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He who will have eggs, must bear with the cackling.
He that will have eggs, must bear with cackling.
Day will not break thanks to the cackling of the chicken.
A whistling girl and a cackling hen come to no good end.
Wherever there are women there's talking, and wherever there's geese there's cackling.
He that would have eggs must endure the cackling of hens.
A Crow
A crow winged to a woodland
And met a colourful cackling band
That met on the banks of Colorado
To listen to the discourse of Mr Bombadilo
Who boomed across the blue deep
In a white red maroon ship
Faster than light faster than sleep.
poem by Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya
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On The Cackling Of A Hen
The hen, so soon as she an egg doth lay,
(Spreads the fame of her doing what she may.)
About the yard she cackling now doth go,
To tell what 'twas she at her nest did do.
Just thus it is with some professing men,
If they do ought that good is, like our hen
They can but cackle on't where e'er they go,
What their right hand doth their left hand must know.
poem by John Bunyan
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They Could Find No Match
There they were sitting,
Like hens in a den.
Stacked together cackling tight...
Like bowling pins grouped,
For someone to roll a strike!
Discussing with one another,
Who was with who...
And why was he with him?
Whipering and passing judgement...
Although they weren't 'butch'
They could have been mistaken as lesbians!
Since all of the women were divorced,
And none of them came escorted...
With anyone of the opposite sex,
Supporting a hint of a grin!
And there they were amongst themselves...
Proclaiming they could find no match,
For the men who chose from them to be detached!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Wife's Odyssey
Another five sunsets then comes Friday.
Guess whose home and wants “my way”?
Just clean dirty clothes; tweeze his nose,
And, oh yeah, fine dining I suppose.
It’s a Big Mac, a box by Jack
Or the Colonel’s wings in a greasy sack.
After that it’s to the movies where I can’t hear a word
Because my love keeps asking what was said while cackling like a bird.
Don’t get me wrong. I can endure and have a fun day.
‘Cause with clean clothes, nose and hose, he’s off again Sunday!
poem by Gregory Huyette
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A Wife's Life of Strife
Another five sunsets then comes Friday.
Guess whose home and wants "my way"?
Just clean dirty clothes; tweeze his nose,
And, oh yeah, fine dining…I suppose.
It's a Big Mac, a box by Jack
Or the Colonel's wings in a greasy sack.
After that it's to the movies where I can't
hear a word
Because my love keeps asking what was said…
while cackling like a bird.
Don't get me wrong. I can endure and have a
fun day.
‘Cause with clean clothes, nose and hose, he's
off again Sunday!
poem by Gregory Huyette
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(Political Poem) A Reflection
Equality is not defined by the people, but for the people.
One of who has higher education carries on his celebration.
But changes nothing of importance.
Why because he's not suffering.
He's is already bought and paid for by the system which enslaves you.
He is laughing, he is cackling.
A man stroking his ego as he has always done.
Looky here son.
Look what I've become.
And in the mirror lies an ugly reflection.
One not of humanity, but depravity.
Cruel but just world, so is said.
The founders are not dead.
They live on inside us.
They are expressed in ways that bring me disgust.
They are expressed in ways that bring me joy.
I thank god not everyone is like this man in the world.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Funeral For A Murdered Princess (Sonnet)
Who curtsies to her who is like the princess?
Only the cackling coos of the commoners
Only the laughing liars who treat her as less
Can speed her on her way with their horrid whirs
Only mockeries for her, no tales or tears
How can she sleep with so much noise?
She’ll lie in her bed for a thousand years
She won’t be allowed to rest with her poise
Whose candle burns in her honour?
Not in the hands of family, only one friend’s
That friend hopes that the princess’ wound mends
The friend watches the coffin get its mar
She cries a heartbroken tear, slumps her pose
And leaves her dearest a bloody rose
poem by Lenore Lee
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Hen's Nest
Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;
Who lays her washing by, and far and near
Goes seeking all about from day to day,
And stung with nettles tramples everywhere;
But still the cackling pullet lays away.
The boy on Sundays goes the stack to pull
In hopes to find her there, but naught is seen,
And takes his hat and thinks to find it full,
She’s laid so long so many might have been.
But naught is found and all is given o’er
Till the young brood come chirping to the door.
poem by John Clare
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Weep In a Flowerless Place
I walk on the rubble
Hard city concrete
Amid spaced-apart
Solitary trees
In the sad, grey afternoon
Autumn rain,
My shoes are weary and worn
Going down the ancient avenues
Where I paced myself
Broken-hearted a hundred times before.
I’m hungry for love and hope,
But live on the pointless stale bread
Of defeated, lingering memories
And impossible dreams that resurface
With cackling voices of mockery.
If my special friend could find me today,
She would weep in a flowerless place
For what has become of me.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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When Dawn Comes to the City
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The moaning, groaning cars,
And the old milk carts go rumbling by
Under the same dull stars.
Out of the tenements, cold as stone,
Dark figures start for work;
I watch them sadly shuffle on,
'Tis dawn, dawn in New York.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing,
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There would I be at dawn.
The tired cars go grumbling by,
The crazy, lazy cars,
And the same milk carts go rumbling by
Under the dying stars.
A lonely newsboy hurries by,
Humming a recent ditty;
Red streaks strike through the gray of the sky,
The dawn comes to the city.
But I would be on the island of the sea,
In the heart of the island of the sea,
Where the cocks are crowing, crowing, crowing,
And the hens are cackling in the rose-apple tree,
Where the old draft-horse is neighing, neighing, neighing
Out on the brown dew-silvered lawn,
And the tethered cow is lowing, lowing, lowing,
And dear old Ned is braying, braying, braying,
And the shaggy Nannie goat is calling, calling, calling,
From her little trampled corner of the long wide lea
That stretches to the waters of the hill-stream falling
Sheer upon the flat rocks joyously!
There, oh, there! on the island of the sea,
There I would be at dawn.
poem by Claude McKay
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The People In The Trees
You can hear them cackling
In the woods; and in the trees
with mouths full of dirt and weed
and hearts full of lust and greed
They crawl onto your mantelpiece
and leave things for you to see
Just small little trinkets
telling you not to leave
remember if you ever try to deceive
The people in the trees
that the chimney's always open
and it's only your life that they need
so please don't leave the windows closed
For it's hard for them to breathe
with mouths full of dirt and weed
and hearts full of lust and greed
poem by Justin Moffitt
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Smoke
Smoke, it is all smoke
in the throat of eternity. . . .
For centuries, the air was full of witches
Whistling up chimneys
on their spiky brooms
cackling or singing more sweetly than Circe,
as they flew over rooftops
blessing & cursing their
kind.
We banished & burned them
making them smoke in the throat of god;
we declared ourselves
"enlightened."
"The dark age of horrors is past,"
said my mother to me in 1952,
seven years after our people went up in smoke,
leaving a few teeth, a pile of bones.
The smoke curls and beckons.
It is blue & lavender
& green as the undersea world.
It will take us, too.
O let us not go sheepishly
clinging to our nakedness.
But let us go like witches sucked heavenward
by the Goddess' powerful breath
& whistling, whistling, whistling
on our beautiful brooms.
poem by Erica Jong
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