"thrasher" poems
*Powerful Oaks nurture glistening orbs , curtain call of the Muses , prequel of effervescent , diurnal joy amongst their brethren with abundant ****** melodies ! The Angels of Harmony , melodist of Zion , proclaim from the East ! The woodland duet , song of Brown Thrasher and Chickadee , the acoustical miracles of the Heavenly host , brilliant a cappella voices with thunderous volume , first chair instrumentalist within the symphony of Dawn*
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 11:46 AM UTC
the church pew thrasher
I'm stuck somewhere between what they say and what they do
communion cups and inner church affairs
painted faces and sanctified stairs
and though I once was blind I now can never unsee
this place has been a heaven for the rivers of hell that abides in in me
and I crossed all of my fingers
knocked my white knuckles on those pews of holy wood
but I found all was lost that kept me young, kind, and good
I learned quick that things never turn out just like they should
and still I cling to hands raised and a few honest bars
the musing of the man on the microphone and my quiet life on mars
If there were any walls they met my fists
if there were any rough edges they all met my wrists
drunk on the blood of my saviors fallen from grace
unable to understand but still a need to see the savior's face
there is no other explanation
there is no other reason
and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.
and I'll never understand how much death I lived through
in a place that boasted life for the pure, holy and true
milk and honey met blood and abomination
innocent eyes and tiny hands lead to the greatest devastation
the betrayal of trust
the bread and the cup tarnished with rust
I'll never understand
but still I reach for the Hand
If there were any walls they met my fists
if there were any rough edges they all met my wrists
drunk on the blood of my saviors fallen from grace
unable to understand but still a want to see the savior's face
there is no other explanation
there is no other reason
and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.
So I sing to the kid in me that never grew up
the once who's still tripping under the weight of that cup
be still
be still
be still
it was never his will
be still
be still
be still
it isn't your fault, it isn't your crime
don't let it consume you
don't let it poison your mind
just
be still
and you,
you couldn't practice what you preach
you,
you couldn't seek what you couldn't reach
you told me to wait while you went on a head
you didn't die to yourself because you were already dead
I should have known
I should have known I should have known
but still I press on in spite of the hell I was shown
still I reach out for the hem of the throne
still
still.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Walking the surrealistic byways of creative bliss
Through Cat hair grass within the fingerling forest ...
Good morning to Uncle White Pine , to my Cousin Brown Thrasher reading my mind ! To red rosy clay and chipper Mr. Soapstone , to Mayflies granting wishes and Chattahoochee crawfishes ...
The Gulf breeze telegraphing the wonderment of forest song with love
for all .. To the playful King Sun hiding behind the cloud bank to the
old gray Opossum hanging upside down , bluffing sleep on a lonesome Cherry branch .. Warm wishes fill my dreams while picking tea cups from a 'Story Tree' , each with a serving dish , hot refreshments and lively conversation with a well read ****** , a witty Fox , a Woodpecker poet and a guitar picking Catfish ..
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 2:15 PM UTC
Imagine powder blue , morning flowers ...
Green clover nestled beneath swirling eddies , enraptured by Summer hay and sunflower fields , the chorus of Mourning dove , Brown Thrasher and laughing Crow ..Village church bells announcing each daylight hour , quiet Sunday mornings broken by Pileated Woodpecker and Bluejay ...The smell of Honeysuckle and fresh cut grass , burning leaves and Sassafras ..
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 7:45 PM UTC
*Thrasher in the plum tree
Who ya hidin' from
Chirpin' in the canopy
Bold as the sun
A chirp to the Old Crow
A whistle for Bobwhite Quail
A bow and a wink for a Yellow
Swallowtail* ...
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
Hey you reading this.
Yeah you.
No one else.
Are you aware of your own thoughts?
Of others?
Of yourself?
Do you ever enter a room
And feel a swell of pressure?
Minds buzzing in and out of harmony.
Perhaps a psychic thrasher?
Yes, in company, it is a struggle.
For your mind and thoughts indeed.
How do you know
That who you think you are is you
And simply put not just me?
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 9:20 PM UTC
inspired by TC Tolbert's poem, ""Dear Melissa"
~~~
joined skin cells shed and shredded,
two bodies, a compositoy,
an experiment in the temporary,
now, lost under lock and key, at a secure depository,
remote, undisclosed location,
kept unheated in a dark cool place
to preserve their combinatory
slow, half-life decaying oratory
the body is never an accident,
even though we mostly are,
accidental tourists, two collision-prone comets,
lark, rambling rambunctious adventurers,
on a half-day tour only,
leaving behind commingling blinking dust vapor trails,
emissions of a tour bus journey rerouted
while under orbit sail
some cells, microscopic, preserved digitally,
aged to imperfection, thrash my eyes,
making me speak in tongues I do not recognize,
but fluently possess, no wonder there,
the memory place fairly empty,
room aplenty for passerby's and the imagery
of the vaguest of dearly departed
skin is not the only mot shed,
sloughing of woeful words, shelled
~~~
Dear Melissa
TC Tolbert
a curve billed thrasher
is cleaning its beak on the ground—
we are closer now than ever—sitting
in shadow—I never want to scare
anyone—not really—I have a friend
who loves people who come out
suddenly—in the dark—
pleasure
is the same distance as pain from here—
that’s my skin on your sweater—both hands
stripped now—I know I am someone
to you I am entirely—practicing
Spanish on the computer—gesturing to
the neighbor instead of speaking—
to sharpen
the body is never an accident— someone
I know I am not—letters are inseparable
from loss—moving what can be still
moved—one is sweeping the mouth—
what ever isn’t skin—take it off—
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
*The windswept crackle of Jehovahs machinery
Honey sweet greenery with trolling titmouse
sentries , white contrails drawn onto blue canopy and
brown leaf melodies
Woodpecker percussionist tap the song of dusk
Songs of the rusty red clover valley
and golden sagebrush
Psalms of cardinal chatter and brown thrasher cackle
Bronze raptors circling sun -streaked hillsides flushed
in crepe myrtle , yellowbell and azalea
Where the purveyors of creation live , thrive and belong*...
May 16, 2017
May 16, 2017 at 7:02 PM UTC
^¡^
I heard a desert bird
sing a new song this morning
yes... before the sunrise
i recognized it as the
song of a cactus thrasher
but it had added a
new note to it's call
i've never, in my 40+ years
in the desert, heard it's like!
it must've found love
i know
because i myself
found a new note
the first time i said your name.
soulsurvivor
(c) 5/31/2015
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
There is always at least one song
that stands enshrined.
r 12 Oct 13
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Mocha brown fawns dance amid my orange horizon ,
hoping to please their mother under a dashing springtime Sun ..
Curiously forage Chestnut and acorn , alert to the call of the
morning Brown Thrasher , the chime of young Turkey hens and
the call of Coyote and river dancer ..
Wood Duck ducklings careen Port Lake , smacking sweet bills
as they work the edges ... Tiny green Frogs line the banks , perform
their morning ballads in chorus with Katydids and House crickets while
water spiders lead interpretive dance along the mirrored waterway ..
Mr. Red Fox is running late , off to points West into the blackberry fields along Bear Creek .. Wisteria , honeysuckle and wild roses are filling my soul as I pray before the morning scenery ....
Mar 3, 2016
Mar 3, 2016 at 8:06 PM UTC
Playful Fawns in early Aprilis garb
Foraging the Sepia brown patchwork detritus ,
the clap of brookside along the foggy divide ..
Eastern hens answer the question of Chickadee
and Brown Thrasher ..
Bitter Blackbirds command the fire breaks ,
multitudes shifting from canopy to rain washed
visible pasture .. Move South , quietly disappear ..
Mar 31, 2016
Mar 31, 2016 at 9:37 PM UTC
I stand in the mirror and I must ask
Who am I?
As I see it now I'm an upcoming young woman
Dressed in white with the future laid out before her
Finally commanding the respect I once craved
But I listen to the music
Our old songs
And I remember when I was nothing more than a passenger
Just trying to get to a destination
And somewhere between here and now I changed
From another emo gutter rat to a lady
And for so long this is what I thought I wanted
But the title of lady doesn't suit me at all
So as I stand in the mirror it's not one reflection I see but two
A put together lady in red
And a thrasher in black
And they both smile the same sick twisted way
And I just wish it was easy to figure it out
Who am I?
Jun 23, 2019
Jun 23, 2019 at 6:54 PM UTC
*Curious Brown Thrasher songbird
How I long for your window to the
world , traveling Hill country with wings unfurled , skipping from hardwood to evergreen with songs of splendid countryside scenes*
Mar 30, 2017
Mar 30, 2017 at 9:07 PM UTC
Brown Thrasher looking left then right ., plotting her next move , dancing across fresh grass bathed in morning dew , Pileated Wood Pecker sings her morning song , rhythmically putting her toil to music , percussive taps draw inquisitive Eastern Gray Squirrels to her job site , playing and dancing from limb to limb , tree to tree unaware of danger above , Red tail Hawk soaring on warm air high above , Sun at her back , confusing potential prey below , mercifully giving her position away , high above the canopy of Maple , Sweet Gum and majestic Georgia Pine where a cottontail rabbit , frozen , nose twitching , ears turning to and fro , eases out of the tree line to awaiting sustenance in thick fields of green grass , berry , pine nut and bulb ...
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 7:24 PM UTC
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 !
Jul 14, 2019
Jul 14, 2019 at 8:55 AM UTC
*Condensate trickling neath the noontime pines
Tis the very wine of creation
Returning to a famished earth
Soothing the parched , nourishing the ailing -
and the sylvan floor enfeebled
Winter blades cascading from hardwood canopies ,
of every configuration , texture and hue
Madrigalian forest of a thousandfold , songs of cardinal ,
thrasher , bluebird , peckerwood and robin
Hickory , beech and loblolly undulate along -
the carpeted valley in November's artistic implosion
Broomsage under breaths bidding , dancing red tip grasses
and muhly , wild onion and sage in sacred midday communion* ...
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 7:54 PM UTC
I oft-recall the fume o'er -
Port lake
Egrets with the patience -
of Job
Lapping silver waters
Morning sun ever bright and bold
Harper tree frogs , smoky bogs , painted -
turtles on floating logs
Creations blue eyes at her -
surface
Wind dancers falling into -
the red earth , shores bedecked -
in dogwood , cattail , dandelion and
river birch
Brambles , feeder streams , nuthatch
and thrasher
Bluejays sing the praises of aromatic pineywoods -
high above their muscadine mansions
The crackle of gravel as I walk her shady , serpentine -
trails
The patter of wind seduced silver maples
The call and answer of sparrows along -
the barbed wire fence rail
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 11:07 AM UTC
Briar vines merely scratched the itch for more ,
porcelain fingers tattooed wine red
Morning rays become possessed , muting -
early day laughter and fervent desires
Humid air thickened with pine , wild grass ,
-fertile humus , clay and wisteria
Stirring the brown locust , bluebird , thrasher ,
Guinea wasp , blue skink , toad and cottontail
Three ripe berries in the jar , one for the forager ,
one for the eve , one for the morrow
Traipsing gravel byways to the music of the rattling corn , ****** broomsage and the iron harrow
A whitewashed homestead wrapped in oak ,
mulberry , sycamore and crape myrtle ,
Songbirds of every shape and melodious -
occupation , alert geese crying from the -
hedgerows , waves of sorghum dancing in the -
shaded meadows ...
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:48 AM UTC
^¡^
I heard a desert bird
sing a new song this morning
yes... before the sunrise
i recognized it as the
song of a cactus thrasher
but it had added a
new note to it's call
i've never, in my 40+ years
in the desert, heard it's like!
it must've found love
i know
because i myself
found a new note
the first time i said your name.
soulsurvivor aka
Write of Passage aka
Invisible inc
(c) 5/31/2015
Feb 28, 2025
Feb 28, 2025 at 10:27 PM UTC
I have been memorized by winding dirt
doorways that led me to fantasy. Magical
forest -- it’s funny how simplistic we
name places when we’re children. Overgrown
rhododendrons surrounded me, my hands
plucked leaves off and ripped them mindlessly,
leaving a Hansel and Gretel trail of
torn chlorophyll. So monochrome
without their flowers; my mind painted
perfect, pink orbs onto green. A brown thrasher
flew by, or maybe a hummingbird.
I stared at the light dispersed
sporadically through branches, particles
floating and falling, gentle. Nearby,
I glanced at crocodile rock in the river.
My imagination was good at transforming
the static to life; shapes had more
personality. I tiptoed onto the slippery
surface, stepping on its mouth,
triumphant. Animal planet taught me
that their jaw is only strong when closing
and incredibly weak when opening.
I stood on the beast, and felt safe, strong,
running my fingertips on its bumpy scales.
Now, I see a large rock. I see empty
branches. I still hear birds, but
they’re hidden, my mind unable
to conjure up a flock. I see reality.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 4:52 PM UTC
*A wood sprite cowled in rain drop diamonds
The lantern from above is shining ever brighter
Bluebirds and cardinals return to my vision ,
a golden religion with sacraments measured in legions ..
Sing O' thrasher , my lover , of gray blankets now parted ,
of streams fulfilled , longing for the ocean deep , of laughter
and harmony twixt earth and sea* ...
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 11:27 AM UTC