"squawks" poems
There once was a little sparrow who fell in love with a lion.
The lion warned the sparrow not to love him,
for he was bigger than she,
and he could crush her fragile bones.
But, the sparrow said, "No, Lion. I cannot go. I will love you even as I lay broken beneath your paw."
And so it was.
He loved her like he shouldn't, said they.
She didn't know how to love, said them.
Their squawks and twitters fell upon deaf ears.
The lion and the sparrow ran from them.
The sparrow flew away to nestle in the lions mane,
The lion roared at the slanderers, unknowing animals.
They ignored them.
They walked through woods in the rain,
Escaped in the night
And ran through the plains.
The lion stepped softly,
Kept the sparrow safe.
The sparrow sang sweetly,
Kept him in her wake.
"I love you," said the lion,
"like I never thought I could."
"I love you," said the sparrow,
"like I never knew I would."
"Don't ever go," said the lion,
"I cannot imagine you gone."
"Don't ever leave," said the sparrow,
"I know now, you are my song."
The murmurs faded,
Beasts quieted with time,
But the lion and the sparrow vowed to love the other,
Until the stars fell down.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 9:42 AM UTC
Something awful happened late last night,
And here I lie awake at six AM
Upon the sand of Santa Monica.
The cars drive by, but I don’t notice them.
I used up all my gas to get away
From the ****** pond on my bathroom rug.
It’s more than bleach can handle and I’m scared
That I’ve found a more seductive drug.
Fish intestines line the pier and I
Feel no misery for gutless souls.
The rocks are caked in birdshit, kelp and shells
And, as if in mourning, the cormorant calls.
Upon the rusty handrails, seagulls gossip
Just like feathered girls with brains, persisting
To trumpet my depravity in savage squawks,
And to harass the rest of us for existing.
The white-wimpled, cruel, sadistic nuns
Choose an injured sea lion as their prey.
Cowardly, they flee at his sharp barks–
It’s guts that will decide who wins today.
***** creep over the brown-furred body.
Fighting for its life, it bites the shell
And kills its fellow lifeform. When given
The chance, I’ll defend myself as well.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
Thugs with Pens
Hell-bent; not on cultism
Just airing the other sentiments
That don’t make it to primetime
Thugs with pens
Not poking out eyes
Just venting spleen
Sick of the lies
Thugs with pens
Deserve to be heard
They don’t poison your brain
With stacks of *****
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Can change your mind
In ******* time
Thugs with pens
Can make a dent
They don’t need to insert
Un-readable, un-interesting
Covert small print....
Thugs with pens
Don’t need no script writers
Or advisors nor signatories
Witnesses, nor dodgy men
With gold plated fountain pen nibs
To make amends
Or throw in no hidden clauses
That secretly **** your life blood
Thugs with pens
Don’t aim to pierce your skin
But make their mark
Deeper within
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans
Completely uncensored
champions of free speech
The establishment want suppressed,
silenced, deleted; terminated.
Thugs with pens
And aerosol cans don’t
Schedule meetings
To fix the minutes
And schedule another meeting
And keep ‘minutes’
As square angled
And unproductive
As formal conversation
Thugs with pens
Aim venomous ink
At headless politicians
That squawks like chickens
Bending over
For the *************
Bank-beefing corporations,
Controlling the masses
With ***** little catchphrases
And mounds of munitions
And illegally enforced restrictions
On your movement and free expression
Honest men
Have nothing to fear
From Thugs with Pens & Aerosol Cans
These “thugs” seek asylum
From countries
Where the law’s
Not bought and bent
Thugs with pens & aerosol cans
Are made to wear monikers and masks
Thugs with pens
Don’t turn on its own
Neighbours and citizens
To perpetuate myths:
A ****** ************* lie…
A thing that never happened!
(That’s for all of you dumb wits
out there
Who believe most of the ****
That’s drip fed
Your sensation addicted minds
Most of the time,)
Time you started reading between the lines
In fact get a pen
Or an aerosol can
Write your own lines
Start broadcasting
Reclaim your space
Before you’re completely neoned
Into the shade
And corralled under the spell
Of a TV screen
Or an anger raising headline
That conducts the flow
Of the status quo
Load up your magazines
With ball point pens
And sharp edged writing nibs,
Strap on a belt of aerosol cans
Reclaim your right to free expression
In public spaces
Join the rag-tag army
Of intuitive
Self-knowing men
The End: is well begun,
George Orwell
Should never have written
That blueprint,
‘1984’
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
She hung simple things from the bare apple tree, things like mirrors, ribbons, bells and bird feeders, things to attract the robins and the finches. But then the crows came scaring the robins and finches away, this annoyed her, this drove her to the verge of insanity.
She had an idea though , a terrible one, but an idea. She decided to hang strips of bacon from the tree , bacon laced with poisons, all sorts of poisons , poisons for rats , for weeds , even the type fit for human consumption. Poisons to make them sick, poisons to make the ******** fall from the tree.But crows are much, more intelligent than the average human ,the crows watched the fat lady, observing her murderous ways.
But only the finches and the robins fed from the flesh that dangled from the naked apple tree , only the finches and robins fell to the ground, only the finches and the robins died a horrible dragged out death.This pushed her over the edge , now she just sits and squawks to her self day in and day out, hiding from the flock of crows.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?
Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
*dive.. dive..
dive*
1.
I am eating fog on this pre-dawn bridge
an overcoat of no particular mood
keeping intact considered-sincerity of warmth
inhaling air tight with thin droplets
the c-cold of someone's click-clack in the distance
only an echo of studious-oblivion
glancing over the rail as the water swirls, dense
the silent hum of a slow-passing vehicle
windows darkly stare
I wonder who'd possibly be passing by here
and would they be connecting with that swirl, too
2.
there must be a walrus under there
(shrinking-violet, that it is)
its projections long and probably needing plumbs
the departing fingers of night gnaw
attempt to steal what little shelters here
consent delayed by vertical-curses in bloom
and I'm thinking of a cat I used to have
who certainly didn't favour water
protests become latent-airborne, take off
as screeching squawks swoop by
hungry heartbeats gurgle, drip valiant
station within view.. phew, made it!
*an accordion starts to play..
an elegy fit
for a dive.*
st64, 3 April 2014
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 3:47 PM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Five hundred feet from Terrapin Point the Birdman stands with his bicycle. His face as flat as the quarters he begs for, glares at foreign tourists. Two boisterous parrots, Larry and Mabel. They smell like tourists and change, and are footcuffed to three brass chains connected to his backpack. A Muslim family approaches. They want a picture. Birdman places the birds on the hands of the smallest boy, and his mother takes a picture. Mabel squirms. Larry squawks. Click. A reward for their posturing, Birdman places birdseed on his tongue, and the parrots peck away, ignoring his birdbreathe for an evening snack. The tourists clap and laugh at Birdman and toss him their spare change. Birdman stands. Waits. For another family to pose with his birds.
Mabel licks her wings
and Larry says, "Picture pic."
Birdman stands alone.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
Wing clipped at birth, domestic birds they were.
Farm and spacious pen bound together six years.
She a prodigious egg layer, Don her attentive,
aggressive defender.
Daisy one day predator killed,
old Don outwardly mourning her loss
became a very different bird. All alone
for the first time in his Duck life.
We opened his gate and let him free roam.
A lonely flightless fowl only earth bound.
All aggression subsided with no mate to protect,
he became more social, needing a friend.
Crossing the yard from the barn,
when ever he may see us there.
He hunkers down in the shade
while I tend to the garden,
him like a supervisor, chortling occasional
reprimands or encouragements, I can never
tell which. All just to be close to some living thing.
He will chase after wild doves that land near by,
sadly mistaking them as perhaps a new mate, they
fly quickly away, him wondering what social Duck
blunder he might have made.
When finished in the garden, Don and I to the
barn retire, I ladle out a cup of corn for his pleasure.
Then it's back to his always open pen where his
bathtub sits, I turn on the hose and his excitement
ramps up. Excitedly he squawks and ***** his wings,
jumps into the tub, dives below the surface, reveling
in the cool spray of man made current in his artificial lake,
and with our few moments of companionship shared.
Him doing what ducks do, for a while loneliness abated.
It's almost as if I can see a smile on his pleasant Duck face.
Most days he sits close to the chickens pen, watching
the laying hens, scratching and moving within,
perhaps wishing he was in there with them.
I fear that if I open that wire door and let him go in,
that those ladies would peck him bald or even dead.
No matter how much a lonely Duck wishes he were
a chicken, they remain birds of a very different feather,
and a Duck can remain but a Duck forever.
A thing we might all remember....
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Stark dark black limbs
Breast eyes beak wings
Abysmal feathered
Garments; a messenger.
Mal to prefix, as well,
Remnants from the abyss.
Not malicious, for delicious
Is a delight dragged
Out of any carrion.
Not carried because
They carry enough
Is too much for
These observers of us.
Screeching their squawks.
Perched on boughs for talks.
Of malign imminence.
To coalesce friendly fragments.
Found at any crossing's discourse.
Gusting about an eerie force.
Beacons upon who to bereave.
Portent displacing fallen leaves.
So we re-member
Our piece by piece plummet
Into that omnipotent
Stark dark descent.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 7:08 PM UTC
An old black crow sitting on my tree
Squawks "Hello" each morning to me
Inquiring if I had a good night
Did I rest well? Did I sleep tight?
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Ain't it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
And oooooh isn't it magick, how that old Mister crow seems to notice whenever I'm blue
And oooooh isn't it tragick, how I let myself fall for a cold hearted lover like you.
Well that old black crow, he cares more than you
You know it's true. I never hear from you
I know he'd buy me a ring
And slip it on my finger, with his shiny black wing
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
That old black crow sittin' on my tree
Squawks "Hey baby, won't you marry me?
Your old man don't know what he had
Cause I'm telling you baby, you ain't half bad!"
**Well ain't it funny how an old black crow
Can care with a depth that you'll never know
Aint it funny how an old black bird
Can say so much without saying a word to me**
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
Life is the prattle of an old lady.
She squawks either too loudly
or makes you crane to hear.
as she sits rocking,
her senile nonsense numbs your intelligence
until you sit bleary-
gaping at the air
like the fattest fish in the aquarium.
your every comment drowns
in the mush
of her tapioca voice.
you sit uncomfortably in her fishbowl world of
cottage cheese,
faded floral print- lace doilies
and contemplate your deft superiority
as her denture clicks gnaw on your sanity.
as soon as you think
a vague plotline surfaces in her mumbling
a new great aunt’s third cousin’s baby
weaves its way into the conversation,
and you are hopelessly thrown
like a reused dryer sheet
back into the colored load.
occasionally you attempt to establish a connection
between you and the venerable wrinkled smile
but she mishears and begins another
disconnected strain
featuring Bobby, the lad turned soldier.
but
just
as soon as you gain confidence
that you know how to handle this doddery senior-
she slams you with a small token
of sage advice
that shatters your naïve sphere
with its mind-wrenching validity.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 9:10 PM UTC
In a house of love,
Sweet sounds ring out constantly,
The soundtrack is warm and energetic,
In the movie of my life.
Countless kisses, and close embraces,
Hugs and playful wrestling.
The booming laugh, and
Giddy giggle of my loved ones.
The occasional squawks or yips.
Just add to the beauty of our melody.
It is our love that fills the air with song.
It is your love that sustains me,
My beloved composer of bliss.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 7:53 AM UTC
As he watched the skin slowly peel from the bones,
he remembered his childhood.
Memories of scraping his knees
and being fascinated with the blood
dripping down his leg.
All the times he carefully burned
each leg off a spider
and studied it closely
as it died painfully.
The first birds squawks
as he plucked out each feather individually
then cut it open to see it's lungs
slowly stop taking breaths.
Practically in awe.
But it wasn't enough.
Now
As the man lays,
barely alive and severely broken,
on his basement floor,
he feels some extreme level of pride
that he's never felt before.
It's like...
The more death he can create in the world
The more alive he can make himself feel.
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 8:29 PM UTC
Sea gulls calling
Small waves lapping on the sandy beach
Quarantine Bay
Sleepy as the dawn breaks
Yesterday was wind, ice and cold
Today, a gentle sea breeze
The waves are whispering
Silver ribbons kiss the sand
A Sulphur Crested Cockatoo squawks
He praises the warm sun
It is lovely here
Hearts melt all over the bay
The big thaw
New beginning is long overdue
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 5:33 AM UTC
Clear water, drinking in - earth soaked
purple violets and fiddle head ferns
cold bulbs and garden tubers, buds and flowers unfurl.
The mating clash of birds, their chirpy squawks and words
an aromatic lilac trance in a variance of blue.
Grass and toes, cool and cold
northern winds of spring.
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
Legend in chalk, legend talks, legend squawks, legend walks. Legend’s fate of the great encrypted, scripted or unscripted. The enchantment and endowment of maybes. Legend beckons some determined or predestined babies! Egos aglow, from awesome heroes, Negroes, Neros and zeros of long ago. Clever blowing, growing, knowing and showing wind. There is where legends begin. Doubted and shouted at by the rest! We endeavor and are forever known and shown as the best.
Mar 29, 2012
Mar 29, 2012 at 10:17 PM UTC
i hear
the birds fly
overhead,
their chirps, squeaks
and squawks
inviting me
outside
to join the
morning party.
Sep 6, 2024
Sep 6, 2024 at 5:36 PM UTC
The bird's company
is getting
lonelier
as the flock grows
All I hear around me
ever
a cacophony of
chirps
whistles
squawks
an endless song
of open inclusivity
I open my lion's maw
and release a sad bellow
the birds stop
and scream a unified friend
then it's back to the beginning
verse and verse again
and I'm all on my own
with a lonely view
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 3:52 AM UTC
The Cardinal knows that he is a pretty bird
Splendidly attired in feathers bright and gay
He publishes loudly; he will be heard
Among the squawks of mockingbird and jay
He gobbles and scatters husks, rusks, and seeds
In self-indulgent abandonment
He ignores all others in his wants and needs
They’re secular birds; they can take a hint
The Cardinal certainly loves to be seen
At the public feeder in all his pride
Attentive to fashions, and always keen
For the Best Birds to be posed at his side
But then one day
A few remnant feathers, a ripped cardinal’s hat -
He seems to have forgotten the watchful cat
May 9, 2018
May 9, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
You will not hear the ticking clock,
For hath the phantom hour loom—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.
I hear the vi’lent click. A lock.
All sounds succumb to the raucous boom.
You will not hear the ticking clock.
The shadows one cannot outwalk—
In fear and gloom, they loom and bloom,
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.
Where yon might lie in satin frock,
In barren and desolate room—
You will not hear the ticking clock.
The raven squawks its final squawk,
And falls to the ground—we presume—
As the frigid air stirs and flocks.
Run from Death—to hills and boondocks—
He’ll find you in the spumes and flumes!
You will not hear the ticking clock.
As his frigid hands stir and flock.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 3:16 PM UTC
*I search the sky,
I see the clouds,
I watch the shattered fragments through the greenery.
I hear their calls; those chirps and squawks,
I find the birds,
I listen to their sweet music.
I feel grateful for their kindly chatter.
I am glad for my early morning solitude.*
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
humming fans and clicking keys echo
like colliding tumbleweeds through the
desolated dessert of the computer lab
"Leading the AL in RBIs" squawks the
dingy, white speaker in squeaky stereo
"Best ERA in the majors," it offers a short time later
Watching computers, not have problems, is boring
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
Intwinde in bliss
Cold and still
Chirps and flutters
Pecks and squawks
Bursts of breeze
Cold winter chill
Melding with the trees
One with self and earth
Hours pass, soul calms
Peace in a chaotic forest
One with nature and self
Death floats and spins
Only to promise life renew
There's hope in the decay
As a seed is planted
In my heart and soul
The deer pass by in stately grace
Squirrels hustling to prepare
Birds dancing on a wing
And my soul sings
Cleansed once again
For another year
True love of a son
For his earthly mother
Truly whole, truly one
Dec 1, 2013
Dec 1, 2013 at 9:56 AM UTC