Change In Recurrence
I
I stood at the gate of the cot
Where my darling, with side-glance demure,
Would spy, on her trim garden-plot,
The busy wild things chase and lure.
For these with their ways were her feast;
They had surety no enemy lurked.
Their deftest of tricks to their least
She gathered in watch as she worked.
II
When berries were red on her ash,
The blackbird would rifle them rough,
Till the ground underneath looked a gash,
And her rogue grew the round of a chough.
The squirrel cocked ear o'er his hoop,
Up the spruce, quick as eye, trailing brush.
She knew any tit of the troop
All as well as the snail-tapping thrush.
III
I gazed: 'twas the scene of the frame,
With the face, the dear life for me, fled.
No window a lute to my name,
No watcher there plying the thread.
But the blackbird hung peeking at will;
The squirrel from cone hopped to cone;
The thrush had a snail in his bill,
And tap-tapped the shell hard on a stone.
poem by George Meredith
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Snail Shell
Sir hand
Or is it maam
I fell out of my right place again
And you
Considered me
And now Im where a snail has to be
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
I need to know because you see
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Friend
Look what you gave
And how can you ever be repaid?
How may I give you a hand
From the position at your feet where I stand?
So let me thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Id like to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
I need to know because you see
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
Snail shell
Thank you
Snail shell
Thank you
Ah
Ah
Ah
Was it something you would do for anybody?
Was it what youd only do for me?
Or was it something where you acted when you saw the need
And knew that there would be a way the act could be repaid
And so it may, but for today
I want to thank you for putting me back in my snail shell
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Blackbirds Can Dance
What an easy Spring day watching the garden grow
Then along comes a blackbird dancing, feet to toe
You might call it the worm-dance for tucker’s chance
That little critter was doing the two-step, at a glance
He hopped to the left and, then, two-steps right
I tell you that blackbird’s dance was rather alright
Guess you think I had nothing better to do…
Than to watch that little fella with his dance one-two
Sure I do; but the garden work was all done
Still, I was so amused for all the worms he got for fun
poem by ArmourQuill Hunter
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The Snail and the Quail
The quick, quivering quail laughed at the slow moving snail
And said, “Don’t ever enter a race or you’ll be last on the trail.”
Well, that snail always saw himself as moving kind of slow,
Though he was sure he knew where a straight line would go.
He thought, “Quail is faster, running back and forth, then forth and back.
If he does that in a race, quick quivering quail might just run off track.”
So the slow moving snail smiled and challenged quick, quivering quail
To a race for the candy store on the other side of hill and dale.
Quick, quivering quail laughed so hard he could hardly talk.
He joked, “Slow snail, you have no chance if you run and I only walk.”
Slow moving snail responded, “Tomorrow you’ll have a chance to shine.
Race time is noon and where ants cross the road is the starting line.”
Quick, quivering quail, still laughing, said “I’ll give you a big head start.”
Slow moving snail answered, “No thanks. Just race fast. I’ll race smart.”
Off went quick, quivering quail with buddies to have fun and stay up late.
Slow moving snail worked on a plan to move faster and go straight.
The day passed quickly for snail and quail as each went his separate way.
Night was short and soon a bright new sun hailed the start of race day.
Quick, quivering quail was tired after staying out late with his best friend.
Slow moving snail slept well and had his plan for how the race would end.
Snails and quails crowded ‘round as queen ant started to whine,
“Loosen up your shell and feathers; then step to the starting line.
On your mark, get ready, get set, now off you two go.”
Quick quivering quail rushed down the track… sir snail started slow.
It wasn’t long before quick quail had quivered across two dales, and then
Thought he’d just catch 40 winks before trying that much track again.
He thought, “I could walk in my sleep and still win this race.
That slow moving snail, carrying his shell along. What a big disgrace! ”
So off he went into Dreamland, seeing candy stores over the next dale.
Or was it two more hills that were the end of this easy trail?
Meanwhile slow moving snail studied his map as he moved along.
He smiled at flowers and friends on the hill; then broke into song,
“I’ve worked hard for this race and thank each and every fan.
I’m confident that I’ll win, but if not, I can always try again.
With your cheers and my hard work, “slow” won’t mean “lose”.
Victory depends not on just our skills, but how much of them we use.”
As slow snail topped the hill, it rained, but not on a single snail fan.
They had umbrellas, since slow snail had checked with the weatherman.
His name now was “quick snail” as he slid down the hills of water and mud.
Rain woke quick quivering quail as a big dropp hit his head with a thud.
Quail ran faster as he thought he saw the finish line with each advance…
But shrieked, “Oh no, I can’t believe it. This line is made up of ants! ”
Snail’s slide downhill helped him move over the dale as never before.
Soon there it was within sight and smell…that winning candy store.
Then snail’s moves were much slower and he could hear a noise behind.
Sure, it was quick quail, so snail reached for all the strength he could find.
Before he knew it, slow moving snail was in front of the candy store.
So proud, he yelled, “I Love You All! ” as he listened to the crowd roar.
poem by Gregory Huyette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Squirrel Said
The Squirrel said.
'Attention all! '
He stands tall.
On a wooden fence,
in suspense.
Their Squirrel Head,
Their squirrel said,
'My nuts are gone,
My nuts are gone! '
Did you check under your bed?
Another squirrel joking said,
'Of course I did! ' the squirrel said,
'I am the Squirrel head'.
Maybe you forgot you've ate,
Autumn now, it's not too late,
Just look for more, Squirrel Head,
An elderly wise squirrel said.
Villanelle: Blackbird
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill,
In autumn after other birds had fled,
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
I stood and listened, savoring the thrill
And wondered why the superstitious dread
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill.
Perhaps they’d better reckoned why the shrill,
Outspoken, charcoal guardian of the dead
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
A witness of the seasons, it could fill
A tome or tomb with woe: I heard, instead,
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill.
The raven’s kin, it played the brazen shill
And, morbid incantations having plead,
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
But as I yearn to hear the robin’s trill,
I think of when, now comforted in bed,
The freakish cawing from the blackbird’s bill
Impaled the air and signaled winter’s chill.
poem by Richard St. Clair
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Love Symphony
Along the garden ways just now
I heard the flowers speak;
The white rose told me of your brow,
The red rose of your cheek;
The lily of your bended head,
The bindweed of your hair:
Each looked its loveliest and said
You were more fair.
I went into the wood anon,
And heard the wild birds sing
How sweet you were; they warbled on,
Piped, trilled the self-same thing.
Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause,
The burden did repeat,
And still began again because
You were more sweet.
And then I went down to the sea,
And heard it murmuring too,
Part of an ancient mystery,
All made of me and you.
How many a thousand years ago
I loved, and you were sweet--
Longer I could not stay, and so
I fled back to your feet.
poem by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Blackbird Metaphor
the Beatles had it
as the struggle for freedom of the blacks
that blackbird singing in the dark
wanting to be free
the Americans
had that blackbird swirling in Vietnam
that chopper that saved lives
that war that caused them humiliation
in the world's opinion
that lie of Nixon
Steven Wallace had eight ways of seeing
that blackbird
Noah sent that blackbird
that did not come back since it was happy
picking on the rotten flesh
of the remains of the dead
the ninth way
of seeing
disobedience
One writes again about the blackbird
that lives singing the songs of neurosis
in his mind
at winter time
The poet commits suicide
His colleagues bury him
with eulogies and ' what ifs'
One sleeps with a blackbird
The other sings with a blackbird
Someone flew away with a blackbird
and did not come back
since then
So many stories
So many poems are written
Now i have to write about this blackbird too
But there shall be no disturbance
No unhappy ending
I swear to you.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The 'Poem A Day' Project ~ Day 193
I’m a traffic cone up a tree
Someone on a drunken spree
With all of their might
Gave me new height
Here for all to see
I’m a traffic cone up a tree
Not really where I should be
I’m usually found
Much nearer the ground
Lined up uniformly
I’m a traffic cone up a tree
It makes me feel rather free
To have reached a place
No other cone’ll grace
Fills me with real glee
I’m a traffic cone up a tree
Plastic and bright orangey
I might catch the eye
Of some strange passer by
Who’ll write a poem about me
poem by Flying Lemming
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Pissed off like a little squirrel with a frozen pine cone.
The Butterfly's Ball and the Grasshopper's Feast
Come take up your Hats, and away let us haste
To the Butterfly's Ball, and the Grasshopper's Feast.
The Trumpeter, Gad-fly, has summon'd the Crew,
And the Revels are now only waiting for you.
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions came forth in a Throng.
And on the smooth Grass, by the side of a Wood,
Beneath a broad Oak that for Ages had stood,
Saw the Children of Earth, and the Tenants of Air,
For an Evening's Amusement together repair.
And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black,
Who carried the Emmet, his Friend, on his Back.
And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too,
With all their Relations, Green, Orange, and Blue.
And there came the Moth, with his Plumage of Down,
And the Hornet in Jacket of Yellow and Brown;
Who with him the Wasp, his Companion, did bring,
But they promis'd, that Evening, to lay by their Sting.
And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his Hole,
And brought to the Feast his blind Brother, the Mole.
And the Snail, with his Horns peeping out of his Shell,
Came from a great Distance, the Length of an Ell.
A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid
A Water-dock Leaf, which a Table-cloth made.
The Viands were various, to each of their Taste,
And the Bee brought her Honey to crown the Repast.
Then close on his Haunches, so solemn and wise,
The Frog from a Corner, look'd up to the Skies.
And the Squirrel well pleas'd such Diversions to see,
Mounted high over Head, and look'd down from a Tree.
Then out came the Spider, with Finger so fine,
To shew his Dexterity on the tight Line.
From one Branch to another, his Cobwebs he slung,
Then quick as an Arrow he darted along,
But just in the Middle, -- Oh! shocking to tell,
From his Rope, in an Instant, poor Harlequin fell.
Yet he touch'd not the Ground, but with Talons outspread,
Hung suspended in Air, at the End of a Thread,
Then the Grasshopper came with a Jerk and a Spring,
Very long was his Leg, though but short was his Wing;
He took but three Leaps, and was soon out of Sight,
Then chirp'd his own Praises the rest of the Night.
With Step so majestic the Snail did advance,
And promis'd the Gazers a Minuet to dance.
But they all laugh'd so loud that he pull'd in his Head,
And went in his own little Chamber to Bed.
Then, as Evening gave Way to the Shadows of Night,
Their Watchman, the Glow-worm, came out with a Light.
Then Home let us hasten, while yet we can see,
For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.
So said little Robert, and pacing along,
His merry Companions returned in a Throng.
poem by William Roscoe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Little Ghost
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high—higher than most—
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone—
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do—and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled—there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused—then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay
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The Barefoot Boy
Blessings on thee, little man,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With thy turned-up pantaloons,
And thy merry whistled tunes;
With thy red lip, redder still
Kissed by strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on thy face,
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace;
From my heart I give thee joy, -
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince thou art, - the grown-up man
Only is republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
Thou hast more than he can buy
In the reach of ear and eye, -
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's painless play,
Sleep that wakes in laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor's rules,
Knowledge never learned of schools,
Of the wild bee's morning chase,
Of the wild-flower's time and place,
Flight of fowl and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole's nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape's clusters shine;
Of the black wasp's cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy, -
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood's time of June,
Crowding years in one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw,
Me, their master, waited for.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
Plied the snouted mole his spade;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering at the garden wall,
Talked with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a complex Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my bowl of milk and bread;
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood,
On the door-stone, gray and rude!
O'er me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs' orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward,
Every morn shall lead thee through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Every evening from thy feet
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt's for work be shod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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0051 The Blackbird of Truth
Waiting for the train, listening
to the blackbird singing
across the railway line
I whistled a musical game with it
of call and response,
variations, show-off riffs;
the blackbird listened,
held its head a little to one side,
crisply hopped onto the iron rail
and I thought myself mighty clever
as we played our musical game, and
it flew across the line, a few yards nearer,
swiftly, with clear intention
onto the platform two yards from me
and the whole world turned on me
as I realised I had no idea
whether it was playing at
blackbird makes friends with man
or whether it was planning
a swift dart at this rival’s eyes
and I felt humble, stupid, ashamed, and yes scared,
to have intruded in this blackbird’s life;
stopped whistling, turned away
and pretended it was just a game,
knowing now
it wasn’t.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Today I accidentally stepped on a snail on the sidewalk in front of our house. And I thought, I too am like that snail. I build a defensive wall around myself, a 'shell' if you will. But my shell isn't made out of a hard, protective substance. Mine is made out of tinfoil and paper bags.
Jack Handey in Deep Thoughts
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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St. Valentine's Day
TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,
With hounds and horsemen, a brave company
On this side in its glory lay the sea,
On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.
The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,
And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:
And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse
Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.
I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even
Better than all by this, that through my chase
In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven
I seem'd to see and follow still your face.
Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,
My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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The Wrong House
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has big steps and a great big hall;
But it hasn't got a garden,
A garden,
A garden,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house,
It has a big garden and great high wall;
But it hasn't got a may-tree,
A may-tree,
A may-tree,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and it wasn't a house -
Slow white petals from the may-tree fall;
But it hasn't got a blackbird,
A blackbird,
A blackbird,
It isn't like a house at all.
I went into a house, and I thought it was a house,
I could hear from the may-tree the blackbird call…
But nobody listened to it,
Nobody
Liked it,
Nobody wanted it at all.
poem by Alan Alexander Milne
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Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
poem by Wallace Stevens
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Two Crows (Fun Poem)
Two crows spied a piece of bread
Both landed beside it on the ground
They started to squabble over it
As neither wanted to share
While they squabbled about it
A passing squirrel spied it to
As the crows continued to squabble
The squirrel nicked it
Then made a hasty retreat.
The crows stopped squabbling
And decided the bread to share
But when they looked upon the ground
The bread was nowhere there
The moral of this story
Yes, there is one indeed
If you want to squabble
About food somewhere
Make sure there isn’t
A squirrel lurking there
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bye Bye Blackbird
Fletcher henderson, dixon
Pack up all my cares and woe, here I go, singing low,
Bye-bye blackbird.
Where somebody waits for me, sugars sweet, so is she,
Bye-bye blackbird.
No one here can love and understand me.
Oh -- what hard-luck stories they all hand me.
Make my bed and light the light
Ill arrive late tonight,
Blackbird, bye-bye.
song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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To My Brothers
O BROTHERS, who must ache and stoop
O’er wordy tasks in London town,
How scantly Laura trips for you—
A poem in a gown!
How rare if Grub-street grew a lawn!
How sweet if Nature’s lap could spare
A dandelion for the Strand,
A cowslip for Mayfair!
But here, from immaterial lyres,
There rings in easy confidence
The blackbird’s bright philosophy
On apple-spray or fence:
For ploughmen wending home from toil
Some patriot thrush outpours his lay,
And voices, wildly eloquent,
The diary of his day.
These living lyrics you may hear
Remembering the lane’s romance,
All hung in wicker heels to chirp
Thin ghosts of utterance:
But where the gusts of liberty
Make Ragged Robin wisely bend,
They quicken hedgerows with their song,
Melodiously unpenned.
If souls of mighty singers leave
The vacant body to its hush,
Does Shelley linger in the lark,
Or Keats possess the thrush?
The end is undecaying doubt,
And in some blackbird’s bosom still
Great Tennyson may sweeten eve
And whistle on the hill.
Come, brothers, to this clean delight,
And watch the velvet-headed tit.
Here ’s honest sorrel in the grass
And sturdy cuckoo-spit:
What shepherds hear you shall not miss,
And at deliverance of dawn
Shall see a miracle of bloom
Across the sparkling lawn.
The forest musically begs
To fan you with its leafy love;
Oh, fall asleep upon this moss
Entreated by the dove!
Here shall that sweet Conservative,5
Dear Mother Nature, lend to you
Her lovely rural elements
Beneath the primal blue.
O brothers, who must ache and stoop
O’er wordy tasks in London town,
How scantly Laura trips for you—
A poem in a gown!
How good if Fleet-street grew a lawn!
How sweet if garden-plots could spare
A bed of cloves to scent the Strand,
A pansy for Mayfair!
poem by Norman Rowland Gale
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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