Words are like newly hatched eggs: they already have wings.
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Words are like eggs: when they are hatched they have wings.
If you want your eggs hatched, sit on them yourself.
The Hen's Complaint
Beside an incubator stood
The would-be mother of a brood.
With drooping wings and nodding head,
These are the clucked-out words she said:
'O, vile invention of the age,
You fill me with a burning rage!
Unfeeling monster, moved by steam,
You rob me of life's sweetest dream!
Deprived of offspring which I crave,
I must go childless to my grave.
My aching wings which long to cover
A chirping brood of nestlings over,
No more may know that comfort sweet,
Since chickens may be hatched by heat.
Three weeks of quiet expectation
(Full many a flighty hen's salvation)
I am denied, for now men say
A hen should be content to lay,
And furnish eggs to incubate,
And setting hens are out of date.
Alas, for such a cruel fashion-'
The angry fowl paused, choked with passion,
While from behind a strong hand caught her
And doused her in a tub of water.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Pearls
There was a time
When I shared
My every little perception
With you.
Like a pregnant oyster
I unloaded pearls of writhing emotions
Upon your limitless ocean bed;
As dinosaurs laying eggs upon sands,
Never bothered to think-
What would become
Of the overburdened sand-bed
Once the eggs hatched.
Now that you are gone,
I collect my own pearls
And string them up into wreaths
Of unexpressed desires,
And set them afloat
Upon my ocean of tears.
A Dragon
Faster dragons will question my integrity,
Like a man detested I seek my revenge
On the bravery which defiled the bad dragon
That defends itself, itself and no other.
A little disorder is an alphabet to learn
For this dragon to learn and teach to its young.
The eggs have hatched and little do you know -
A word has been conveyed of late - you are mad!
The mad dragon has been a large eater of its own eggs!
poem by Naveed Akram
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What Do I Know......what You Do Not.
i know the spring.
i have traced the source of this water
that i drink everyday
that which gives me
inspiration because all my veins
let through the blood
and the water seeps through
the softness of my skin
the labyrinths of my intestines
i know spring
the source is here
not in the heart where drought
lies, not in the convolutions of my brains
where confusion reigns at times
overpowering the stillness of
my secret pond,
on the darkness of my night
i know the source
it is not evil, it does not have horns
but there is fire that burns me
like a bush and i am
unconsumed
it is eternal
not this damnation that kills the lives
of those who remain to be alone
in their messy rooms
on their windows that do not allow
the light of the moon
the advices of the breeze
the comforting messages of the
newly hatched eggs on the nests
of the trees
it is not in the heart
it is right here where my hands grope
for meaning
where my fingers glide
where my solitude rests
the hammock
of my humanity
as i run to and fro
because i do not want to be detached
to leave
it is here where i stay
and write some more
it is where where i do not want to be understood
by anybody
this secret pond
blind fish mute moss
bubble free
an insect with undeveloped wings
walk on the mirror
water.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird: it would be a jolly sight harder for it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.
quote by C.S. Lewis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Symbols
I watched a rosebud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour
And fell at evensong.
I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.
Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.
But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again:
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Feel Of A Poem
the words are there
squatting
not in a position to attack
they're more of
in between
a choice of whether to retreat
accept defeat
or surge and collide and
burst and die
the pen looks at all of them
they're so helpless
like unborn babies
like hatched turtles
that do not know where the
sea is
and with a rash decision
the pen strikes at all of them
the hands are fed up
the heart is broken
the mind is dizzy
and the poet goes outside the house
looks at the garden
heaves a sigh
and then keeps a secret upon itself
it is the feel of the poem
and no one knows it except
the words themselves who finally
opened up
their wings and flew away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Scandal is like an egg; when it is hatched it has wings.
Sleep Talk
Sleep talks more from not understanding it,
and while they come too see our ghost it listens,
most know we exchange passed glances knowingly.
Waiting less for those few eggs that hatched and flew,
What has raven done, with some bright shiney eyes?
And the rest outside the windows nest, sits empty.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Birds Nest
Have you not seen the bird
flying far, again and again
collecting straws to weave a nest-
a home- for its young ones to be.
As eggs are hatched
out come the young
chirping or crying, to be fed,
the bird flies again, and again
collecting grains
to feed the young
who cannot fly
It chews the grain but does not swallow
beak to beak it feeds young fellow
caressingly and lovingly
so all are fed properly.
Young get wings, by and by:
and coaxed by the mother bird;
attempt to fly.
Then suddenly one day
the young one flies far away
It knows not where: and
The nest gets barren,
Lonely...
The bird DOES NOT GRIEVE
OR DOES IT
We humans, we do not know.
Green Eggs & Ham
I do not like green eggs and ham
I do not like them
Sam, I am
I do not like them here or there
I do not like them anywhere
I do not like them in a boat
I would not, could not, with a goat
I will not eat them in the rain
I do not like them on a train
I do not like them in a box
I will not eat them with a fox
I do not like them in a house
I would not, could not, with a mouse
I do not like green eggs and ham
I do not like them
Sam, I am
Green eggs and ham
Green eggs and ham
Dont like green eggs and ham
song performed by by Weird Al Yankovic
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weeping angels
Down from heaven
to show the way to paradise
for the newly dead
the angels weep
So young
so innocent
so senseless
the angels weep
Eyes down
wings at there sides
words not exchanged
the angels weep
32 new angels
no need to earn there wings
like jesus they died for other peoples sins
in heaven they will weep
In heaven they will be called apon
to one day escort the new to paradise
and they will
With eyes down
wings at there sides
and tears in there eyes
weeping forever
God bless all who lost there lives today
and there familys
America loves you
and your scarfice will not be forgotten
poem by Vincent Armone
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Words
Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be as good as fingers.
They can be as trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.
Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.
Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren't good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.
But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Grammar
Only the love-birds will know
it was time of inquisition.
There was a lot of prodding in
the neighbourhood.
A voice without sound
was resenting with guilt-virginity
and the bell tolls
for a zero hour.
The entrusted trust was
still moving off the transparency.
Was it not a weird night?
The newly hatched babies,
jutting out their necks
from their clay homes were
to know the roots of verbs.
Satish Verma
poem by Satish Verma
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Every Breath of a Dove
Every breath that I take
My heart doth make
A beat for the rhythm of love
Carried by the wings of a dove,
Flying round you, loving you, calling
You are still, a signal to my fluttering wings
That descends me gentle, close onto your body
High in the sky of the trees our interwoven sticks
Of love await your nest eggs...I fly away.
As the moon says goodbye sunshine peeks at your eyes
Sparkling brightly as you warm to your clutch of eggs,
I call to you for we must fly to make an appearance
By the church bell the scene is laid,
For a wedding spell.
A young couple wed embrace and kiss
Something we never miss,
For the love of a dove.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Every Breath That I Take...
My heart doth make
A beat for the rhythm of my love,
Carried by my wings of a dove
Flying round you, loving you, calling
You are still, a signal to my fluttering wings
That descends gentle, close onto your body
High in the sky of the trees our interwoven sticks
Of love await your nest eggs...I fly away.
As the moon says goodbye sunshine peeks at your eyes
Sparkling brightly as you warm to your clutch of eggs,
I call to you for we must fly to make an appearance
By the church bells the scene is laid,
For a wedding spell.
A young couple wed embrace and kiss
Something we never miss, to bless
From the love of a dove.
poem by Ken e Hall
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Restlessness In Stillness....
....because i am discontented
here i am making it my own way, because no one remembers
here i am remembering me,
because.....
no one satisfies my hunger and thirst here i go
trekking my way
into everywhere, and tired, and
disappointed, here i am
making a set of wings for me,
these wings without the feathers of a bird,
these wings without need of
a wind,
because i feel so alone, here i am, inventing
company,
i give birth to words, and sentences
myself with
all its punishments,
this newly found joy in the prison of my thoughts
in the vast expanse
universe of my endless and
limitless imagination
this self without a river
this river without water and stones
this floating
existence
an angel without a wing
because i am never appeased
here i am exploding my own firecracker
a boy driving his demons away
with the use of one finger
because i have more to say
in this fear
here i am unceasingly writing
who knows if i finally find you and then
i can absolve myself and after telling everything
i can finally find
my own resting place
here i am, silent and still and staring.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pencil Sketch
sometime in 1985
you sketched an eagle
beside an egg
its newly hatched carbon copy
you wrote there
'for another flight! '
(muling paglipad)
beside it is a computation
40 x 3 = 120
can't really figure out what that means
but one thing i am sure of
you miss those college days
when law was still new to you
when everybody was a complete stranger
now in the land of the snow
a mango seed is buried
but deep in my mind
i sense that difficulty thinking
how can a mango tree, if there shall ever be,
thrive on the harshness of the frost?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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