The vagabonds
What saw you in your flight to-day,
Crows, awinging your homeward way?
Went you far in carrion quest,
Crows, that worry the sunless west?
Thieves and villains, you shameless things!
Black your record as black your wings.
Tell me, birds of the inky hue,
Plunderous rogues--to-day have you
Seen with mischievous, prying eyes
Lands where earlier suns arise?
Saw you a lazy beck between
Trees that shadow its breast in green,
Teased by obstinate stones that lie
Crossing the current tauntingly?
Fields abloom on the farther side
With purpling clover lying wide--
Saw you there as you circled by,
Vale-environed a cottage lie,
Girt about with emerald bands,
Nestling down in its meadow lands?
Saw you this on your thieving raids?
Speak--you rascally renegades!
Thieved you also away from me
Olden scenes that I long to see?
If, O! crows, you have flown since morn
Over the place where I was born,
Forget will I, how black you were
Since dawn, in feather and character;
Absolve will I, your vagrant band
Ere you enter your slumberland.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Related quotes
Crows
THEN, suddenly, I was aware indeed
Of what he said, and was revolving it:
How, in the night, crows often take to wing,
Rising from off the tree-tops in Drumbarr,
And flying on: I pictured what he told.
The crows that shake the night-damp off their wings
Upon the stones out yonder in the fields,
The first live things that we see in the mornings;
The crows that march across the fields, that sit
Upon the ash-trees' branches, that fly home
And crowd the elm-tops over in Drumbarr;
The crows we look on at all hours of light,
Growing, and full, and going these black beings have
Another lifetime!
Crows flying in the dark
Blackness in darkness flying; beings unseen
Except by eyes that are like to their own
Trespassers' eyes!
And you, old man, with eyes so quick and sharp,
Who've told me of the crows, my fosterer;
And you, old woman, upon whose lap I've lain
When I was taken from my mother's lap;
And you, young girl, with looks that have come down
From forefathers, my kin ye have another life
I've glimpsed it, I becoming trespasser-
Blackness in darkness flying like the crows!
poem by Padraic Colum
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I Dreamt...
i dreamt...
i was dead,
and they'd buried me
on a hill with
a small stone marker.
and i watched
as seasons passed,
one by one,
in constant rhythm...
the years went by.
and no living being
ever visited my graveside,
except for black crows...
again and again,
black crows!
the caw of the crows!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Big Black Crows
big black crows
keep following me
everywhere i go....
and this morning i heard
the trees whsipering,
as we rode down the road......
drifting clouds, and vacant buildings,
people walking, heads bent down.
children's faces staring out frosted windows,
old dog lying in the sun.
shadows forming faces,
then dissolving back to shadow.....
memories hang like nails on the wall,
that the Painter's brush cant quite hide.
the scent of perfume, wind devils and rust....
big black crows and ashes drifting,
from a heart set on fire!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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As the Crows Gathered
As the Crows Gathered
By: Adam M. Snow
Surrounded by bodies of murder
the flocking and squawk arose.
Score of many rows on girder
feast of death drew the crows.
One to carry souls of many;
one onto life beyond life.
Yet was not the foe-of any-
to leave this world of strife.
The crows they flock,
they flock, they squawk;
flapping their wings tremendously.
They caw, they pecked,
they grew many in score
groups gathered more and more.
Blackened the sky with their endless flutter;
'But what of this? ' I utter.
'My days are long now being nighted.
The crows around have united.'
Feathers falling, covering the ground with black;
everywhere I look, it covers every crack.
The thought of death surrounds us all
before the crows, life will fall.
The ominous bank of crows like a cloud,
covers the world like an endless shroud.
Leaving I, overwhelm with fear
it is death lurking near.
The crows they gathered all in vast;
all is dark than a shadow cast.
They prey the lost and many more,
time has come for death to bore.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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The flight of the crows
The autumn afternoon is dying o'er
The quiet western valley where I lie
Beneath the maples on the river shore,
Where tinted leaves, blue waters and fair sky
Environ all; and far above some birds are flying by
To seek their evening haven in the breast
And calm embrace of silence, while they sing
Te Deums to the night, invoking rest
For busy chirping voice and tired wing--
And in the hush of sleeping trees their sleeping cradles swing.
In forest arms the night will soonest creep,
Where sombre pines a lullaby intone,
Where Nature's children curl themselves to sleep,
And all is still at last, save where alone
A band of black, belated crows arrive from lands unknown.
Strange sojourn has been theirs since waking day,
Strange sights and cities in their wanderings blend
With fields of yellow maize, and leagues away
With rivers where their sweeping waters wend
Past velvet banks to rocky shores, in canyons bold to end.
O'er what vast lakes that stretch superbly dead,
Till lashed to life by storm-clouds, have they flown?
In what wild lands, in laggard flight have led
Their aerial career unseen, unknown,
'Till now with twilight come their cries in lonely monotone?
The flapping of their pinions in the air
Dies in the hush of distance, while they light
Within the fir tops, weirdly black and bare,
That stand with giant strength and peerless height,
To shelter fairy, bird and beast throughout the closing night.
Strange black and princely pirates of the skies,
Would that your wind-tossed travels I could know!
Would that my soul could see, and, seeing, rise
To unrestricted life where ebb and flow
Of Nature's pulse would constitute a wider life below!
Could I but live just here in Freedom's arms,
A kingly life without a sovereign's care!
Vain dreams! Day hides with closing wings her charms,
And all is cradled in repose, save where
Yon band of black, belated crows still frets the evening air.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Watching The Crows
A bushman got lost in a scrub in the North,
And all the long morning the searchers went forth.
They swore at the rain that had washed out the tracks
And left not a trace for the eyes of the blacks;
But, trusting the signs that the blackfellow knows,
A quiet old darkey stood watching the crows.
The solemn old blackman stood silently by;
He stood like a statue, his face to the sky.
Black Billy was out of the bearings—we thought—
If he looked above for the bushman we sought;
For we rather suspected the spirit would go
In—well, quite another direction, you know.
Most bushmen on solemn occasions will joke,
And unto Black Bill ’twas the super who spoke.
He asked, as he cocked his red nose in the air—
“You think it old Harrison sit down up there?”
“I’m watching the crows. Where the white man lies dead
The crows will fly over,” the blackfellow said.
The blackfellow died, and long years have gone round
Since the day when old Harrison’s body was found;
But still do I see, in my vision at night,
A faint figure come like a shadow in sight,
And nearer and nearer it comes till it grows
Like the form of that blackfellow—“watching the crows”.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Where Do the Crows Go
I see and hear less Crows in Spring.
Where do the Crows go?
While the Morning Doves chirp,
And the Bluebirds sing.
At dawn I use to hear the Crows...
From the rooftops and fences,
Do that 'crowing' thing.
And now that Spring has arrived,
I do not see a Crow around.
Where do the Crows go?
That's what I want to know!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Quit My Gardens, O Crows!
quit my gardens, o crows!
&
o noisy quarrelsome crows!
quit my gardens-
o birds of all feathers!
of different melodies!
of lonely bushes and thickets!
of far-away lands!
come here! visit me!
grace my gardens and groves!
nay, all yours, your heavens!
no, ours!
sing singly; sing in chorus!
melt in sorrowful strains;
and in joyous tunes!
but o hoarse-throated crows!
vacate my gardens
and retreat to the forest!
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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Malediction
I am walking in the last rays of the setting sun.
Whistling a hangmans tune with head held high swinging my gun.
I say this little boy is angry, I say this little boy is mad!
This little boy comes to destroy, stone-eyed, cold-faced in swathes of vengeance clad.
And the black cock crows. and a dead wind blows.
In my wake are seven men who tried to steal my soul.
In my belly six wild wolves curse and howl from their foul hole.
I say no earthly will may stop me, I say no earthly will may try.
No earthly will may halt the spill of blood from wounds and tears from craving eyes.
And the black cock crows. and a dead wind blows.
Below me burn the city lights like fires of pearls and jewels.
Im climbling down the city walls, unseen, unfussed - the sentries must be fools.
I say all pleasantries are over, I say all pleasantries are past.
My enemies, you pimps and thieves, prepare to meet your nemesis at last.
And the black cock crows. and the dead wind blows.
song performed by by Waterboys
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lonely Poplar
LONELY WHITE POPLAR
GROWING UP RAPIDLY TOWARDS HEAVEN
YOU ARE WAVING YOUR HAND TO ME
AND TRYING TO REACH SOMEONE ABOVE
I THOUGHT YOU WANTED ME NOTICE YOUU
ON THESE HOT DAYS OF JULY
DO NOIT THİ NK
I HAVE FORGOTTEN YOU
I EVEN KNOW
HOW MANY BLACK CROWS
CROWS EAGERLY AND OBSTINATELY ON YOU
NESTLING I IN YOUR GREEN
HOW CAN I FORGET YOU
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
WHEN I BROKE MY THIGH
IN THE COLD WINTER
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
I SAW YOU DROPPING YOUR LEAVES
I EVEN SAW YOU NAKED WITHOUT THE LEAVES
I SAW YOU LEAFENİ NG IN SPRING
I SAW YOU IN HARSH WINDS
BENDING UP AND DOWN
WHEN SNOW FELL
YOU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
WHEN I WAS SITTING ON A CHAIR
AND WHEN I WAS WALKING WITH A BATON
STUMBLING HERE AND THERE
TO AND FRO
LONELY GREEN POPLAR IN SUMMER
YOU WERE WAVING YOUR HANDS TO ME
YIU WERE MY ONLY FRIEND
IN MY LONELY DAYS
HOW CAN I FORGET YOU
poem by Metin Sahin
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The Common Crow
The Common Crow, "Caw-Caw"—with its familiar sound
Is a harmless bird very adaptable on land
Almost all over the world it is invariably found
Except in South America, Antarctica and New Zealand.
It is of average size—in color—grey and black
And abounds, teems and thrives in many numbers
Where other birds' survival is considerably slack
As it is the most intelligent of its bird family members.
The Ravens, Magpies, Rooks, the Black-birds
And the Jays—all belong to the family of the crow
They are all hunting migratory birds
Who forage together like the crow.
It has shining black feathers, is clever and curious
It is omnivorous and the diet is very diverse
It eats grains, rodents, insects and is mischievous
And swoops down to grasp things from man's source.
It roosts in large trees high up
Each mating pair has its own nest
Which usually takes one to two weeks to build up
Gathering leaves, feathers, sticks and twigs best.
Baby crows stay in the nest
For up to two months before leaving
The mother crow guards them with zest
And the father crow feeds the family striving.
The young are flesh-colored and born blind
Their eyes open for the first time after five days
The young ones- the family together mind
The elder fledglings tend to help in their own ways.
In Hinduism it is customary to offer food
To the crow before taking the meal
And it is supposed during ‘Shraddha ‘expired ones would
Take food and offerings through the crow's feel.
The crow often lives together in large families
An assembly of crows called a ‘flock of murder'
Forge together and defend their territories
Even high up in the air and down under.
It caws and calls the other crows to its station
To take part of the food that is found
It shows signs of planning communication
Which man must consider and himself bound.
The bird's propensity to raid crops of grain bead
And storing tidbits in trees and crevices in bark
Is the reason ‘Scare crows' are put up to mislead
The crows flock of flights on the crops to embark.
Many crows are surprisingly monogamous
They mate for life and are throughout a pair
The crow belongs to the species Corvus
And up to twenty years it may live with care.
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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Freeway Diners
In sombre black from head to toes.
There are few birds as smart as crows
both in the manner of their dress
and in their native cleverness.
They seize each opportunity
to gain advantage easily.
Patrol the motorways at will
and daily dine on fresh roadkill.
The need not struggle to survive
as long as human beings drive.
The crows are wise enough to know
exactly when and where to go
to satisfy their appetites.
They have their choice of tasty bites.
6-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Black Crow Blues
I woke in the mornin, wandrin,
Wasted and worn out.
I woke in the mornin, wandrin,
Wasted and worn out.
Wishin my long-lost lover
Will walk to me, talk to me,
Tell me what its all about.
I was standin at the side road
Listenin to the billboard knock.
Standin at the side road
Listenin to the billboard knock.
Well, my wrist was empty
But my nerves were kickin,
Tickin like a clock.
If I got anything you need, babe,
Let me tell you in front.
If I got anything you need, babe,
Let me tell you in front.
You can come to me sometime,
Night time, day time,
Any time you want.
Sometimes Im thinkin im
Too high to fall.
Sometimes Im thinkin
Im too high to fall.
Other times Im thinkin im
So low I dont know
If I can come up at all.
Black crows in the meadow
Across a broad highway.
Black crows in the meadow
Across a broad highway.
Though its funny, honey,
I just dont feel much like a
Scarecrow today.
song performed by by Bob Dylan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Crows for Konstantin
Crows.
The noise of conflict dies away.
Those left alive will now depart.
Only the dead allowed to stay,
they have no further part to play.
The warring sides in full retreat
The crows tonight dine on fresh meat.
Though neither side claims victory.
The crows will feast quite happily.
Since man first slew another man.
It seems to be Dame Natures plan.
The crows will feast on the remains
The scavengers alone will gain.
While warring sides must count the cost
of fighting men that they have lost.
Perhaps one day we’ll realise
In war there are no victories.
Bar for the crows who do not fight
but satisfy their appetite.
On those who do who in their view
Choose to fight. they don’t need to.
Although in death they feed the crows.
I don’t suppose the crows oppose.
The idea that men come to blows.
Nor do they care I must suppose.
The only winners are the crows
who feast until they’re comatose.
On what is left of those who chose
to risk their lives exchanging blows.
Sunday,09 May 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Raven Crows
The Raven Crows
by Charles Robert Hice on Thursday, November 22,2012 at 9: 27pm ·
The Raven Crows
The Raven stretches its wings and flies into the gray winter skies while the raven flies it Crows its rawkish voice makes aweful noise
it blows the wind it howls and sounds like a mechanical noise inside the wind
the noise pretends to be the raven as it crows it flies it crows and flies it dives down into the wind and sounds like a noise falling fast and then it sort of dies and falls away not the sound it echoes and it blows
in the middle of the night no one can see the ravens flight but they hear the voice the noise the sound even the wings they flap they glide silent and they hide
The raven seldom crows when it is in its glide it falls and hides no one can see the feathers as it plummets from the sky it moves in a silent fashion
as the raven glides it hides from the eyes of the men it has a sense of reality and a purpose as it glides it looks neither to the left or to the right finally it is satisfied with its destination in its sight the raven crows one final time and plummets like a stone into the night and suddenly a poem is come to earth as Poe hears his famous bird not the crow the rook or the blackbird as it sings but the Raven as it speaks to only him
Nevermore
The Raven Crows
poem by Charles Hice
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Madness of Deforestation
Natures Majestic Trees still, mighty,
Clawed feet grips mother earth deep,
Together holding ground as their own,
Reaching tall breathing out for others life to keep,
Vying for canopy rights, claiming the high blue sky.
Morning sunshine paints its mascara tints,
Shading green, lighting brown glinting green,
A pleasure to see the sea of leafy glints,
Amongst this growing life stands a dead giant
Like a floundering sailing ship in the cruel sea
Now a wonderful perch for the crows choir singing
“NO TREES NO ME, NO TREES NO THEE, ”
Stark dead arms reach out leafless, fingers pointing
Death comes slow to the giant that held the earth together.
Crows cawing out their signature song piercing the silence,
With their timeless silhouettes of black feather.
“Look what do you see besides this dead tree,
Caw caw, caw caw caw!
Uproot them are all for a mirrored vision of thee,
You cannot play with Mother Nature’s law.
After dearth there is no earth!
poem by Ken e Hall
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Counting Crows
Five jet black birds hover
In an ominous flight above head
Whilst I stood amidst the sea of luster
This gilded outgrowth of summer possessed
They spun obliviously, maladroitly,
Entangling and severing lies
And when the sun hides
In the foliage of white pages
Brewing a concoction of lightning,
Thunder, rain, and mistral wind,
The crows would perch in a leafless tree
Forking its branches into the sky
Asking for alms, shearing the charms
Of false hoping and the crows
Beckon the sedentary peril
Lurking like panthers behind the curtain
Of inevitable and malignant fate
Watching and calculating
In ravine and vulpine askance
And every gloaming one crow would fly
To anywhere but in the sea of rye
Hastily in fastidious motions
Its wings would flap and glide
Leaving the horizon,
Leaving an anxious anticipation,
One after another, they flew
Pilfering the lustrous tawny view
And as the number dawns to extinction
I stood still, holding my breath
Up into the small of my neck
Swallowing the clock
As I count crows,
Malinger days,
Sojourn deaths;
A close good bye.
poem by Norman Santos
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Futility
The scarecrow dressed in cast off clothes.
Sticks grimly to his given task
But does he frighten off the crows,
that is the question we must ask.
When he is new perhaps he will
but crows are wise and realise.
This ragged figure stands stock still
and will not take them by surprise.
He cannot move, inanimate.
Which leaves then free to eat their fill.
A guardian quite inadequate.
He does not and he never will.
Frighten the crows who are too wise
to be afraid of straw stuffed clothes
Though he appears in manly guise
he can’t deter the hungry crows.
The scarecrow fails in his attempt.
He never really stood a chance
Crows treat him with amused contempt
and disregard his vigilance.
5-Aug-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Black Crows
Darkness and light, wrong and right
thoughts bleed and dissolve, dreams evolve
paper and smoke, churn and stroke
prayers drip like sweat, slavery and debt
White trash fires, unholy liars
truth falls off the edge, desire walks the ledge
political drugs, who picks the judge
hammers of fear, moments lost to years
Graves open and close, nuclear rose
black shadows turn, pages crumple and burn
lightning or gunfire, stakes higher and higher
death clock chimes, wind thru the pines...
black crows on the lines... black crows on the lines...
Mothers crying and cold, babies bought and sold
welfare Cadillacs, anxiety attacks
trailor tub meth, lonesome last breath
kneeling by the bed, prayers for the dead
Runaways lost, who pays the cost
nursing home ghosts, headstones and posts
pictures turning yellow, goodbyes and hellos
people folded and spent, no messengers sent...
Graves open and close, nuclear rose
black shadows turn, pages crumple and burn
lightning or gunfire, stakes higher and higher
death clock chimes, wind thru the pines...
black crows on the lines... black crows on the lines...
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Black Home.
In my black home
Sometimes the opposite skin
Is perceived to be supreme
Even than our kin.
In my black home
Leaders see their reigns
Everlasting and forget that
Big ones had come and gone as the rains
That fell yesterday.
In my black home
My brothers desire
Toiling on lands of the white
And on return bring home pastures
So green to get here
If the peaks had made patriotism
Prior to party love
Would it be so?
In my black home
Sometimes my sisters
Are forced to marry
My parents friend.
In my black home
Despite these
There are more natural resources
The gold and green
And the fuel
And for all these I am proud more
Despite the eyesore
In my black home.
poem by Elorm Dogbo
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