods silvered in the coming night
Nocturnal songsters peaked on cue
The red clay trail home illuminated , voices of bobwhite quail serenading , the braying of beagles at the hillside , the alarm call of Embden Geese gathering at the whitewood fence line* ..

Nightfall interrupted by lightning
The call of nocturnal songsters
drowned in a sudden squall
The drummers that march into
quiet country from the west
Symbolic crash of cymbal ,
flam upon drum , tapping of the bells
The euphony of triangle pings and  
pan flutes
The boisterous return of a watchful poet's twilight muse* ...

A young Owl taught four songbirds each day , they chimed in the tree tops with glee and magical , musical serendipity , singing love songs in beautiful four point harmony .. Today two songsters and the elderly Owl await by the window to complete their wondrous ballads , to count off time and write rhyme . Freed to chant atop every tree , revel in melodious joy , to be perched together along the Olive branch for all eternity  ..

We both were late to the date because of rush traffic hours of Izmir.
I was the first one to reach the meeting point.
Wandering around and staring at people were only option at the time.
There were so many girls and couples in the street.
Everybody was passing through to reach somewhere, maybe to a date.

There were a few songsters on the street,
Some of them playing guitar while other one playing clarinet.
The beggers and little ******* were the terror source,
Beside the brochure dealers in Kibris Sehitleri.
Mobile life of the city was infront on me.
I was the observer, I was the flaneur among them.

Suddenly, I heard a voice calling me behind me.
My cutest friend ever, the source of joy was right there.
She was there to give me a huge hug to cheer me up.
A nice hug which was destined to warm my heart up.

I intended to be dull and silent at the beginning.
Until I drunk the beer and unlocked my mouth.
My depressive nature was the source of discomfort.
I know I have so many things to confront.
My best audience and my ******* talkative mouth.
My words were very complex,
They were sounding as if had been destined to be provoker.

My thoughts ruined my former thoughts.
I did not mean to give her a headache.
I intended to explain other me within me.
The complex dreams and emotions beside undefined thoughts,
They were trying to make me insane.

I was like a locked box in other locked boxes.
Sometimes my words were as pure as water,
Sometimes confusing as much as alcohol is.
Emotions were crystal clear but words not.

My stories and problems ruined the harmony,
But she was willing to listen to me as always.
As I told her, I intended not to say the truth.
The truth which slowly tears me, my heart.
Real meaning of hypocrisy I had written her in my poem,
It was just in front of her.
But she was not looking from the right side,
Like I refused to change perspective.



The nightmares I see every night,
Idea of losing her and her friendship.
And next to them there was my selfishness.
But it is suppressed by my cowardice.
The worst fear is to lose her suddenly, very early.

I witnessed chalk clouds touching the Hesperides orange shroud , they in turn crossed nightfalls navy blue horizon ..
The shadows of Hereford cattle returning home , moonshine enveloping brown sugar brome
Evening songsters and prominent whippoorwills calling the day to close* ...

Walking brown hallways of -
February on a moody afternoon
Disregarding material drama , an eye toward
Port Lake , bursting with poetic -
value and quiet companionship
A ruddy featured friend with blue eyes , clothed
in colorful hardwood and evergreen
Placid , olive waters , engaging songsters
A gallery of riverdancers , bottom muddies and
shoreline wonders , a solemn , religious -
vision of the highest order , a plan as no
other ..
Vivacious , musical and needed* ..

will you reincarnate as a bird?
or did a bird reincarnate as you?
its a songsters life that's for sure
the very best of lives are poetry.

Wondering
should I discard this post?
but that's just me playing host
to my insecurities

Lots of people have fringes
most of them lunatic
some of them Edinburgh
and for the songsters
some in a Surrey
I'm in no hurry to join them.

I'm waiting
for the rain to stop
and wondering (again)
what
ammunition does a rainbow use?

Old music on a new radio
I ought to demand a refund

The dial is set to 1968 though
so
I'll just listen
in silence
which makes a change
and
that's what she tells me.

The poetry of Sparrows
in form, song, and flight
feathers, texture, and colours

and the mere fact that they can ride the sky
such small birds, such big hearts
a tribe, family, flock

The poetry of Sparrows
tiny garden songsters
and the wonder of their flight.

A talented blue star borrowed a cup of the magical moon
She sprinkled the pastureland as evening songsters-
performed their tunes
Dara led Earths Opera like a hand to the loom
The northern breeze tamed the Fire of June
She crocheted the constellations
Cross stitched the horizon
Wove the Belt of Orion
Offered blessings to Hill Country & her lake environs ...
Dara O Dara , Mother of Wisteria & Gardenia Blooms ,
traipse the forest of night and return soon...

wee hours of the night
grabs hold

mind body and soul
a would be songsters all

purged and flayed
a deathly silence on lips

travelling now into the black
arms full of stars.

sounds, voices, songsters.

Battle cries.


Death rattles.


Laments.

Goodbyes.

the washing machine has its own songs
along with the fridge freezer
I allow these songsters to sing in my space
because they do me a service.

natural born poets
weaved womb songsters
burst onto the Universal stage.

the Sparrows collective chirrup
songsters beloved of Jesus,
'Not one falls to the ground without your Father in Heaven knowing about it.....