"storks" poems
A blue black cloud, all over me is written JOY
in the script of vapor, dense, moist and meaningful,
I am light, like a feather, the breeze is in love with me for that,
I love his gentle persuasion to waft, move about, explore..
and then--ravaged by wind my love changes direction.
I love freedom more than anything, but forgot limits, hover
now, I am no more attached to the green hills, they are jealous,
far above them am I, untouched by their vainglorious pride,
I am not hard-hearted, parched fields send shivers of lightning
break me in to thousand smaller pieces, scatter around.
My love for this earth is kindled by the sights unfurling below
all the egrets, cormorants, storks and herons of great magnificence,
those kind hearted friends that fly with me often are in pain
like the farmers, there isn't enough water for anything.
A cloud is a thought, inspired by the love for mother earth
by the ocean I am gifted to the breeze, to tour around,
on many lands fell my shade, found life in all varieties,
now is the time to be kind at heart, melt, fall in torrents.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC
~~
The soft chill winds
a cloudy day
ah! what a feeling!
drifting with the streams
how the life instills!
Waves of song coming from the distant
white Storks flying as the fall guy
how the dreams come and go
between you and me
between the land and sea
In the sky rafts of white clouds
crafts the arrival of autumn
assuming the flame of Love
what a beautiful play!
what a fairs of tune!
~~
Oct 11, 2015
Oct 11, 2015 at 3:11 PM UTC
When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun
And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire
When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound
Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart,
The morning is flying on the wings of his age
And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.
7.3k
Anthropogenic climate change
Nuclear fallout Chernobyl
Raptors flourish
And wolves
Dwell
Sleeping.
Catfish swimming
In a cooling eye
Grown old and untouchable
By mans wills.
Rusty ships
Wetlands
Roam free.
Storks in their nests
1875
The cheval de prjevalski
Dye without mercy
The fallout from time
A call to restore
A broken land.
The wolves cry
The wolves cry
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
He had to come back.
On a December afternoon
when the sun was more to west,
he landed on the most favorite place of his house,
the roof.
Just as he had imagined
the still winter air was abuzz with life.
Doves were pairing for a home
Green bee-eaters swooped on insects
Two herons kept following the grazing cow
Crows were busy with twigs and wires
High up beyond where paper kites could soar
Storks slow sunned their wings wet from the jhil
The cats warmed their furs before the cold night
The stray puppy gamboled with its mother.
Each piece had perfectly fitted the other
including the silently sleeping house.
He was tempted to walk down once
has she changed any little way?
He smiled to himself
then breezed away from the roof.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
Birds in cages are immortalized in poetry,
in wordy melancholy and round top cages beside
windows tauntingly open to the mountains, the
earthy smell of wheat and the breezy ocean air.
Hundreds of perturbed human eyes press close against brass,
mooning with open mouths and dry lips
cooing baby-talk bird-calls in hope of a
crying return, like a blessing,
or a soft forgiveness.
Outside,
Lovebirds are doves and songbirds.
They commune with owls and storks
and perch on branches, all the better to coo
and cry to the loving, glowing moon.
Anger, jealousy, and fright are all stones. They are heavy
and they have no place in the bellies of skybirds.
Caged birds have jealousy and clipped wings,
brass bars bent into tiny atmospheres, but canaries
carry bile in their beaks, beady black eyes watching
changing seasons with singing spite.
I am and have always been a swallow,
all creamy white belly and a thousand
creeping kinds of brown.
I wish to stay up, up for a thousand hours
in the realm of thought. In your thoughts,
I wish to be the voice whispering stories to you
from inside your precious head, curved
lovingly above me like an unending sky.
I am wings and feathers and I am full of things
that I desire much much more than air.
Oct 13, 2010
Oct 13, 2010 at 5:21 PM UTC
solitary soul in the sea
slovenly storks slide
(against a grey sky)
seeking satisfactory sensations
solidifying
soul searching solutions
Nov 28, 2010
Nov 28, 2010 at 9:52 PM UTC
Sweet lips encrusted in sugar from the hot doughnuts at the steam fair.
Baked in the dusty sunshine of an August afternoon in North London.
I would roam these streets from childhood into adulthood,
Drinking £2,50 wine at bus stops only to get thrown out of the pub for illusionary bathroom shots
Our real crime? Being too young.
Since then, i have drunk Spanish manzanilla in an old tobacco store room
Transformed into a house where wafts of old book smell mingling with the scent of baked terra cotta and lemon trees sweeps down dark corridors revealing hidden gems of traveled souls.
Where there are streets that belong to Phoenician women , Arab traders , Christian crusaders and now the Spanish folk
All these names we go by , yet still human we stand
Up on roof tops, smoking sneaky roll ups to the elegance of storks
Building nests on church domes and castle walls
Monuments to remind the future
Graffiti on the natural landscape , the ruins read " we waz ere"
From shores of the Atlantic to shores of the Atlantic
Brooklyn rises
The night bus to eat pizza alarmed me
How were the buses so different ?
London's told you where you were
New York's Made you suss it out for yourself
In the company of a Father i hardly knew and the Mother of my new sibling
Child ,
Who will you become ?
Shaped by the contrast of your parents skin , your curled hair yet to emerge from fresh formed follicles
Rest easy ,
This world Ain't so harsh
I found God at the bottom of a bowl of noodles
Simply sitting there , lazing about as i licked my lips of the residual chillies and sugar
I deal in the order of paradoxes
Born by the sea only to grow up in the 'so called' luxury of the cities jungle
Although, resting now in the moon soaked mountain air ,
no city can compare, to the fragrance of flowers that bloom and scent only for those who brave the night
I used to be afraid of the dark ,
Now i make love with it.
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
I
duchess in labor;
trusted royal storks on call;
where is the baby..?
II
duchess delivers,
trusted royal storks receive;
a charmed boy or girl...?
III
duchess is relieved,
royal baby is conceived;
it's a burly boy!
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
1. Owl Of Night
Hoot cracks the night air,
Rustling rodents stands frozen,
Shock, swoop, attack prey.
2. Bat Of Night
Clear sight of blindness,
Sonar sounds rebound; its wings
cut fog; vampire.
3. To The Eagle
Giant golden flight,
Endless grace and smoothly glides,
Strong; its nation falls.
4. To The Graceful Swan
Elegant swimmer,
Pure white like virginal snow,
Paired to bitter end.
5. The Butterfly
Multicoloured gift,
Taken by the gusts to blend
like petal to plant.
6. The Butterfly Effect
Toxic explosion,
Hong Kong is destroyed; travels,
Condemns London air.
7. King Of The Jungle
Magnificent beast,
Ruler of his skilful pride,
Stalks African plains.
8. Roar Of A Tiger
Powerful calling,
Echoes ‘cross the heated land,
Mighty animal.
9. A Proud Cat
Sits in the garden,
Ears pricked, curled tail, statuesque,
Pride clear in her purr.
10. A Dog
…is a mans best friend,
…brightens the darkest of days,
…guarantees friendship.
11. The Wolf
A midnight howler,
Ghostly happenings occur,
Silhouetted; still.
12. The Polar Bear
Camouflaged in white,
Against the snow he hides out,
Tough, sturdy and pure.
13. God and the Devil
One high in the clouds,
Symbol of goodness; he’s blessed,
One below the ground.
14. To The Heavens
Are you really there?
Floating land of peaceful rest,
Will I be let in?
15. To Hell
Overwhelming flames,
Dead with red burns, smoke filled lungs,
Worse than hell on Earth.
16. To Mother
You granted me life,
Cared, and still do, for my health,
Made happiness real.
17. To Father
Encouraged and led,
Guided me with your being,
Created this man.
18. To My Siblings
Sister and brother,
On my shoulder no my back,
Love, care, lend and steer.
19. To A Child
Tiny newborn boy,
Asleep in his mothers arms,
The storks’ joyful gift.
20. To A Friend
A supporting hand,
To turn to, cry with and trust,
To laugh with and love.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 11:55 AM UTC
two summers ago,
I found myself under a cabbage leaf
curled beneath the sun.
circled in slumber,
like there was never an end to anything.
then, I grew wings
and left my warmth for speed
sacrificing my calm breeze for cold storms
and windy nights.
on my flight home,
I sit through red lights and
look for tear tracks on the
faces of strangers
kissing their cheeks with my eyes
and pretending I can see the salt.
because there is hope left in
loss, my friends.
sometimes, you just have to let
the best things fall.
(how do you think storks still fly?)
so, I spend rush hour
untying the cloth diapers from my ankles
and when the highway pulls
my hills away from me,
I send them flying out the window
like dead birds
knowing
I will never see the seeds
fertilized through their bones
praying God thinks this
is a gesture of my good will.
let us all pray that God notices
our empty hands when we give up
the deepest now for an uncertain future.
Personally, I am praying for a cardboard-box
collection of home movies documenting
the growth of all the people I left,
of all the places thrown behind me
like stale cigarette smoke,
the homes I have broken with
my ever moving feet, my restless
guilty wings.
I will project the shaky film
all over my internals until my
gut is soaked with light
and the last shocked thought
of my quickly fading mind
will be of the things I could have seen,
the memories I would have made
if I had not gone away so much.
If I had just stayed.
but the wind is a vicious thing,
especially the updrafts
especially the hot breath under wings
which gradually convinced me
that my home was a cold dead thing
that there was no life left in my town
that the only world worth seeing was
far far away.
I have burned the eyes
of bluegrass Beethovens dying
slowly on a stage just to prove
that I never needed a quiet place.
that I was above all the country songs
and overalls and camouflage,
but we all need to hide sometimes.
even from ourselves.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 11:39 AM UTC
*and you shall be content with stirring up the sentimentalities of the old,
rather than be content in capturing the imagination of the young.*
i only write in my mother tongue when i feel too much
oppression, when it’s not worth being reminiscent
of the years 1772 through to 1939, only then do i use it,
and using it weep. i know of the post-colonial stress disorder in
western societies, it’s effective use in psychiatry
of these societies to curb any ambition of historical reminiscene,
i know of the oppression where man integrating
into these societies is told to relinquish his mother tongue,
i know of these oppressions: and of eastern european "exotica" -
you wouldn’t be fooled to expect tigers and polar bears,
palms date trees and icebergs to be so close to england!
murzynek bambo wita! kopciuszek magda wita!
hanzel und gretyl / bambo i magda!
but did you know poland is the host nation of the european
bison, and the no. 1 tourist destination of storks?
oh... polar bears it is.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 6:19 AM UTC
white storks, fly up in unison,
from the green paddy
like musical notes,
rising up, up and fading away.
Dec 27, 2011
Dec 27, 2011 at 9:35 AM UTC
This is the time I cannot bear: this silent evening hour
As I shut windows and the balcony to prying nightsong:
In the trance of dim lights, I ride the incense plume
Across whispers and half-thoughts, slicing through
The canvasses of time: that unforgettable house of love
Perched by the lakes, circled by the stream and canal
Where worlds and time stopped to catch a glimpse
Many shades of grey silhouetted against stormy skies
Of swans gliding past fresh ripples across reeds
Drenched in a hundred hues of ethereal moonlight,
Hum of the wind surfing on the waters, drunken voices
Of assorted lovelorn: thrushes, finches, hidden warblers
Majestic storks and herons guarded the secret doors
To eternity, pitched right in the middle of the great city
By the home that housed love in precious embrace
O the cold of the winter that screened for damp corners
In our souls, through meditative shades lining the view,
The home that I squandered, I who love ruins and rubble
Aug 15, 2012
Aug 15, 2012 at 12:02 PM UTC
*On the blue black paper, western sky spreads,
mirthful white storks in a formation write-
a poem that steals every heart in an instance.
When the colors of dusk infuse meaning, it gleams,
cumulus clouds above are flush with goosebumps,
below, the green trees start a spirited samba dance,
evening breeze translates it, in to a jaunty song.
Oh! celestial poet, thy immortal verse, comes alive
rings aloud, without words and none reciting it.*
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Black
is dripping from
the clouds.
White,
storks are
painted black.
Red
rain lashes
raising alarm.
Green
fields are turning grey
before our naked eyes.
Blue
skies are
beyond eyeshot
always.
Yellow
leaves
fall all through
the year.
The globe
acquires a
new wardrobe
beware!
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
He had to come back.
On a December afternoon
when the sun was more to west,
he landed on the most favorite place of his house,
the roof.
Just as he had imagined
the still winter air was abuzz with life.
Doves were pairing for a home
Green bee-eaters swooped on insects
Two herons kept following the grazing cow
Crows were busy with twigs and wires
High up beyond where paper kites could soar
Storks slow sunned their wings wet from the jhil
The cats warmed their furs before the cold night
The stray puppy gamboled with its mother.
Each piece had perfectly fitted the other
including the silently sleeping house.
He was tempted to walk down once
has she changed any little way?
He smiled to himself
then breezed away from the roof.
Jan 27, 2025
Jan 27, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
I don't look like either side of my family
an outlier in plain sight
soap-bleached, dry hair in puffs of smoke
and rolls of skin
undesirable on either side
and i feel the heat
could i have been born well?
untangled as i felt the first few rays of light
maybe meant for a different mother
the storks dropped their package
on the wrong address
my mother, could you dry my eyes?
just for the night
before you empty your wallets
at the big house
before you ruin your liver
and fill the gaps with
*****
maybe i was meant for a different light
a different face, a different body
a different name, a different brain
a different person in my mirror everyday
i sing songs of wanting to escape
as i rattle the metal bars on my windows
i am not mistreated,
rather not treated at all
walking in silence as my sister
freely wails her sorrows into her pillow at night
tiptoeing to not be heard
my brother cackles and screams slurs
at the top of his lungs
they were made for them
perfect children of god
carbon copies of my mother's face and demeanor
i
only through my eyes
only through my eyes.
Nov 3, 2023
Nov 3, 2023 at 1:43 AM UTC
this flowered grove looks,
a grand bouquet from above
storks, quiet , dozing
Apr 17, 2017
Apr 17, 2017 at 11:37 PM UTC
My mom likes to feed the ducks and storks that frequent our lake.
We often refer to her as the "Bird Lady."
They congregate in our backyard, waiting to be fed.
She throws them cereal and dried up old bread.
She's given most of them names.
Whenever one becomes a mother,
she keeps track of the ducklings.
Most of them don't make it.
They fall prey to hawks and cranes.
I can always count on her for an unwarranted update.
"Juliet lost another baby today."
"I don't care."
If they lose them all,
she likes to call them Bad Mothers,
which I find ironic.
This morning, I saw three pelicans in our lake.
I guess there's a first time for everything.
They were white with black-tipped wings.
They were feeding with a sort of unexpected grace.
They'd dunk their heads then come back up with something in their long orange beaks.
The bottom of which would shake. All loose and leathery.
After they had their fill, they flew off in unison.
One after the other,
like one, two, three.
And afterwards I thought,
**** swans."
Apr 5, 2015
Apr 5, 2015 at 8:35 AM UTC
d'harga'h! urn! and sung clemency with the sign of the cross - Mr. Longinus - a baptism awaits...
in the Turkish shop buying my beers -
politics talk, gone Razza - Tahir -
talk of politics - deciphered a word:
Erdoğan (Erdoghan, Edrogrzan,
what was it - macabre radish to taste -
niechmaj sto Vlad'a reka na tle kiwnieniem raz!
i krok poza 'sztem! bogiem byka wybryk
szto?! - the crowds descended, and the kestrels
and the pigeons, and the swans,
and the migratory storks, and the seagulls -
for the Winged-Hussar Polonaise.
fluff of the wings -
the Mongol stench
reinterpreted - i rather be picking
ethnic mushrooms - kropki polka -
and koniewki - łopieniek & canary -
grünling in German, gąska zielonka - Pan Kleks -
or Chanterelle Mushroom - pepper shakerz -
kurki, tzn. te słynne grzyby.
the deviating kurka - or chickpea foetal
variant of fungus - or alias chick.
each time they pithy my assertion to claim the
ethnic brothel of Europe that Poland is for
the noble families - each time they undermine
the worker testifying the fuck-worthy ****
prior sleep - pride settles in -
and a long forgotten assertive builds up
to architectural proportions -
it just ends up being a game of throwing
copper coins into Scotland, potatoes into Ireland...
and dinosaur bones into Wales...
and post-colonial subjects into England, lazily
packed with the labels **** and Hindu;
Karzimierz Dębski could have said: it was never
supposed to come to this; shame that it did;
the safety option was exacted.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
A ****** of Crows delights in death.
Now they can come out, in novels and
poems and such, ominous and black.
For a moment, or many, a Crow is the center
of the universe. Perched on its pole, an eye
sees and its pupil becomes more.
Telephone-pole cities sprout from the earth,
each Murderous populous digs with hollow
claws, making their wooden crosses bleed.
Woodpeckers poke holes while Cardinals
warble nervously, the network is failing.
Communication begins to falter and cede.
Rotted from within, cables splice and
beams splinter. Crows, whose claws were
too embedded, struggle to break away.
When the last of the Crows have flown
away, gone, the earth flat is barren.
Tiny antennae peek out between the dirt.
A muster of Storks delights in birth, bearing
little yellow Finches to their new home;
easily foreseeable babes born to grow black.
Feb 24, 2012
Feb 24, 2012 at 3:02 PM UTC
The dawning oasis
with vin d'une nuit drenching the sand
sees the good driven out
The long haired suitors
are voided by decree.
Storks bask in the sun,
as Saint Nicola's Paris jolt
ends before the carnival begins,
the fools largely spent.
Jul 9, 2013
Jul 9, 2013 at 2:33 PM UTC
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Heard from the bathers that-
The Princess had been abducted
By the Dark Beast.
A bounty of thousand gold coins was announced
If you brought her back alive and the beast dead
And Death if you brought the beast alive and the Princess dead.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Hung their drums around their necks
And drummed their way
Through the Forest Dark
When the Elder Brother drummed the sleep-inducing roll,
The storks that roosted in the trees
Dropped as if they were one big bunch.
He picked them up one by one
While the younger one,
Elated,
Shouted 'Pelicans!' and drummed the defeathering roll
Upon which the plumage came off
The Elder Brother drummed the roasting roll
And the birdflesh caught fire.
On the second day a leopard that looked-
More like a boulder in leopard's clothing
Lurched at the brothers.
The Elder Brother drummed the age-reversing roll
And the poor old leopard grew younger and younger
Until it became a watery foetus which-
The Drummer Brothers ate,
Dabbing crushed chillies, and sprinkling salt.
On the third day a bear of grisly proportions
Ambled, roaring, into their sight
The Younger Brother drummed an organ-enlarging roll that-
Stretched the bear's mammaries far too long-
They dragged on the ground like two pythons.
The Elder Brother drummed the light-the- candle roll
And the oily **** caught fire like wicks.
Having vanquished the two deadly beasts
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku met,
On the fourth day of their journey,
The Dark Beast.
The Dark Beast, as it turned out,
Was no beast as such
But an Outcast once expelled
Into the heart of darkness
Who wrapped himself
In the dark of the Dawn
And became one with All the Beasts
And rumbled.
The Princess' pygmy horse was impaled
With the stake coming out of its mouth
Grossly gory, its hindlegs missing
And the blood, coagulated, hanging like icicles.
Near it was the Princess herself,
Naked, except for the gold waist chain
And the anklets.
The Drummer Brothers of Ikku Ukku
Drummed a very ordinary roll,
Steady and throbbing.
The Dark Beast who listened to it
Was transported into his past,
His memory of listening
To the old drummers of Ikku Ukku.
Excited,
He spun on his heels and stretched out his arms
He gyrated and pirouetted-
And on reaching the peak of his frenzy
Exploded, like a watermelon
The pieces flew in all directions.
The Drummer Brothers picked them up
And licked
While the Princess, shaken out of her languor,
Rose and sauntered towards them.
Holding out her honey hands
She said, "Now I belong to both of you."
The Younger Brother came up with a plan:
The elder one would have her from the waist up
While he would have her from the waist down.
The Elder Brother approved.
Vain and coquettish,
The Princess rammed her fists into either drum
And said: "I loathe their sound- too unrefined."
On the fifth day,
The Drummer Brother drummed a jazzed up roll
On their new drumhead
Made of the Princess' hide.
Jul 24, 2020
Jul 24, 2020 at 6:15 AM UTC
The water babies chuckle to themselves
knowing the floods will soon come
the still ponds they float now upon
will disappear as their domain explodes
They grab their tiny swords they have hidden
tied to water lily storks surrounded by broad leaves
jumping out of their watery homes
they grab a frog or two and start cooking them
Yet these frogs are not for eating
oh no it's just the poison they want
when they start to bubble and squeak
they will dip their swords in it's poisonous goo
These nasty little creatures
start singing to Neptune
bring your waters fast
come and flood the world
Never trust water babies
By Christos Andreaas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC