En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The hoopoe

Every time that I mow the lawn
he waits in a tree
on me to finish
and there are times
that he gets impatient
and his hoopoe resounds.

Just when I walk away
he flies fluttering down
and pecks everywhere
to get worms
and insects

and I see his orange brown quiff
standing up
and it’s as if his body
glows shimmering orange

and there are black and white stripes
going to the points
of his wings
while like a woodpecker
he hits his bill
here and there into the ground

and like a chicken
pecking up seed
picks up insects from the ground.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Joys Of Spring (Un-Wreathed Quatrains)

Landing outside a hoopoe is on the lawn
drawn to the window where I am standing
demanding its hoopoe resounds at dawn,
showing off is plumes while wandering

with the orange and fawn colours glowing
with movements flowing somewhat strange
as if to arrange a gift of beauty on a wing
with its cry near to the mountain range

with perfect wit it flutters like a butterfly,
it passes by; stripes blazon the beauty of it,
perfectly it fit in the curious eye;
a stunning picture pecking bit by bit.

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Green Starling

When you look at the green starling
it screams in the long grass,
gleams green in the morning dew
and catches your eye
as it comes out of a hole, out of a tree,
as it picks up insects at a small stream
as it comes out,
as it comes out
as if caught in your daydream.

When you look at the green starling
it sparkles here and there
as if it sometimes is holding onto rays
and it warbles
stretches out under the sun,
view it as a red balloon
stretches out
stretches out
and it would fly away if it could.

When you look at the green starling
it pecks at a sorrel
when at times it holds onto a big worm
before it sings a song of joy
flies up fluttering, spreading its wings
and for moments distract you,
flies up fluttering
flies up fluttering
and so a whole mornings swishes past.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Ode To Orange Chgicken

Orange chicken, oh orange chicken,
how much I love you.

You're sweet, sticky, and tangy, all at the same time,
you go great wi th soy sauce, but never with lime.

ode to orange chicken, which I love to devour,
it's been in my mouth so often, it knows that i have power.

It knows the names of my taste buds, Jill, Lil, and Bill,
sometimes the orange chicken is happy, but sometimes it's held against it's will.

Whenever I eat orange chicken, it goes CRUNCH, CRUNCH,
and I have to have chow mein, and that goes MUCH, MUNCH!

Ode to orange chicken, it is always in a bowl,
but did I mention, i also love eggrolls.

poem by Aubrey Harmel
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A Muse From The Forest

The white gold,
The black gold,
The red gold,
The yellow gold,
'Obroni-Nephew' is about to teach you all;
Like the very call of a muse from the forest.

The Chinese eat all animals, fish and insects;
The very call from the forest with a view but,
Do you like to be fed with crocodile meat?
The lizard meat,
The lion meat,
The tiger meat,
The snake meat,
The elephant meat,
Life is like that for many who eat everything;
The Chinese eat all animals, fish and insects.

Life is like a visit to the biggest cemetery on earth,
Do you like to be fed with cockroaches?
Whatever we eat today,
We will be burried one day.
Of the brown gold,
Of the orange gold,
Of the green gold,
Of the blue gold,
The Chinese eat all meat, fish and insects.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Woodpecker

What is that knock-knock sound?
I hear it when it's quiet.
I look and listen for the source.
It's the woodpecker looking for its diet.

I found him upright on the bark
of a tall and lanky pine
making a hole as he taps repeatedly
with his beak that's pointy and fine.

It seems he's making a nest today
pecking away with his beak.
And in between he takes some time
to eat insects as I try to catch a peek.

But the sight that I catch as he pecks away
is not as interesting to me
as his knock-knock sound that I listen to
on my tall and barky tree.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Indian minors

Deadly like ravens, are the ever pecking
Indian minors on the lawn
with yellow beaks, legs and feet,
camouflaged brown with sharp black eyes
ever inspecting, single-minded killing
all insects that they find,
walking around like soldiers
that landed from the air,
looking for the enemy
as if it can be anywhere.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Lessons from a Woodpecker

The woodpecker will not give up,
Until the hole it planned is made!
It walks upon the trunk upside,
Its clawed feet holding bark firmly!

It pecks and pecks while turning head;
It bangs and drums upon the tree;
It hammers, chisels, saws and files,
The sharp beak digging circularly!

The pecking actions cause echoes
In air surrounding bird on tree;
With great a force, it pecks each time,
But does not mind feeling giddy!

It pecks and pecks as wood chips fly;
The bristly tongue helps it to clear;
The beak keeps hitting edge of hole,
As head of bird, then goes deeper!

It takes a month to make a hole!
The woodpecker will not give up;
It comes back to the hole each day,
And deepens it some more, some way!

The woodpecker has taught me how
Hard labor, perseverance clicks;
And lo! The nest is filled with love,
As noisy cries come from new chicks!

Yes, Mother Nature teaches all,
Such golden lessons for no fee;
Oh, listen to her daily call;
Success will smile on you, may be!

When one has aimed to do something,
Come in the way, don’t let a thing;
Work till the job is fully done;
Nothing in life, you leave half-done!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-15-2010

poem by John Celes
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Tampa Robins

The robin laughed in the orange-tree:
"Ho, windy North, a fig for thee:
While breasts are red and wings are bold
And green trees wave us globes of gold,
Time's scythe shall reap but bliss for me
-- Sunlight, song, and the orange-tree.

Burn, golden globes in leafy sky,
My orange-planets: crimson I
Will shine and shoot among the spheres
(Blithe meteor that no mortal fears)
And thrid the heavenly orange-tree
With orbits bright of minstrelsy.

If that I hate wild winter's spite --
The gibbet trees, the world in white,
The sky but gray wind over a grave --
Why should I ache, the season's slave?
I'll sing from the top of the orange-tree
`Gramercy, winter's tyranny.'

I'll south with the sun, and keep my clime;
My wing is king of the summer-time;
My breast to the sun his torch shall hold;
And I'll call down through the green and gold
`Time, take thy scythe, reap bliss for me,
Bestir thee under the orange-tree.'"

poem by Sidney Lanier
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Insects

Tiny insects in my hair
Tiny insects everywhere
Tiny insects in my pants
Watching insects make romance
Insects make me make me want to dance dance dance
They make want to dance . . .
Flying insects everywhere
Flying insects buzzing buzzing buzzing thru the air
Just like little diamonds in the sky
Insects buzzing in my eye
Buzzing insects make me want to dance dance dance
They make me want to dance . . .
Insects crawling all around
Insects squirming in the ground
Insects gooey squeaky chewy
Should I eat them--no
Id rather stomp them hurt them stomp
Stomp them while I dance dance dance
I hurt them while I dance dance dance
I stomp them while I dance dance dance . . .
Insects make me scream and shout
They dont know what lifes about
They dont have blood
Theyve got too many legs
They dont have brains in their heads
They know theyll rule the world some day
They bite and sting me anyway
They bite and sting and suck
They bite and sting and suck suck suck
They bite and sting and
Suck suck suck suck suck . . .
Dance dance dance

song performed by by Oingo Boingo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Brown Rock-Pigeon, Flutters Just Past The Porch

A brown rock-pigeon, flutters just past the porch
picks up some small insects from the mown lawn
from where it continually calls its mate,
at a distance sparrows splash in water.

An auburn colour flames in the sun
stretching right over some gleaming feathers
while he keeps on catching tiny insects,
before his cooing attracts some more doves.

Yellow weavers chatter in the branches,
they fly whistling from one branch to another,
they are charming pied coloured females
that are basking under the hot bright sun,

the sun stretches shadows all over me,
in the distance there’s thunder roaring.

poem by Gert Strydom
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Hypnagogic

a woman dreams that she turns
into an orange bird
and on the other hand the orange
bird seeing her so beautiful and complete
less the orange wings and feathers
dreams of having woman-hands
soft and a flowing body like a slender
river curving through along
the side of a big mountain where
the orange bird perches on a branch
of an olive tree beside it

convoluted, the thoughts unwind
themselves in sleep wanting rest
from all these warping of time
and seasons and images and swapping
between reality and dream
surreal and mundane

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Shakey Ground

Lady luck and the four leaf clover
Wont ease this hurt,i feel all over
My life was one special occasion
Till u leave me damp in the situation
Well well well standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
My car got repossessed this morning
Harder times I havent seen in years
Able to throw me a life preserver
'cos Im about to drown in my own tears
Well well well standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Well well well standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Standing on shakey ground
Ever since you put me down
Well well well standing on shakey ground
Shaking, shakey ground
Standing, standing
Standing on shakey ground

song performed by by Don Henley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Annoying Woodpecker

The woodpecker pecks gracefully
On the side of the house.
It's bothersome raps
wake me from a sound sleep.
I stumble out of bed in a
Sleepy fog, and walk outside
To somehow quiet the loud clatter.
I walk up to the house
The small woodpecker is startled
And hastily flies away.
He perches on a small branch
And looks at me
I leave the woodpecker
To his business
In hopes that he would get
Bored and leave
For my house's sake.

poem by Melanie Dickie
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Mother Chicken

Kut, kut, kwee, kwee, she calls
Chicks run to mother, and flap their wings
The mother, pecks and scratches ground for worms

Kut, kut, kwee, kwee, a sweet mother's sign
They hop, dance, jump and run in delight
A day is made, with a lovely mother's sign.

Kut, kut, kwee, kwee, on the ground she scratches
Kwi, kwi, merrily they've pecked for worms
Happy under shade, they are covered under wings.

poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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A Memory For To Cherish

White butterflies are dancing in the warm evening breeze
And the house sparrows are chirping on the sunlit garden trees
On a warm day in April in the far Southern Fall
Of the Southern Land's four Seasons the most pleasant one of all,
I love this Autumn weather and though Winter days are near
One has to say of April 'tis a pleasant time of year
Above the sunlit paddock to and fro across the sunlit sky
The dark winged welcome swallows chasing flying insects fly,
With his tail ever wagging perched on a garden wall
The black and white fantail or willy wagtail a bird that's known to all
Always on the look out for insects airborne or on the ground
Where willy wagtails are present insects sure to abound,
Of this sunny late April evening in the far Southern Fall
A memory for to cherish and a memory to recall.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The greatest thing

I put the seed
into ground that I
mingled with dark black compost.

Rows of beans,
some carrots, some pumpkins
and spinach
I sowed into the orange brown earth.

Some small tomato plants,
I planted in blocks
and pressed small
frames of reeds
on top
for them to crawl over.

Every day I sprayed water
and tended the weeds
and in time
little green plants
sprang out of the ground
and the tomatoes crept
and crawled all over
their reeds.

It was great to be part
of spring and see
living things sprout
from the ground,
but a dog dug
some carrots out
and a flock of mice
came to eat
tomatoes from the plants.

Yet in time
some great vegetables
came to my table
and spring was awesome
and so was summer
and to tend my own garden
is the greatest thing.

poem by Gert Strydom
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To His Coy One

SEEST thou yon smiling Orange?
Upon the tree still hangs it;
Already March bath vanish'd,
And new-born flow'rs are shooting.
I draw nigh to the tree then,
And there I say: Oh Orange,
Thou ripe and juicy Orange,
Thou sweet and luscious Orange,
I shake the tree, I shake it,
Oh fall into my lap!

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Choose Your Color

I will paint the walls blue
Blue is calm, blue is power
Blue is the color of tranquility
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the ceiling green
Green is healthy, green is peace
Green makes time move faster
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the floor red
Red is fire, red is danger
Red is the symbol of passion
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the sky purple
Purple is sad, purple is gloomy
Purple is the color of romance
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the tree black
Black is fear, black is death
Black is the symbol of grief
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the street yellow
Yellow is happy, yellow is fresh
Yellow is the color of sunshine
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint the fence orange
orange is wisdom, orange is wealth
Orange is the color of success
Do you see my colors yet?

I will paint everything white
White is good, white is pure
White is the color of faith
Have you seen my colors yet?

(August 16th,2006)

poem by Christopher G. Turner
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Ode to Chickens

An Ode to Chickens

Oh chicken, oh chicken,

With orange little feet,

All white and fluffy,

So good to eat,

Oh chicken, oh chicken,

I will get you so fat,

Then I will kill you,

And eat you at last

poem by Trevor Cummins
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The car of Johnny staying at home

The car of Johnny staying at home
takes the garden route
and the old green wheelbarrow creaks
while I fill it up
with weeds.

I pull a lever
and like magic sprinklers appear
in the garden
and the two cats
run moaning out of the water,
before the dogs
rollick barking in it.

I am angry with the Indian Miners, rats,
insects and snails
that eats holes out of my ripe tomatoes
and even wreck the spinach
before they are even ripe

and I wonder if I am farming
for myself and my darling
or the wild animals
and who really are going to eat the fruit?

There are sparrows and doves
in the branches of the pepper tree
that are peering and waiting
for me to throw out some seed

and it’s getting white hot
while the sun
rises higher in the sky
and I enjoy
dark red roses, purple irises
and orange, white and pink
geraniums that are all flowering.

poem by Gert Strydom
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