The sparrow flying behind the hawk thinks the hawk is fleeing.
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Fowl Politics
Sit in your light and sing to me little bird.
Sing of all the things in the world, right and wrong.
Chirp, Chirp, deceit in each sugar-coated word.
A ballad of battle a dangerous song.
I know your intent, you’re more hawk than sparrow.
Anything to win and to hell with the cost.
An elected man more mighty than Pharaoh.
It’s a democracy, but you’re the boss.
A little bird who can make so many die.
You expect me to believe what you say?
Even a child can tell that you lie.
Whatever you say, you lose every way.
A hawk and sparrow are both fowl, its true,
but so are the donkey and elephant too.
poem by Matthew Morgan
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Peregrıne The Hawk
Yes, there is a hawk
named Peregrine,
Rhymes with the English word “mean”.
Like I “mean” to say,
this bird is a hawk having it’s way,
eating little pigeons during the day.
Flying through the NYC sky,
Flying up to a condo real high
Resting and nesting is where it’s at,
on Trump’s condo not an English flat.
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Hawk IIII
So I sat up and stared at the place the hawk had been-
rose, shuffled to the window, in fact
the Barrio was still the Barrio, in every respect:
the Projects not going anywhere fast,
the cars still parked along the curb
yellow, black, red and green
the little tree empty of wrens.
'Well', I thought,
present or absent
a hawk makes nothing different.
Difference, the mis-en-scene, the meaning
being the human part, and up to me. The hawk
was just a hawk sitting in a place where you don't normally
expect to see a hawk, that's all.
But I couldn't help thinking of the way
the halk made the neighborhood quite wonderful-
here: a flyway, and gone,
just a desolate, hawkless tract.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hawk And Buckle
Where is the landlord of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Master Straddler this hot summer weather?
He's along in the tap-room with broad cheeks a-chuckle,
And ten bold companions all drinking together.
Where is the daughter of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Mistress Jenny this hot summer weather?
She sits in the parlour with smell of honeysuckle,
Trimming her bonnet with red ostrich feather.
Where is the ostler of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of Willy Jakeman this hot summer weather?
He is rubbing his eyes with a slow and lazy knuckle
As he wakes from his nap on a bank of fresh heather.
Where is the page boy of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of our young Charlie this hot summer weather?
He is bobbing for tiddlers in a little trickle-truckle,
With his line and his hook and his breeches of leather.
Where is the grey goat of old Hawk and Buckle,
And what of pretty Nanny this hot summer weather?
She stays not contented with little or with muckle,
Straining for daisies at the end of her tether.
For this is our motto at old Hawk and Buckle,
We cling to it close and we sing all together,
'Every man for himself at our old Hawk and Buckle,
And devil take the hindmost this hot summer weather.'
poem by Robert Graves
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You Are A Human Being
You don’t float because
Your father is a carpenter
He floats well in water because
His father is a duck
On the other hand, he flies
Well in air, not because his
Father is a vulture, it is obvious
He looks like a hawk and acts like a hawk
It is obvious,
He is a hawk himself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I don't think radio is selling records like they used to. They'd hawk the song and hawk the artist and you'd get so excited, you'd stop your car and go into the nearest record store.
quote by Herb Alpert
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ballades V - Of His Choice of a Sepulchre
HERE I ’d come when weariest!
Here the breast
Of the Windberg’s tufted over
Deep with bracken; here his crest
Takes the west,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Silent here are lark and plover;
In the cover
Deep below, the cushat best
Loves his mate, and croons above
O’er their nest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest,
To the blest
Bed that waits the weary rover,—
Here should failure be confest;
Ends my quest,
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
ENVOY
Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,
Ah, fulfil a last behest,
Let me rest
Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Hawk I
There was a hawk on the porch rail this morning
the span of your arm.
suddenly, out of nowhere it was there:
not unknown in Central Park, maybe,
but here in East Harlem-rare,
sitting asquat the gleaming, sun-licked bar.
You could see the projects over its wing-shoulder
the Babel-like water-tower.
You could see the cars parked down the block
like never because of mister or miss hawk.
Never have I seen a hawk so up-close.
I could feel the slight tilt of its reddish head,
its feral, yellow eye, led
it seemed, by genuine interest
to range along the neighborhood
sampling each scene as from a smorgasboard of views-
a bite of this, of this. An eye feast.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Hawk Pride
My Hawk Pride
Will Never Die
For as long as I Live
It will forever Fly
For I am not an Eagle
I am not a bird
I am a Hwak
That lead's a Herd
I am the Hawk
That walk's The Sky
This Pride Will Never Die
poem by Damien Smith
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Circle
A rain hawk circles in the dawn.
The dawn uncovers the trees;
the trees lead to a forest.
The forest sinks into the damp earth;
the damp earth waters the stones.
Stones are under a rain hawk -
a rain hawk circles in the dawn
a rain hawk circles in the dawn.
poem by Leslie Philibert
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Fear of Death
I saw the hawk soar over the trees
and knew that down below
was a tiny innocent creature
moving much too slow.
Not aware of the talons
he searched the ground for his meal.
He spent his final moments
and most likely would not feel
remorse for what would be
food for the hawk, death for he.
And so he did not wrestle with fear.
That's only for we mortals
Who hold on to the life that's here.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Hawk Revisited III
with any but imagination's eye.
Yet nothing but a hawk it was
the hawk I saw just then-
and will probably see again
that loves its element and breaks no law
and, capable to start a dream or two
offers for itself its best excuse.
How should I conclude?
In the welter of opinion
your own is good and just as probable:
everything in time-
and loving truth, detesting lies,
even useful ones
know that what you saw you saw
and where and when and why.
What you see you see-
the next time people disagree
don't be so polite.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Just Writting About Wolfs
days get colder nights get longer..wind howls a lonely howl
deep in the night a lone wolf howls do his howls fall on def ears
as he sits high upon a cliff looking down upon the woods he calls home
he wonders in the shadows a loner but never really alone
we has the wind the earth and the air that goes threw him
it like an old friend to him the darkness the shadows
the wolf wonders alone in mind and thoughts
whats he thinking of
we may never know know....
but hawk circles above does he hear the howl as the wolf says hello in the nights sky to hawk
flying so live so free
the wolf is the path finder the teacher they finder of the way
the hawk hears the howl and carries the message up to the sky
what the message, , , , , you may as for each its difffenrt each its own sound even one of silance
the wolf knows all is well in the world tonght
dont know why i wrote this one or whats its meaning is just kinda came to me as i sat here watching the football game
hope you all enjoyed
greyicewolf
.
poem by Jeff Greyicewolf
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Hawk
Hawk
In the sky
Flying at
full strength
With the help of the
Strong wind
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Birdie on the Seventh Hole, Shoot like a Pro
John Henry (Tripp) Isenhour III is a real jerk,
He was at the Grand Cypress Golf course,
Where he had been taping a television when there was a sound,
Not a “Fore”,
not car,
not a cow
or a horse,
Tripp was furious,
-no, not Linda Tripp,
he had to silence the source.
It was a red-shouldered hawk got Tripp upset when he had to do another take.
Tripp waited and waited for right shot to silence the squawking bird.
Tripp drove the golf ball 75 yards to the birdie.
The hawk was silent; the golf ball struck its mark,
The blood from the bird’s nostrils did not make the killing fake.
Usually birds are killed with baseballs or M1 Abrams Tanks,
(see Observation Farewell to Feathers) ,
But this was feat that was terrible for the red shouldered hawk,
and later Tripp,
Because the hawk is a protected species.
Tripp was arrested and faces 2 years and $1,500 in fines,
I hope he is found guilty and gets the maximum sentence.
Enough time for him to finish his subject on Man’s Endangerment t to Wildlife thesis.
(3-7-2008)
poem by Joe Rosochacki
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The Child in the Orchard
'He rolls in the orchard: he is stained with moss
And with earth, the solitary old white horse.
Where is his father and where is his mother
Among all the brown horses? Has he a brother?
I know the swallow, the hawk, and the hern;
But there are two million things for me to learn.
'Who was the lady that rode the white horse
With rings and bells to Banbury Cross?
Was there no other lady in England beside
That a nursery rhyme could take for a ride?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Was there a man once who straddled across
The back of the Westbury White Horse
Over there on Salisbury Plain's green wall?
Was he bound for Westbury, or had he a fall?
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are two million things for me to learn.
'Out of all the white horses I know three,
At the age of six; and it seems to me
There is so much to learn, for men,
That I dare not go to bed again.
The swift, the swallow, the hawk, and the hern.
There are millions things for me to learn.'
poem by Edward Thomas
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Hawk Revisited
Told of the hawk on the rail
friends wink.
'A hawk? In the Barrio'?
Not knowing what to think
they glance at each other, first, then at their knees,
stare at the vacant rail, then back at me
as if I'd claimed to see
an elf in Bermudas sipping a Sea-Breeze;
hasten to agree
concluding my mistake, if any, harmless-
the sort of thing that happens every day,
'Goodbye', say, and quickly slip away.
Till I conclude the raptor on the rail
the ruins of a burst balloon
snatched by the wind from some child's bouquet
caught, now, on the rail's disjointed finger;
or, drifting in place
an expirant shred of sooty plastic;
some out-the-window flung
sheer article of lingerie;
a wretched mistake-
an hallucination
a figment of imagination,
indigestion-
anything but the hawk it was.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Goshawk
The turning hawk suddenly breaks its flight
with claws stretched out,
it falls like thunder from the sky.
The turning hawk suddenly breaks its flight
and even when its prey is anxious
.it falls as if it is drawing into the earth;
the turning hawk suddenly breaks its flight,
with claws stretched out.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dogma
dogma...
mankind's attempts,
however feeble,
to draw the wings of the hawk
with broken crayons,
with which to fly.
never knowing they're
already flying!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Shiva
There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky,
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning
Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the star's eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan;
The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme,
Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood,
Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.
poem by Robinson Jeffers
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