"squawked" poems
The trail rose up
through the sand
and sage covered hills
following the sinews of a land
scoured by fire and flood.
Even the most severe carving
here was nothing
compared to the city below-
its concrete grid
glaring over my shoulder-
sprawled out,
******* on its dingy
comforter of smog-
******* up
the dust of the desert
around it.
The trail led me up.
Up past twisted
juniper bones,
past pale green yuccas
curling
fine white filagree
from their dagger blades,
past sandstone boulders
swirled like confections,
past ancient cooking pits
nested with ash,
and ghost-like hands
outlined on stone-
to a white cliff face
up-thrust
beneath the cloudless sky.
From a lone stump
a pinyon jay squawked
drawing my eyes down.
A sentinel
to its comrades-
who rose up
from the draw to my left
and sailed in twos and threes
sinking down into
the draw on my right.
Right before me,
around me, behind me,
first two- then six,
then tens of metallic blue
wings beating heavily against
the unfamiliar desert air.
They had come down.
Down from the scrubby
forests of pine.
Down from snow
covered slopes.
Hungry,
they searched the green
fingers of the washes-
the winter forcing them
down across the trail
that was drawing me up.
They passed close by,
wing beats feathered my ears,
first up, then down-
the sentinel
keeping an eye .
Listening, suddenly hearing
my breath beat
against the wind-
I stood motionless, perched
beyond starting
and destination-
blue wings lifting
the hunger within.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
one day my teacher asked me
why I always wrote in lowercase letters
her glasses perched on the top of her beak
she squawked,
"you were not taught that in school, young lady.
it is not proper, young lady."
and I gripped my pen tighter
or maybe a little looser
it's hard to tell lately.
but I looked in to her black beady eyes
and disapproving frowny face
and whispered "see how I am whispering
do you see how you are leaning closer
like I have a secret
more intimate, correct?
that is my writing:
an intimate secret.
for you"
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
"Sloths!",
she squawked,
almost incoherently,
I'd just took a sip of my tea.
"To most, they remain a mystery".
The remark remained a mystery to me.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:54 PM UTC
ravens squawked
on that half moon night
the people in the village
were filled with fright
a scary portent lingered
upon the forest dell
the black sorcerer
was mixing a horrid spell
winds whirled
in an agitated manifest
evil twas the potion
prophetic its guest
horror sprung
from the cauldron's brew
atop the hills
smokey fires did spew
eerie groans emanated
inside the sorcerer's chest
the incarnate devil
dwelt in his breast
he opened his mouth
to consume a gnarly toad
as the fleeing villagers
ran along the forest road
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Bill played piano down by the bar,
moldy old show tunes
gray-haired folks listened to,
in youth they'd played over...and over.
He once told me he was terminal,
diagnosed with months left,
and had just one request
of his own to be met
before accepting eternal rest -
peace in the kiss
of a handsome young man
who's powder blue eyes
might make him feel young again.
I thought he would weep,
and heart aching, obliged,
gratified by the smile,
sweet joy it seemed to bring him...
'till Sarah stuffed a dollar
in the tumbler of tips
he kept perched on the edge
of the piano he played -
he'd won their wager
he could get the
straight kid to kiss him.
Sarah cooked in the kitchen
and I always wondered
what sort of mother
named her son -
Sarah Vaughn -
then heard the sparrow sing
on the radio, laughing
because the one I knew
squawked like a crow
and dressed
in wigs and woman's clothes
when work was finally done.
The coincidence seemed
a delicious, karmic prank,
payment for some past-life indiscretion.
Michael studied flamboyance,
raised to high art in sweeps of his hand,
head tossed back, as if to keep pace
with legs was annoyance.
Adolescent innocence ended
when I realized the only other
guy employed there
who was straight like me -
was really a she -
chest wrapped real tight.
May 1, 2010
May 1, 2010 at 9:38 PM UTC
When the first sweet scent of summertime,
sifted through the sea-salt scented air,
so many things and everything
were bright, light and happy-go-fair,
the Summer Life with you was finally here.
As soon as our bare feet hit the wood bridge,
running from the road up over the dunes,
great grey seagulls squawked, dove and swoon,
we held hands together, one and one
made two,
dash-dancing across the shiny sand with you,
dressed and undressed in our Summer Life moods.
Colours like pinwheels spun like yarn,
flashed and clashed bright orange to blue,
you danced and giggled like a loon,
pulled me up and so close, so close
to you,
that I had to dance, I had to dance like a loon,
I just had to laugh and dance and laugh along with you.
How we played, we frolicked beneath the beachy sun,
belly-surfed upon the waves just for funny fun,
flicked flecks of sand from our sticky picnic lunch,
shared swigs from a big blue thermos jug
of fruity-fruit yummy punch,
sharing and caring beneath the Summer Life's sun.
By evening-tide the air grew cool,
you called me 'lover,' I called you 'fool'
-with a big ol' blanket draped over our shoulders,
we kissed and cuddled, growing much bolder,
falling flat back
upon the mighty mattress of sand,
feeling the mists of the waves licking our hands,
as the Man-In-The-Moon arose and shone,
to dance and laugh with us on the Summer Life's throne.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 1:46 AM UTC
There was a vicar from Crewe
Whose congregation were few
To make amends he brought in his hens
And they all lined up on a pew
Then he compiled an avian choir
(For the singing voice of the hens was dire
And the only song the cockerel knew
Was cock-a-doodle-do)
The church fell silent as we heard
The Lord is my Shepherd from the minor bird
The vicar invited us to pray
And we got the Lords Prayer from the African grey
There followed a rendition of psalm thirty four
Performed without fault from the tenor macaw
The parakeets squawked and scratched their fleas
As they jumped up and down on the ***** keys
The vicar was thrilled it was going so well
The geese gave a honk as they pulled on the bell
But then there appeared right at the back
An evil sparrowhawk poised to attack
Calamity reigned inside the church
The African grey fell off his perch
The first to escape was the tenor macaw
As fast as he could through the open door
The chickens shrieked and went home in a flap
The minor bird had a heart attack
The geese walked away back to their pen
And the church fell silent once again
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
This year was different
or was it me?
same Trafalgar crowds
link-armed-laughing
pigeons
puff-chested gluttons
different air
full of afterthoughts
I could almost touch
fluttering away
like rusting leaves
on winter's breath
I waited
on our bench
dark cold
stark old
wood
lovers kissed shyly
birds squawked
she laughed
eyes wide
flushed cheeks
Valentine's heart pounding
in a fledgling chest
I wondered if she were me
willing me to remember
hugging him close
I longed
to melt inside her happiness
old words, love and burger-boxes
where do they go?
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
the soldier knelt to fix his cap,
dug deep into trenches, he stopped.
amidst the shots, he reached for the map
if not in his pocket, it’s lost.
“it seems like we’ve been here for years”
the man beside him squawked.
*“an hour seems like many days,
because we’ve gotten so lost.”*
unsure of quite how to respond,
the soldier raised his brow
but as he was about to speak,
the man who’d spoken went down.
the soldier raised his head to see the great alsace-lorraine.
the war had raged for far too long, and so he contrived an escape.
he planned to sneak across the flank,
advance the trench on his own
but as he stood to make his break, his heart
sank quite gut-wrenchingly low.
he thought to himself in a humble tone,
“i can’t do this alone.”
although his intentions were clearly courageous,
his weakness truly had shown.
as lady luck would have her way,
the days kept withering by
as the soldier so fervent to capture this land
tried not to keep track of the time.
they advanced to the east, but to their dismay
the french would push them right back
and until a day they’d find a way,
the men had no way to attack.
a fateful storm rolled in one day,
a blanket of snow o’er the field
and the mood of both great war machines,
had slowly came to a yield.
the soldier, so tired of the weight of the war
climbed out, with a fire in his eye.
he raised his rifle high in the air
and cried “Deutschland über alles”
the soldier then fell onto his knees,
and raised his hands to the the sky
not seconds passed before the scream
as snow and french bullets did fly.
the soldier was struck right through his lung
and grasped his chest to breathe
but all could see his head was hung
as the soldier collapsed from his knees.
there was no escape, he said to himself
as the snow slowly blurred into light
and he passed away on the holy ground
and they never did win that fight.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 4:02 PM UTC
Down, down and down he goes
To rich navy troughs and cerulean hues
His winged arms flailing to the skies
Wishing for his father's watchful eyes
The sobs of Daedalus are silenced by the sea,
And his tears are drowned in the waves
Icarus has fallen! Icarus has fallen to his death!
Oh how the seagulls squawked with mirth!
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC
I've never eaten a salad so fast
as when my best friend and I
went to a restaurant where
a man with one leg
and a loud voice
squawked about
something artistic,
and since I'm still a little girl
in body, soul and mind
I sit on my feet.
My friend and I stopped talking
about something artistic as well
and listened to them.
"I gotta take a ****
said the one-legged man,
and though my back was turned to him,
I could hear how tall and broad he was.
As he passed me-
that's how I saw his one leg-
he stopped at my table,
noticing my insecurities
and said,
"I wish I could still sit on my legs like that.
Hey get a load of this,"
he said to his friend with
blue eyes and no teeth.
"hah," said his comrade
and the one legged man
hobbled off to take a ****
I guess,
but now I'm left wondering
Did he mean before he lost his leg
or before he was that small?
I thought it was a relevant question.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 11:19 AM UTC
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
I felt his coarse hands grip mine, too;
I lived through Mr. Hooper vicariously
as I looked down at open palms
spread to the heavens,
illuminated in the flashy brilliance of the glare.
I saw wrinkled, calloused eyes peer into mine;
I stood on that rickety old dock
in my fitted and worn wool cap,
faded denim shirt matching pants
and dingy white tennis shoes.
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Hooper."
My ego crestfallen as well,
pride in my intelligence proven in the Academia
withering, as the gritty gap-toothed
leery-eyed barnacle of a sailor
peered inquisitively into my soul.
He saw the smooth hands--
ah, but the callouses engraved deep between joints
on my fingers; a musician!
His eyes grilled, "In bourgeois leisure,
smiling meekly dwelling within milquetoast afternoon hours,
or,
from downtown haunts sweating jazz in the midnight hour,
dancing screaming cursing moaning lovingly?"
My eyes cast down again.
But I know not of the city as my abode!
I know the ****** and the farmer
more than any contributor to painted landscapes, nay;
they are my acquaintances, neighbors, cousins, brothers, and sisters!
For I have lived on the water;
I have eyed the vessels
commandeered by the gritty, grubby,
greased captains of my soul,
as I float buoyed in their wake,
eager to catch a semblance of the waters
that trail before them.
I live treading their wake,
eyes open and pencil in hand.
And lo;
I found sanctuary in the vast fields of the rustic farmer!
For I ate breakfast of the freshly-slaughtered calf;
I drank its mother's milk,
eggs fresh from the poultry den--
I squawked along with the mother hens.
I took in the bucolic smell of the country
atop the rugged tractor,
eyeing squinting
grimacing like a smile in the sun
burning burning down upon stiff backs
and leather necks--
I, the leaves of grass scattered
in the wake of the farmer,
I, the bails of hay furled tightly
sitting patiently in the once golden meadow,
I watched the tractors and their commandeers
disappear in the bombinate horizon;
the sound of insects ushering in the night sky
like unrolling the starry-eyed carpet
before the hazy late afternoon moon.
I watched, I lived,
waiting coiled in their wakes
eyes wide open and paper clenched in hand.
I lifted my eyes to once again
hear his curt admonition:
"Y'got city hands, Mr. Rhine."
Jan 26, 2016
Jan 26, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
In line for the new roller coaster
was a group of ex-protestors
in cobbled monogamous flocks.
They squawked and squawked.
She warbled.
He wooed.
She swayed.
He swooned.
And she only had sunscreened her front.
Her back must've stung.
Bright red.
But I bet she reserves her best stories
for unreserved reservations in bed.
Feb 22, 2018
Feb 22, 2018 at 1:22 PM UTC
In Easter’s silent night
The beach had held its breath
Reverence for the morning’s might
Sustenance for some, others, death
The swollen belly of the moon
Taunting the depths of impending rapture
A massive haul, soon come, soon!
To spark much frolic and laughter
the sun’s rays began to warm the sands
and footprints followed after
The pulling of seine by many hands
Brought much dismay, if not disaster
Cries of saboteur!
Fingers had never pointed faster
The fault lay with an amateur
“bad lucky” said the wiser
And at the end of morning’s light
When bellys held their breath
The pelicans and gulls squawked in sweet delight
Sustenance for some, others, death
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 12:25 AM UTC
I walked down my front steps
this morning on a
sweltering January Wednesday,
and across the street
a mean hawk
had in its grip a truly unremarkable
run-of-the-mill pigeon.
I couldn't tell if the bird was dead yet
but something told me
there was a life yet to be fully realized,
so I made sure not to get run over
while crossing the street.
When I got too close that feathered dinosaur
squawked at me
for interrupting his breakfast,
but his breakfast was still alive,
and I couldn't sleep at night
knowing this.
The hawk cursed me one more time
but I had taken a step too far.
He let the poor thing go and
I have never seen any living animal
fly so fast in 22 years.
It was something like watching
a man being chased by another man
with a chainsaw,
the anticipation and uncertainty
of whether or not
Herr Hawk caught up
with the unlucky *******
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:33 PM UTC
Bored meeting again,
And we’ve assembled ourselves,
Well situated, to see the clock,
Later arrivals take the leftover chairs
And the words begin to drone.
Pencils getting pushed,
While we’re thinking, how’d we get here;
We left in such a rush,
Our brains are scrambled mush,
When suddenly there’s a silence-
A response is now required;
More murmuring and muttering,
Chair legs being squawked,
Drawings on white boards,
Handouts passed about:
We wish that we just had the guts
To get up; walk right out.
Our lives are lived in neutral,
While clocks hammer out our days;
We owe our every bit of food
To something someone says.
This meeting feels interminable,
In so many different ways,
And just when we’re most sure, we’ll die-
Adjournment comes; the end.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 4:23 PM UTC
I met an unfriendly parrot
I can’t blame him really. He lived in a cage
He stood there and squawked
Screaming displeasure at all who passed.
Staring balefully at sunburnt tourists
Asking if polly wants a *******
He doesn’t want a ****** single one.
I did find out what he liked.
Completely by accident.
Turns out he likes songs,
Click songs, because
“The white people cannot say Qongqothwane”
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 7:08 PM UTC
I heard my life in mono before I met You
We became stereo
Me: channel left
You: panned right;
A cohesive strengthening of sound
A mutual clatter of turbulence, with such underlying beauty
Only we knew the clamor was best for Us, though no one believed
As the cacophony grew, Your speaker buzzed and squawked
I played unaware, loving the crescendo
-
Eventually, as stereos do, You
Shorted out
Grew weaker and weaker with each
Note; melodies were crumbling
I fiddled with the wires,
Hoping, wanting both sides of our discord to stay true
-
Then you were silent
Eerily and I kept screaming
Roaring with a clatter that could have blown my own side of this
Disquiet. You were muted, hushed
Now I hear but half of my life
The left remains;
The right, You, are not even
Static, and I pray for mono
Again
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
Images ran wild, they boiled the water,
Like a train running off the track
They trickled down, metaphors poured out
The world, million voices, reverberated
Buzz-buzz-buzz, inside my head.
I was alone in that room
With panic attacks, lust and voices-
That slipped in through my half-window.
I broke the mirror, the brutal paparazzo
Who printed pictures of my many facades
I looked at him and grinned,
Clink-clink-clink they smiled once-
Dancing with wine glasses and alcoholics.
I walked, walked fast and twirled-
Like a tornado inside my cube
People spoke outside-life tales, notebooks,
Their late night phone calls and fine men.
The world didn’t bother to open the door,
Tick-tock tick-tock tick-tock the clock yawned.
I sat on the floor and opened my pen,
It vomited blue letters on the yellow paper-
The customary dilemmas, past and blunders
But something was new, a story.
I looked for The English Patient, the nurse
And his burnt skin I misplaced
They did not appear, I lost hope.
Gur-Gur-Gur, I snorted like a mad cat
Misdirected to an old jute sack.
I climbed up to my bed, hid under the rotten-
Blanket and closed my eyes, the images ran,
Ran away from me, climbed the hardwood staircase
And fell down, I broke my knee.
I opened the books- USSR, Pasha, Buddhism,
Laughed loud like an unbalanced bloke,
Tore them apart into pieces and pieces,
Hush-Hush-Hush, my yellow monkey warned
And I played with him “hush-hush-hush”.
I sat next to my half-window
The pseudo city, dozy walls and the distressed-
Street light. Out of track.
Images flashed again- chewing gums, pink house,
The anonymous Christmas gift, malnutrition
And the hibiscus my mother planted,
“Incey Wincey Spider- Incey Wincey Spider”
I sang all day looping around a pole.
I sneaked down to the floor and dreamt
Eyes wide open, a black and white old film.
There was no exile, no god and his sins
No wafers and secret lessons upstairs.
Only the sea, popomatic, DD evenings
Cassettes and a rocking bamboo chair
Aw uck- aw uck- aw- uck , the seagulls squawked,
I slept.
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 10:55 AM UTC
I'm standing on a square.
A metre each way, a square
If I move I'll fall off this square
is squaring me up, squinting at me
Learning it has power over me
This square is all I am
This square is scaring me.
I think it's made of wood, a wooden square
Solid yet creaking this wooden square
rotting beneath me, a square
that snares me, spares me the fall I'd have without it
This square stares at me.
I know every part of this, this square
it squeaks this square, at me this square
I have walked to all it's corners but this square that squared me up and squawked at me, squealed and stammered under my feet
It became my home,
this square
that ensnared me, still stares at me but continues to spare me
is starting to show me,
At least now I know where I stand.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:11 PM UTC
The seagull squawked:
Are you dead?
I cannot see him - there is sand
In my eyes. A crab (it must have been)
Scuttles across my foot;
Picking up scraps at the seaweed
Wrapped around my toes: the vibrant
Green now worn out from its trip
Across the seas.
Land ** We rejoiced,
Docking at Island ---
It's your turn to name it.
Log Number 712: we are intoxicated
With a tropical fruit
That made your face flush
Putting every sunset to shame.
And at night we play a game
To guess which is sea or sky.
You are my mirror.
A gentle breeze caresses my thigh.
Are you awake?
You whisper, your breath tickles
Condensing into dew
Landing on the tiny hairs of my ear.
The sand feels like mud but
My mouth is dry
I lick off the trail of sweat
On my upper lip - it is hot
I open my eyes to the sun screaming
at my face: Get up. You're late.
We had begun falling asleep
At different times.
You built a tree house
It made your heart race
And there you drew a scape
What was there to look beyond?
One night the sky had
The sea turned into smoke
You followed the beating
Of thunder
So distant you couldn't
(Listen to me) yell Watch out!
Lightning --- the water shimmered
As you disappeared.
(Water)
Log number 890: we are capsized
(Water)
The crab picked out
The sand in my eyes
Dragging the seaweed to my mouth.
I chewed then spat and the seagull squawked:
"Are you dead?"
No, I said. I think I have arrived.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
Cosmic Consciousness
At the gas station
I offered to buy a man
A granola bar
He had returned
I thought he couldn't
Afford it
But he just returned it
Because there was
An ingredient in it
He couldn't have
I said I
Was embarrased
He said it was
Sweet of me
And that I restored
His faith in mankind
Well, that was
Kind of him
Just try to love
Your fellow man
I went on a walk
In the neighborhood
In the mountains
I met a kind woman
She complimented me
And I did the same
I won't say what was said
Some things
I keep only for me
And don't even
Type them here
It was a wonderful walk
I heard the birds
And I picked up
The conversations
As I often do
Dream time
I turned left down the street
As I type
I am listening to
A recording
Of birds
I cannot remember where
It was taken
There are voices
In the background
On my walk this evening
The parrots squawked
Four flew close together
"Feed the birds"
She said
She was giving them seed
On her front porch
Through the trees
Of a front lawn
A woman in her kitchen
And on the corner
A man and woman
Surveyed the small trees
And plants on their lawn
And I am reminded
That this is America
This is a beautiful land
A beautiful land
And these people
Live in peace
And in these beautiful
Mountain homes
And aren't they blessed
And I prayed
For these people
Just like I prayed
For the people
At the gym
I did not know them
But I spent so much time
WIth some people
At the gym
They are my brothers
And sisters
We spent time
Doing the same activity
In our American gym
And everyday
You have food
And shelter
And some friends
Well be grateful
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 11:29 PM UTC
This is the Field Marshall, tall and grand,
Who bellowed at Generals beneath his command,
Who shouted at Brigadiers in fine attire,
Who hollered at Colonels to make them jump higher,
Who screeched at the Majors and caused them to shake,
Who yelled at the Captains to keep them awake,
Who squawked at Lieutenants to keep them in line,
Who wailed at the Sergeants in double quick time,
Who shrieked at the Corporals and made them feel small,
Who screamed at the Privates worth nothing at all,
Who stood in the trenches and will never forget,
When they ran a man through with a fixed bayonet,
And held his hands tightly, as watching him die,
They whispered to no one, "Oh why, but oh why?"
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 12:30 AM UTC
Metallic hinges squeaked and then squawked
Single sliced rubber seat swung under a lime green bar.
An adolescent boy. Bemoaning his brother’s turn.
Heave, ** Swinging hard.
Capturing the tops of trees.
Leaning a few feet off the ground returning once more with fast pace.
Rose-colored cheeks, squinted,
One tear then two, until both cheeks puffed
Runway skids in the wood chips. Cruised him to a halt.
Sniffles, and tears were handled
Hand in hand
They were scripted together for life.
Feb 1, 2020
Feb 1, 2020 at 9:03 AM UTC
...a graveyard of all things
across the street of this house I've rented on the beach
a family plot on the opposite end of an empty 3 or 4 acres
this wasn't in the description
but I find nothing more comforting than a few dozen resting souls
nearby
while I too rest
I awoke the first morning to a sigh and then another
as clear as if she were laying beside me
and later that day...near dusk
I paid a visit where she rest
and returned with the sounds and images of my new friends
the Austins, the Stowes, the Farrows and the Wades
the blackbirds squawked and jumped from tree to tree
they did not approve of my interest
perhaps they are the protectors of these souls
settlers of the Outer Banks
Jun 4, 2018
Jun 4, 2018 at 4:36 PM UTC