"unpretty" poems
In The Prison Of Winter, No Rise, No Set
orbit nearly closed,
the radio announcer gleefully
chirruping, the twittering fool,
"only ** graves to X off till
spring"
the weight of the prior
the wait of the more
no matter how little
yet to come
too much insufferable
having suffered
multiple life sentences
you snit **** u don't know better,
ha, they don't even run
concurrently
there are no sunsets
in the girding grays
of harsher enough and words that fail me,
are the winners in the
winter of the ****
tests and hunts,
I have successfully
failed
of course I'm wrong you
petulant hobgoblin wringing
nyet from me you'll get no concession,
**** science,
there are no sunsets in the winter
and the sunrises,
short unsweetened,
light-less, less of less,
frigid glaring revealers
of dead trees
and deader
men
maybe in the Rockies,
perhaps the Alps,
wonderlands photoshopped,
pretty lies on the Internet BS posted
where I live,
wear the wear the weary
neath the sweat stink of layers of
unbundled choking hands,
winter's damage
assessed and assessment is
never overdue, payable in
immediacy
heating bills I can't pay,
a job that said no more of you,
unpretty please,
a woman who sorcerer-scarced herself
right freaking black magic quick,
trust me I have certified verified,
me and Nixon,
X's on the kitchen calendar,
there is daylight, there is mighty night,
almighty in long and colorless
and nothing in between,
but the smog stained slush of
smothered life
but definitely
no sunrises and no sunsets
watched all day from the
imprisoning kitchen window
which doubles
as a **** you
mirror
there are no, not any,
you know what,
cannot even say them,
the pipe dreams of better yet,
pipes that have beaten down
me and my
disassociated senses,
signed sealed and now delivered,
from the formerly known as
The Summer Man
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 9:39 AM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Ugly is a strong word.
More often than not, I find myself feeling unpretty.
There are times when I feel gorgeous, but then I look in the mirror: and feel unpretty.
My hair doesn't hang right, that zit popped up overnight, and God, my glasses: wouldn't I **** for better sight. I am unpretty.
I suppose I could handle being unpretty if my roommate was not pretty.
But she is.
And I am not.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Her hair is long and thick, curls to perfection, and straightens upon command.
It's pretty.
She's pretty.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Knock Knock Knock
There's a guy at the door! I open it: "is your roommate in?"
No.
Bu I'm here. why not come in and wait for her. Talk to me for a while, even if I am the unpretty one. "No, that's okay, tell her I came by."
Okay.
Will do.
Not like I wanted to talk to you.
I wish it were just the guys who notice that I'm the unpretty one.
No.
It's the girls too.
My entire floor flocks to my door, wishing it were my roommate more
than me.
I answer the door and faces fall; can't they just pretend to be happy at all
to see me?
No.
I guess not.
It's a side effect of being unpretty- the unpretty one.
I am not ugly.
I used to not even feel unpretty-not until I became the unpretty One.
Life used to be so flirty and fun- now I am the unpretty one.
Life is a comparison, I guess: and now I'll always be second best.
I am the unpretty one.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Dear Maggie Grace,
I find you to be a phenomenal poet. I want to recognize, acknowledge, and express my admiration, for all of your marvelous work, you are a beautiful part of this site and I have selected some of my favorite lines from your work. It is all really spectacular, and I have put my interpretations and thoughts below each poetic phrase you wrote:
Drinking my cold chai tea,
Tears falling endlessly.
-Maggie Grace
This is so vivid and genuine. The reality and physicality captured by these lines is fascinating and incredible. The description of the sensory so simply yet brilliantly put. I love your style of poetry. Also, chai tea is amazing. ;P
“Yes, I’m fine,”
And people believe me,
-Maggie Grace
You bring to focus such an achingly relatable topic. To be so indescribably not fine, but to say it anyway and to have people believe you, it is a unique and unpretty type of pain.
Weaving their web of lies,
Their pain they hide.
Don’t say hurtful things,
-Maggie Grace
I love, love LOVE these lines “weaving their web of lies” such magnificent imagery WOW! And the message you convey is such a vital one. To fight against hurtful words.
Save the teenage girl,
she needs her life,
she needs her everything,
stop bullying.
-Maggie Grace
Bullying is such a global, agonizing problem and you have truly snared the essence of the anguish of being bullied. You are an excellent poet.
I like to wander in the snow, and think about things, like you.
-Maggie Grace
You paint a picture with words here, and so many of us can really connect with that sort of feeling, a pensive mood, pondering another soul in this world. The setting you provide is lovely. “To wander in the snow” how delicate and beautiful.
Maggie Grace,
Thank you for blessing Hello Poetry with your presence. I am proud to call you a fellow poet, I could really feel your soul in the poetic pieces you compose and you have a beautiful soul from what I can tell. Keep writing, because you are a credit to the art of writing. :)
Love Ember Evanescent
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I miss my stupid perfect girlfriend.
With her stupid cute face.
With her stupid nice smile
that makes the pain erase.
And I miss her stupid lovely eyes,
so stupid pretty brown.
And I know I’m stupid in love with her
because for some reason,
when she’s feeling stupid or unpretty
I feel ****** and down.
I miss her stupid laugh
full of joy and wonder.
And I miss how she doesn’t make me feel stupid, at all
And how she makes my heart feel like thunder
And I wish I was with her right now
I wish we could be stupid together
But I’ll give up a few stupid days
In exchange for being stupid forever.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
i always wanted to be
that girl
too brilliant to resist
too pretty to dis
that girl that stops traffic
walking down the street
that's the pretty girl, i wanted to be
and today i'm sure, that girl is me
but turns out
it ain't all it's cracked up to be
cause i've learned about her life
all her pain
all the abuse
how she'll never be a wife
how you smile to her face
while you stab her in the back
twisting as you push in the knife
i've watched her drag herself
across the coals for your love
beg for peace, like soaring doves
cry for relief as she crawls down the street
after your threw her out
like an out of date piece of meat
collectively flooding her world
all those tears that she's cried
all the disappointment that she's felt, for even having tried
i've watched her fade away
like that soul of hers that died
the day you showed her you'd never love her
for anything more, like her heart and mind
so she jumped from man to man
searching for the plug
to stop up that hole you dug
with rusty shovels and all your poisonous words
words so sharp they cut instantly deep
infecting her with your thoughts and beliefs
just so those physical benefits you'd reap
so you twist her thoughts of love and her worth
and deceive her and make her feel less than dirt
like the ground you walk on
cause you walked all over her
and your name's all over those scars she incurred
you wanna hold her close and tight
but only when it suits you right?
then pretend that you don't know her
this girl, she's been broken
by the thing she thought she wanted
she just wanted to be a pretty face
that anyone would notice
but a pretty face doesn't get you respect
it just got her used
he drew her in, and she loved him
so she let herself be abused
like a cloud covering the sky
she'd fake it just to get by
and she might just never try
again, to look her best
cause those days weren't her fondest
when you could treat her such a way
like the disposable pretty face of a women
that won't stand for it another day
so now when people to her say
"..you're such a pretty face.."
she can tell them all this story
and how unpretty it really is in this place
Dec 7, 2010
Dec 7, 2010 at 8:49 PM UTC
I live in a land of three stars and a sun
The pearl of the orient, surrounded with sands
A country for years have been independent
Back from the invasions, where history's ancient
With a government tainted with corruption and greed
The beauty has been stripped off leaving our country to bleed
Suffering from apathy, puberty and dread
The people's revolting for their cries never heard
Looking at the Brightside, it is the people that is ugly
Staining the pride of the country with deeds that are unpretty
Beyond that, the pearl still shines with all its glory
That someday will be known for its natural beauty
I am a man who live in a land of three stars and a sun
Red, white, blue and yellow designed the flag of my clan
I'll wave it with valor, the courage for the right I've done
With love and honor here I am born and die where I stand
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Having never sought fulfilment
in the pursuit of being mother
my body is my temple
for use of no-one other
than my own indulged desires
of aesthetics, pleasure, fun,
so, yes, I fret the stretch marks,
the odd pimple on my ***
I obsess, in terms of thread veins,
for they make me feel unpretty,
so vain, if that doth make me,
I accept in all its gritty,
ugly notions – for us gals are meant to be
vessels of life-giving, all procreation’ry.
“Oh! I know my body’s purpose”!
the new mother’s apt to cry.
I shall not regret my choices
biologics tick… ticking by.
Does that mean our sad mechanics
are bereft of serving purpose?
It is no hard done-by chore,
our childlessness not cursed us.
When I stand, unclothed and natural
my body has a story
I don’t need the marks of childbirth
to feel a sense of glory.
All this talk of ‘battle scars’
babies sure sound painful,
but, forgive me, all you mothers
should I dare to sound disdainful.
It’s just I feel no less a woman
for not having given birth,
and there is no singular purpose
for this body on this earth.
Like living in a desert
enduring shifting sands,
the bits I’ve never really liked
I cover up with clothes and hands.
I’ve no need to ‘love my body’, thanks
I’m just fine with friendly banter.
Angles, poise and lighting
three small words – a mighty mantra.
Self-love is overrated
when costume is the thing,
and my body wears it well, you see,
and the pleasure that it brings
is proof enough that any scars
may be healed to nothing
without the need for motherhood
and its pushy, panting, puffing.
So curse my sour dismissives!
I’m all said and done,
the female form has every purpose
babies ain’t the only one.
Jul 26, 2013
Jul 26, 2013 at 6:57 PM UTC
They were so not interested when the brother was so very available
Lonely even and longing to be needed longing to be loved it
Didn’t seem like it cuz he could be so very surly but desperately longing
To laugh out loud and secretly longing to dance to no music but that which
was in his lover’s heart but they would have had to but didn’t care to
dig under the bravado or be lurking behind the door to his otherwise
empty sanctuary when he locked out the needy and narcissistic and
peeled the ess offa his chest before hanging his all-purpose multi tool belt
on the all-purpose multi tool belt nail and became
merely his naked self to see that what he truly had to offer could
not be built or repaired or paid for or driven or
traded for the promise of some ***** which he would have settled for in
lieu of real companionship cuz that’s all people seem to be about these days and
*** is easy and love is hard and therefore a fella could hardly hope
for something that songs are written about and hope deferred
is unpretty at best and ****** tragic at worst so imagine
their surprise when one day he walked in with his large workman’s hand wrapped
around a smaller softer hand and he was suddenly not so surly maybe joyful even
and they wondered how they didn’t notice how **** he is and they
asked themselves did he grow two inches cuz he sure seems taller and
they don’t understand when he no longer comes just cuz they call and they find
that for some reason they hate that ***** that he is with and she ain’t so cute
so why is he not noticing how he is now coveted or catching the
obvious and disrespectfully thrown hint… and
in their selfishness would see him unhappy before seeing him
with her before seeing him not sniffing around them
trying and hoping to be noticed and their arrogance
dictates to them that he is not unavailable… not truly… that she is just a
passing whim and their ignorance whispers to them that he has forgotten
how not so long ago and for years and years
they were so not interested
…now ain’t that somethin
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 10:03 AM UTC
Melancholy creeps down my back,
An old friend ready to remind me of my short comings.
On those days when feeling like I’m not enough,
Is not enough. I feel the anger bidding me to have a laugh with him,
leaving the bitter taste of guilt in my mouth once I’ve spoken my truth.
No matter how much I yell and cry,
I end up with that sour laugh at the edge of my tongue. I want to rip out
the parts of me that makes me unpretty. The parts of me that felt like water when
He drank from me that night and his thirst made me fluid.
A week later, he had a new girlfriend. I felt like whiskey.
Liquor kills you quicker. I am made of fury and those hideous parts of me,
remind me how hard it is to love ugly.
In the end, the sadness loves me like no other, cradles me like a mother,
And whispers sweet nothings in the dark.
May 13, 2017
May 13, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
If this hallmark of a romantic gift
I give
is a bit fumbled,
and its professions of heartfelt wishes
feel
slack in their graham-cracker-box repackaging;
If the candy-coated wrapper’s fit
is left
misfitting around its dented-in red corners,
and the lippiness of its stick
has come
unstuck at each crushed-down end;
If the pink bow
stands unbowed
and frowns as unpretty as any crime-scene picture,
while it raises
a frayed end with the victim’s gone-through motion
entreating
death for its last tug free;
It could be
my feeling heart’s once-bold youth
isn't
entirely found in it,
or it could be
the entirety
bound in it,
my heart,
couldn’t find its way out.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
found: parts of you that are unpretty.
broken ***** fingernails.
sticky substance, underside of wrist.
something broken, something blue.
found: god, in pieces.
trembling for the sweetness of it all.
trembling for herself.
found: your saviour, all black and blue.
all dust and wind.
all “everything i’ve ever dreamed of.”
material of matinees.
found: you, you, you.
your entirety, your serious.
something bitter and beautiful.
something like you.
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 5:02 AM UTC
You look so pretty like a beauty queen
But you feel so ugly like a horror from your dream
And no matter how gorgeous you truly are
You're insides are rotting and leaving a lethal scar
Jul 24, 2015
Jul 24, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
I text hi
You text hey
Instantly I wish I’d said that instead because Hi makes me sound clingy
I count the minutes between our texts
You ask how I am
I say I’m good who are you
You say not bad :)
I say that’s good :)
And we are back to square one.
Conversations of k lol cool and ya
The kind I hate
Then we play questions
And you ask me questions that are so deep, it surprises me
I’m intrigued
You’re different
I tell you the truth
About so many things I’m used to lying about
I am getting so close to telling you
My secrets
My unpretty ones
The ones I’ve been keeping
I said you know all that you need to about me
But I lied
I’m sorry
But you lied too
You text me you’ll be there when I return
Waiting for me
You might have said the sweetest things anybody has ever said to me
But you change your mind too easily
I travelled so far and thought of you
Every day I was away
I bought you something special
But you never got it
Because when I got back
You were there
But not really
You were distant
And you said remember how I liked you?
I notice you put it in past tense
Okay
That’s fine
It doesn’t consume me
At least I didn’t let myself get attached
Because usually when I lose someone
The pain never fades
At least you didn’t give me time
To fall in love with you and your lovely words
Lovely
Lovely
Lovely
You ruined the word for me
I wish I didn’t have to keep that special gift I had for you
But I can’t bring myself to get rid of it
And I used it a couple times myself so it didn’t go to waste
But now it haunts me too much to touch
So it sits on a shelf
And isn’t broken
But it’s just a little sad
Kind of like me
And what is behind the words
The words I gave you
Thank God I never told you my secrets
You couldn’t have handled them
And then that would mean I trusted you
With it all
And I really couldn’t handle losing someone
Who I trust
Because it’s worse than losing someone who I love
But still thank God I didn’t fall in love with you
I’m hiding something behind the words still though
It isn’t that bad
you didn't break me or anything
but still
I’m just a little sad.
Repost if you know the feeling
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:28 PM UTC
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!
How long must you sleep undisturbed?
What forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me
Lucid waking life I watch for you
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself
Turning to face my pursuer
You!
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?
Remember!
I followed your tracks
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality
Of that moment
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember
Raven
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
Call to me Enchantress, Awaken!
How long must you sleep undisturbed?
What forms will you gather in the midst of my dreaming?
Come to me
Lucid waking life I watch for you
On walks behind each bush, each tree through crowded room
At times our eyes touch, electricity courses from my stomach leaving through my mouth in small gasps
But the facade breaks, you flee
I search you out and only during nights breath
I run pursued by your many forms and faces... Ha!
One nights day I may surprise myself
Turning to face my pursuer
You!
Please come to me, show your true self, lead the way
I saw your face in the mirror night last, vague and unpretty
That time in the ice and snow was that your best?
Remember!
I followed your tracks
You turned gazing at me with yellow eyes before bounding off
Bending down, my hand inside the print of your paw seemed small
A drop of blood red on a crust of ice suddenly convinced me of the reality
Of that moment
Tremendously excited throwing my thoughts to you
I call come back...
Stoic, still, yet razor sharp
Only the green haze from the forest remained
Another time I will follow
But in in my excitement I lost hold on my dreaming
Remember!
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 1:50 AM UTC
It's not all pretty. this life. me. But what's not, can be. Pretty. It's not all sweetness, and light. this life. me. But what's not, what. stings. tangs. bites. What casts shadows, it can shed light. Or give sweetness. As unpretty as it is. An upturned bug, big. brown. hard. Its legs, twitching toward death and night. Sour, and ugly, and yet pretty in this fading light.
Jun 25, 2013
Jun 25, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
All the walking books
I have yet to read;
the human hearts that beat.
Soon to be acquaintances
or lifelong friends.
Some come and go as surface dwellers.
Others stay,
and come to know you better;
the roots of the tree
that gave birth to its branches.
Reveal to me more
than your shallow surface,
I want to know the deeper you,
the intricacies
that make up who you are.
I will build a bridge
between your heart and mine,
listen to understand.
I will choose to climb the ladder
leaving judgment on the shelf below.
Be unafraid to trust in intimacy.
Hide no part of you
bare your scars to me
for I have them too
my love will only grow
in light of all you show.
Be courageous in faith.
Share with me the wear and tear
of a human heart
Lovers bearing scars,
bare to me all
the unpretty things that make you beautiful.
©achosenword
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 4:32 PM UTC
Dug up from the sand you have been buried in
held aloft
squirming
blinded by heat and intensity of visions
mucus runs across your face
dripping with guilt and chemicals
the aftertaste of corporation food.
Fevered dreams held together with floyd moments
rings around you
raw,hollow,retching as you cough up self disgust.
No softness here
tears too ashamed to cry,too bitter tasting
no conversation here
only prattles and pity,unsure
body squeezed like a writhing grub
flesh and water
swollen
unpretty.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC
I’ve seen that pretty face,
I blushed and I’ve seen that pretty face,
I crushed and I’ve seen that pretty face,
I just can’t get over it.
I’ve seen that pretty face,
I hope she isn’t ugly in the inside.
Seen that pretty face
It keeps me away from suicide,
Seen that pretty face though that face hasn’t seen me.
That pretty face
makes me think twice before I munched the third donut.
And I don’t nut
Because I’ve seen that pretty face and I don’t want to be fat.
I’m far from her but i still see her
pretty face
In my mind,
All the time,
That pretty face and I can’t take this phase,
I’ve seen that pretty face
I just want to be with her
And eat cup cakes,
Eat fancy dinners,
With that pretty face,
Who has scars on her cheeks.
That pretty face,
Got burnt marks on the lips.
That pretty face,
I want to kiss her twice and thrice
And all the days that are gonna be nice
And I
Hope In time
that pretty face
Sees my unpretty face
And sees that I have a child’s smile.
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:56 AM UTC
Who the **** was I?
And who the **** am I?
In a tree, on a limb, suspended
on the thin green twig
upended
from the hands of the old gods,
let fall to smack
every fat
branch on the way down.
Penniless and unpretty,
useless and sometimes silly,
sometimes a little bit clever,
sometimes a listener
sometimes performs well,
tricks, no old dog, new *****
forgotten in the bottom drawer
every seam of that old life unpicked
everything we stitched
torn up, cut up, ripped.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
"the world will end not with a bang, but with a whimper."
i say,
the world,
will end in war --
when man's greed becomes flames under his touch,
and he can no longer keep it in the palm of his hand.
for human hands were never meant to hold the weight of disasters,
and neither were they made to hold a gun or a blade.
i say,
the world,
will end in battle --
when land turns against land,
brother against brother,
for ideas would run thicker than blood,
though nothing could rival blood's flowing abundance.
i say,
the world,
will end in victory.
when the only salvation is a purge, though the hammer will not fall under the touch of man, for he is too self-preserving;
but under the pull of the earth.
when she takes matters into her two palms, polarized and unpretty.
she will rip herself into pieces,
she will tear herself from the core,
she will burn in her own flames.
but she,
she will emerge victorious over her own children.
she will cleanse herself, she will be made pure again.
she will rise from the red waters of her own shredded veins,
and she will eat men like air.
she will be reborn.
she will win.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 9:34 AM UTC
Nothing here is ever as it seems
O' Loathing, O' Self-pity
Curse thee as thy dance within my dreams
Invading whispers sent floating from the start
Stopping all thoughts like a traffic in the city
Pressing my chest against my beating heart
Lethal to the lungs as it ***** at my soul
Brain splatterings artistically unpretty
Yet, welcomely I embrace the voided hole
Longing for the coma that is sure to appear
and to be sure, I'm not being witty
For the black would surely remove the untraceable fears
Relieving me of this awful self-loathing
self-doubt, and self-pity
A swift defeat is the only solace for this whole thing
So this is how it appears to approach the inane
I'll make sure it's not too gritty
But before I go, I must say, don't you go insane
For as I lay my head for one last rest, it seems
I'll remember times before your lying bitty
And be assured to breathe in quivering sweet dreams
Jun 18, 2011
Jun 18, 2011 at 11:54 AM UTC
(homage to Ogden Nash)
See the buzzard soar, the swallow skim a lake, the kestrel hover;
observe the skylark pouring his little heart out in the sky;
admire the flapwing, lapwing flight of a flock of plover;
what birds do is fly.
At least they oughter,
because once birds get onto the water
they can't help looking absurd
– except the swan, for which nobody I know has an unkind word,
or, mostly, seagulls,
who fly with almost the grace of eagulls,
and in their silvery-white uniforms are impeccably neat,
even if my admiration for their manners is incomplete –
but, shucks,
look at ducks.
And for something really silly,
shaggy-winged, fluffy-headed, and disproportionately
neck-and-bill-y,
consider the pelican, for heaven's sake.
Surely Nature made a mistake,
or left the designing of it to a particularly inept committee,
it's so unpretty.
But once in the air he can soar like a buzzard, though maybe lower,
and skim over the waves with more perfect control
than a swallow, and slower,
and dive for a fish like a living javelin, that clumsy pelican.
By helican!
No, for a shapeless, hapless caricature, created to be comical,
the epitome of what a bird shouldn't be, the penguin
must be the most epitomical.
As he does his impression of a Charlie Chaplin waiter,
you know he'll fall off the ice sooner or later.
But before a warning can escape your lips
he trips
(and slips).
Then, as he slides beneath the waves, ah! See the happy penguin fly,
A graceful bird in his greenblue underwater sky.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 9:55 AM UTC
I stand by the window
in front of my kitchen sink
in the motionless mid-winter noon
I'm thinking
Wandering
and I hear a bird call
through the cold air
from the height of it's branch
A saddest loneliest bird song
A plain unpretty song
more like a sound
but not quite enough to make it not a song
Plus
I know songs that sound like that
From high branches
In the blossomlessness of winter
It had just one song to sing in it's heart
It's heart had a one clear echoing sad little bird song to sing out
one time
to crack the clear ice
of the winter air
It sang not even loud
But it didn't have to be
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:09 AM UTC