"squab" poems - Hello Poetry

When I was just a little lad I never knew my mom and dad My big brother was my hero. He raised Pidgins as a hobby. One day he upped and promised me a pidgin of my own. Oh goody. One day a storm blew into town and blew his pidgin coop aground. The sole survivor of the storm was one pathetic squab. Here little brother says my sib.He's yours. so I fed him,and built a nest for him, and hugged him, and pet him, and loved him. He was me and I was he my little buddy Pete. and every day I wouldn't stop to play but run home to my Pete. Oh my brother George is my hero. One day I ran home to my Pete and found no sign of him. I asked George where my Pete boy was. He said he had no clue. I found out later That sum-bitch sold Pete. That rat ******* sold my pidgin.

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Sep 27, 2012

Sep 27, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC

geno-cattouse-1

Indian Giver - In Pidgin

When I was just a little lad I never knew my mom and dad My big brother was my hero. He raised Pidgins as a hobby. One day he upped and promised me a pidgin of my own. Oh goody. One day a storm blew into town and blew his pidgin coop aground. The sole survivor of the storm was one pathetic squab. Here little brother says my sib.He's yours. so I fed him,and built a nest for him, and hugged him, and pet him, and loved him. He was me and I was he my little buddy Pete. and every day I wouldn't stop to play but run home to my Pete. Oh my brother George is my hero. One day I ran home to my Pete and found no sign of him. I asked George where my Pete boy was. He said he had no clue. I found out later That sum-bitch sold Pete. That rat ******* sold my pidgin.

19

in the east a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer. he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended. his bonds, repaired. in the west - a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house - to a furnace of blank stares. it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for. it leads to a breach. weary of " who knows ? " a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood. it rankles the vision... it plots despair. in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There - we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly... and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair we vanquish any Southland and the warm sun frosts a glass eye like pyrite. and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...

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Jun 14, 2013

Jun 14, 2013 at 10:24 AM UTC

third-eye-candy

Taxidermy Sundial

in the east a dry man stumbled through the lush panacea of a dessicated prayer his faith moved mustard gas. gasping for clarity, he spoke a thing no god could answer. he languished in the Eden of empirical Dodos a succulent squab in the oasis of fables. he joined the throng. his shackles were mended. his bonds, repaired. in the west - a rye bread crumbles along a path to a candy house - to a furnace of blank stares. it waits moonlit and rustic, alas - it's mad and verily cloaked in a thing no ' nothing ' would ask for. it leads to a breach. weary of " who knows ? " a truculent husk of a drought mislabeled. an actual flood. it rankles the vision... it plots despair. in the north, a gunga din fumbles through the arid Earnest of our Importance. There - we play crude brass. Profundo. at last, we nearly... and even though we wide spark the char of our scorched affair we vanquish any Southland and the warm sun frosts a glass eye like pyrite. and polly wants a lacquer, dark enough to maroon...

23

True beauty is not always seen True beauty needn't be external True beauty is in our individuality In you, in me, in all of us. It is in the glittering eyes. In a squab learning to fly We just need to look for it No matter where it lies True beauty is in love True beauty is in forgiving Even if we do not desire to... It is in laughter, in smile It is a hope, in which no reasons pile True beauty is in clean mind, in pure heart True beauty is in the singing breeze, Racing water, Dancing trees True beauty can never be perfectly And completely defined, It is in you, in me, in all of us, From dawn to dusk.... -Soumya Goswami

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Apr 7, 2016

Apr 7, 2016 at 3:14 AM UTC

soumya-goswami

True Beauty

True beauty is not always seen True beauty needn't be external True beauty is in our individuality In you, in me, in all of us. It is in the glittering eyes. In a squab learning to fly We just need to look for it No matter where it lies True beauty is in love True beauty is in forgiving Even if we do not desire to... It is in laughter, in smile It is a hope, in which no reasons pile True beauty is in clean mind, in pure heart True beauty is in the singing breeze, Racing water, Dancing trees True beauty can never be perfectly And completely defined, It is in you, in me, in all of us, From dawn to dusk.... -Soumya Goswami

22

The first time a pigeon lands on your head you WILL have conflicting feelings. These consist of, "this is a magical experience" and "please don't **** on me". But if you stay calm, interested, determined, and lucky you may build a beautiful relationship. Mayhaps on the chance, you did get pooped on. A torturous smear on your shirt is a valuable resource to a 17th-century European farmer. It is up to you decide if you want to be that farmer. And lastly, if two parties of the columbiform do agree to the terms and conditions, they can form a lasting relationship. That is what I hope to have done with you, my pigeon. Yours Truly, ~Squab

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Jan 29, 2018

Jan 29, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC

MadBunnyScientist

Pragma

The first time a pigeon lands on your head you WILL have conflicting feelings. These consist of, "this is a magical experience" and "please don't **** on me". But if you stay calm, interested, determined, and lucky you may build a beautiful relationship. Mayhaps on the chance, you did get pooped on. A torturous smear on your shirt is a valuable resource to a 17th-century European farmer. It is up to you decide if you want to be that farmer. And lastly, if two parties of the columbiform do agree to the terms and conditions, they can form a lasting relationship. That is what I hope to have done with you, my pigeon. Yours Truly, ~Squab

7

candle flicks orange selflessly spits and pop: pale pips when juice trapped in petroleum wax hits heat and fires to make mists in light a cotton thread ( points vapours ) stutter the dark: yellow the lights lets me see fractions of tar smell sweetly pink in the Valor heater. pressed from thin metal a bomb damped by ribbon squab (broad vapours) starve the cold: red air all weaves shrink as the smoke, a fake evaporate, journey's to the clouds

0

Dec 6, 2016

Dec 6, 2016 at 12:26 PM UTC

mrquipty

reply to a ripple

candle flicks orange selflessly spits and pop: pale pips when juice trapped in petroleum wax hits heat and fires to make mists in light a cotton thread ( points vapours ) stutter the dark: yellow the lights lets me see fractions of tar smell sweetly pink in the Valor heater. pressed from thin metal a bomb damped by ribbon squab (broad vapours) starve the cold: red air all weaves shrink as the smoke, a fake evaporate, journey's to the clouds

26

triangular tree-tops dot the horizon the Fir has a specific shape scented cones fall to delighted squirrels eagerly scooping and burying nature’s bounty as another winter has passed without catastrophe blankly staring out stained glass, longing to feel the grass between aging toes mud puddle hop-scotch memories transport me from a desk and a screen to a childhood filled with wide open spaces and wooded glades and the freedom to explore the world around me soft cooing of the female squab forces the present into focus and I sit watery-eyed trying to recapture a fading memory it slips from view as I try to rekindle an interest in the job at hand slow death by 9 to 5 employment

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Apr 30, 2014

Apr 30, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC

s-lyman-temple

fleeting flashback

triangular tree-tops dot the horizon the Fir has a specific shape scented cones fall to delighted squirrels eagerly scooping and burying nature’s bounty as another winter has passed without catastrophe blankly staring out stained glass, longing to feel the grass between aging toes mud puddle hop-scotch memories transport me from a desk and a screen to a childhood filled with wide open spaces and wooded glades and the freedom to explore the world around me soft cooing of the female squab forces the present into focus and I sit watery-eyed trying to recapture a fading memory it slips from view as I try to rekindle an interest in the job at hand slow death by 9 to 5 employment

14

There's a house where the world has stopped dialing... But a rotary phone, that has my number. and plunders my unavailable daily. We blink like opening a mystery. But we never brush the canvas of any inspiration. we gather in the fields of our golden jokes and each the other are about how nothing is the same that now we see what eyes deny jellyfish and cotton swabs. but there's trees and eggs. it's nothing how we remember love and hate. slow things are voices to recall. but the matter of their wisdom is bleach and peaches. and perhaps a flightless squab. II to endure is to be a living thing. and to love is to die more willingly. but nothing procures the reality like a dream.... and we cluster precisely where we diffuse Unkindly. III Let us walk where the treasures march in impoverished enmity. but know the different things that sanity conspires to reveal. we can be madcap and foreign to our native selves - but never once be alien to what it means in hell. IV heaven is a kind of grace that forgets you. and trees and eggs are something else entirely despite you.

0

Jan 6, 2016

Jan 6, 2016 at 11:50 PM UTC

third-eye-candy

Trees And Eggs

There's a house where the world has stopped dialing... But a rotary phone, that has my number. and plunders my unavailable daily. We blink like opening a mystery. But we never brush the canvas of any inspiration. we gather in the fields of our golden jokes and each the other are about how nothing is the same that now we see what eyes deny jellyfish and cotton swabs. but there's trees and eggs. it's nothing how we remember love and hate. slow things are voices to recall. but the matter of their wisdom is bleach and peaches. and perhaps a flightless squab. II to endure is to be a living thing. and to love is to die more willingly. but nothing procures the reality like a dream.... and we cluster precisely where we diffuse Unkindly. III Let us walk where the treasures march in impoverished enmity. but know the different things that sanity conspires to reveal. we can be madcap and foreign to our native selves - but never once be alien to what it means in hell. IV heaven is a kind of grace that forgets you. and trees and eggs are something else entirely despite you.

48

Dreamy sequel ceased and From thin air came a blow, Misery slithered silently Wrenched my heart it though Tremors were deepfelt Not a frown did I show Ma mère accused divinity I knew I did me wrong. Thud fall shook me bad Things were rosy a while ago, Night came down like silk An atonement started to grow When posed an interrogation How come happened so? My eyes averted sheepishly And conscience plummeted low My head accepted verity Mais heart refused to follow, Like a squab shutting eyes To overlook a felis shadow With broken heart, a lost face And failure laden torso Shackled in remorse did I Go sinking down the hydro.

0

Jul 21, 2017

Jul 21, 2017 at 3:07 AM UTC

Danish_wahi

I Did Me Wrong

Dreamy sequel ceased and From thin air came a blow, Misery slithered silently Wrenched my heart it though Tremors were deepfelt Not a frown did I show Ma mère accused divinity I knew I did me wrong. Thud fall shook me bad Things were rosy a while ago, Night came down like silk An atonement started to grow When posed an interrogation How come happened so? My eyes averted sheepishly And conscience plummeted low My head accepted verity Mais heart refused to follow, Like a squab shutting eyes To overlook a felis shadow With broken heart, a lost face And failure laden torso Shackled in remorse did I Go sinking down the hydro.

24