Little Trotty Wagtail
Little trotty wagtail he went in the rain,
And tittering, tottering sideways he neer got straight again,
He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to get a fly,
And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry.
Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud,
And left his little footmarks, trample where he would.
He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail,
And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail.
Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about,
And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out;
Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pig-stye,
So, little Master Wagtail, I'll bid you a good-bye.
poem by John Clare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
The wagtail hops and flaps its wings, but the male dove feeds and coos.
Birdbrain
Streaking, braking, twisting snatching,
Willie Wagtail's insect catching,
acrobatic chatterbox is garbed in black and white.
Overhead a falcon gliding
wheels and dives, hones in, colliding,
nail-gun force in outstretched claws which strike and lock in tight.
Falcon's talons raking feathers,
small-boned bird eludes caged tethers,
spirals down to dropp within a crown of needled pine.
Cradled safe in twiglet fences,
Wagtail blinks, regaining senses,
splintered wing hangs limply from a slashed and bloodied spine.
Wagtails are unused to resting,
soon, the broken bird is testing,
asymmetric fluttering as painful minutes slip.
Drifting, slowly dehydrating,
ants begin investigating;
as they nip, it hops, retreating, reaching pine limb's tip.
Still it watches insects flicking,
body clock's insistent ticking,
urges nesting, feeding, singing, borders to defend.
Tiny size can be deceptive,
this small bird is quite perceptive,
constantly deciding, many duties to attend.
Suddenly it launches, sailing,
briefly floats, then cartwheels flailing,
Willie Wagtail's final, fatal leap into the sky.
Insects hover, soon to plunder-
Can a bug feel smug?
I wonder.....
No,
but maybe birds can choose to linger or to fly.
poem by Diane Hine
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A month from a skylark, a half from a finch, a little from a wagtail and not a day from a swallow.
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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A Walk In The Sun
The penguins waddled gamely on,
Not one said, 'Boy, we're lost! '
They had the sun to hope upon
And so the ice they crossed!
They first went left a mile or two...
Then waddled to the right...
No fish in sight! What should they do?
They could go on all night!
They turned around, then waddled back,
To where they started from!
The ice was white, but things looked black!
Yet they kept their aplomb...
They huddled close some warmth to keep,
A gentle breeze blew by...
They found some water, oh, so deep!
They heaved a long, long sigh...
They all went crazy running fast!
One mad dash for some fish!
And after dinner, peace at last!
That was their fervent wish!
They all laid down upon the ice,
Their tummies resting there...
To them, this place was Paradise,
While they've got fish to spare...
Denis Martindale, copyright, January 2011.
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'A Walk In The Sun'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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The Last Lovely Rose Of The Fall
Her pink petals lay on the short grass beside the red brick garden wall
By the thorny mother that bore her the last lovely rose of the Fall
White butterflies flit in the garden in the warm sunshine of mid day
And the shrike thrush he pipes on a low branch in his cloak of light brown to gray,
The rose tree has lost her last and her finest daughter next year new roses she will bear
And the rose tree in her flowers does look lovely than her there is none quite so fair
And her flowers they must return to Nature and on Nature's bosom decay
And the rose tree herself sooner or later must return to Nature one day,
The dark willy wagtail he sits on the brick wall his long black tail he wags to and fro
For him 'tis a very good Season on butterlies fat he does grow
Each life form serves a purpose in Nature for one to live one has to die
And what comes from Nature goes back to Nature and the same goes for you and for i
The pink rose petals lay on the grass by their mother on this warm March day in the Fall
And of all of the flowers in the garden in bloom she was the fairest of all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Dirrawan the Song-Maker
Dirrawan went into the bush to spear waat,
but he forgot about waat the red wallaby.
he thought about dirridirri the small bird and deereeree the wagtail
he thought about wonning the lightning and tumberumba the thunder.
He did not spear anything at all.
Dirrawan went to the Long Brown Water to catch makora.
he thought about balleballea the silence of the night,
he thought about ballanda the long time ago.
He did not catch any fish, he brought back a new song to the gunyahs.
poem by James Martin Devaney
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A Beautiful Day In October
The flies are buzzing in the sunshine and the little dark brown honeybees
Are busily gathering nectar from the flowers of the blossoming trees
On a beautiful day in October of around 27 degrees
And Nature she is at her calmest with only a very faint breeze
Under the house eaves lined with lots of feathers the house sparrows have their nest of hay
Non singers devoted to chirping they seem to chirp all through the day
Such beauty to inspire poets and artists the beauty that Nature create
The willy wagtail with tail wagging is perched on the back garden gate
A tiny black and white long tailed flycatcher always on the look out for flies
One who mobs the much bigger magpie undaunted it does seem by size,
A beautiful day in October butterflies flitting in the sunlight
And fuchsias and roses in full bloom such things that make a pretty sight
And Nature she is at her calmest with only a very slight breeze
And all around the sunlit garden the buzzings of flies and of bees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Exmoor
Lost aboard the roll of Kodac-
olor that was to have super-
seded all need to remember
Somerset were: a large flock
of winter-bedcover-thick-
pelted sheep up on the moor;
a stile, a church spire,
and an excess, at Porlock,
of tenderly barbarous antique
thatch in tandem with flower-
beds, relentlessly pictur-
esque, along every sidewalk;
a millwheel; and a millbrook
running down brown as beer.
Exempt from the disaster.
however, as either too quick
or too subtle to put on rec-
ord, were these: the flutter
of, beside the brown water,
with a butterfly-like flick
of fan-wings, a bright black-
and-yellow wagtail; at Dulver-
ton on the moor, the flavor
of the hot toasted teacake
drowning in melted butter
we had along with a bus-tour-
load of old people; the driver
's way of smothering every r
in the wool of a West Countr-
y diphthong, and as a Somer-
set man, the warmth he had for
the high, wild, heather-
dank wold he drove us over.
poem by Amy Clampitt
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It Is A Lovely Day
The parks and paddocks lush and green wildflowers bloom by the roadway
And birds are singing in the wood it is a lovely day
A forecast low of nineteen and a high of twenty three
And pink flowers in large clusters on the rhododendron tree,
Were I a poet I'd write a sonnet for today that would live on in time
But good poets are few or so 'twould seem in blank verse or in rhyme
For to be able to pen a sonnet to this day joy to others would bring
When Mother Nature is in bloom in the prime of the Spring,
The wattle birds are calling on the sunlit banksia trees
And there is a cool freshness in the freshening coastal breeze
And dark winged welcome swallows chirping as above the park they fly
All through the day they circle to and fro across the sky
And willy wagtail with his wagging tail is chasing flies and bees
And the sunlit park sounds happy with the songs of the pee wees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Over the Hill
What is over the hill,
I've always wondered and I wonder still.
Are there fields of meadows sweet,
Or forests for the eye to greet,
Are there cottages and farms,
All so quaint with country charms.
Or are there seas and sandy coves,
Lofty cliffs and sheep in droves,
Lakes with water gleaming bright,
Willows weeping at the sight.
Could there be a river wide,
With boats all moored along each side,
Or a canal which peacefully meanders,
Past boathouses with their verandas.
Perhaps there is a town of people,
A large stone church with bell and steeple,
Lots of traffic on the go,
People rushing to and fro.
Maybe there are valleys to discover,
With wonderful birds like the wagtail and plover,
Sparrowhawks and buzzards too,
All these would be splendid to view.
There might be a mansion great,
Built within a large estate,
With room to fish and hunt and shoot,
Such a lifestyle would be a hoot.
But it may not be greener over the hill,
We always think maybe it will,
We are left to guess at what things might have been,
And all we can do is imagine the scene.
But perhaps we are happier where we are,
And not to let all our wild thoughts mar,
What we already have, which is pretty okay,
I think you'd agree, what do you say?
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Well, you know, Pudge Rodriguez, obviously is as good as it gets.
quote by Johnny Bench
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Harrows
Our harrows to a triangle would fold,
And so they'd stay until there was the need
To work the ground and harrow in the seed;
But now as warmer days replaced the cold;
As winter's icy grip released its hold,
The time had come to plant the fields that we'd
Ploughed well and deep to grow our summer feed,
As westward billowed clouds, and thunder rolled.
The harrows hitched - but then a shrill protest;
For there upon them woven neat and round
A wagtail and her mate had built their nest
And from it softly came a plaintive sound
As bravely parents chided on the wing;
And so we borrowed harrows all that spring.
Sonnet #9
© Dennis N. O'Brien,2012
poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Looking for Water
Still the leaves are spinning 'round
Take my hand as we go down, and down, and down
Looking for water
Well, our light's gone in a New York minute
Don't know about you, but my heart's not in it
(Looking, looking, looking)
I'm looking for water
I'm looking for water
(Looking, looking, looking)
I can't breathe the air, can't raise a fact
'Cause all we've got left is a beat in the night, and I'm
(Looking for water)
Looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
Take my hand as we go down, and down
Leave it all behind, nothing could be found
(I'm, looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
(I, looking for water)
Looking everywhere
(Looking for water)
Looking here and there
(I'm looking for water)
I'm looking for water
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I can't live in this cage, I can't eat this candy
The edge of the earth to the spin in my head
The look in your eyes and never means never
The dawn's early light, baby, dark is forever
(Looking, looking)
(Looking, looking)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for water)
(Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
Looking, looking)
I
(Looking for water)
(Looking for watter)
song performed by by David Bowie, music by David Bowie, lyrics by David Bowie from Reality
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spontaneously
luck
knocks at the door
you ask it
to leave
it doesn't
it is hardheaded
it claims you
as its
new master
then you dismiss it
again
you are still hurt
for many years
you prayed for it
wasted all your days and nights
invoking it
waddled in pain
dreaming for it
it did not come
it did not listen to you
and now?
you shoo it
like an unwanted bird
in your field
of sunflowers
in your garden of
ordinary days
where you expect
nothing
anymore from anybody
or anything
anywhere
this way
you make a conclusion
with or without it
you live
and you are happy
spontaneously.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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God Hates Ravens
It's a Connect 4
BAM! !
Launch me to the Caspian
See if you can pick me up
A couple of Aspirin
God supplies the water
God really loves his water
He's really good with water
So bring the God damned aspirin
It's a tool shed
Yeah! !
No in so many words
Who to feed first
The pie man or the mockingbirds
Pair the Bastards up
In their heavenly playpens
Wake me when the rain ends
God hates ravens
But he really loves his water
He supplies the water
He's really good with water
So let the feathers fly fucker! !
poem by Peter Krisciunas
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[The Trash Can Fire]
The Trash can fire burns worm.
For another dog left out in the cold.
Glistening streets,
where the dark allies meet.
Another dog without a bone.
Once loyal friend to his master.
Now master of disaster.
His only friend is where he roams
and the only home he now knows.
Is there by the trash can fire.
As rain comes down in sheets.
His matted fer soaks to the core.
Steaming his sole, like water on hot coals
He begs by the trash can fire.
The trash can fire burns worm,
little embers that glow in the night.
Def and blind is this dog.
Never will he belong,
to anything but the trash can fire.
poem by Seth Morrow
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Uncle Albert/admiral Halsey
Were so sorry uncle albert
Were so sorry if we caused you any pain
Were so sorry uncle albert
But theres no one left at home
And I believe Im gonna rain
Were so sorry but we havent heard a thing all day
Were so sorry uncle albert
But if anything should happen well be sure to give a ring
Were so sorry uncle albert
But we havent done a bloody thing all day
Were so sorry uncle albert
But the kettles on the boil and were so easily called away
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Admiral halsey notified me
He had to have a berth or he couldnt get to sea
I had another look and I had a cup of tea and butter pie
(the butter wouldnt melt so I put it in the pie)
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Live a little be a gypsy, get around(get around)
Get your feet up off the ground
Live a little, get around
Live a little be a gypsy, get around(get around)
Get your feet up off the ground
Live a little, get around
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Hand across the water (water)
Heads across the sky
Ooo------------ooo-------------
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Reflections
When I looked into your eyes,
I saw a garden
With peonies, and tinkling pagodas,
And round-arched bridges
Over still lakes.
A woman sat beside the water
In a rain-blue, silken garment.
She reached through the water
To pluck the crimson peonies
Beneath the surface,
But as she grasped the stems,
They jarred and broke into white-green ripples,
And as she drew out her hand,
The water-drops dripping from it
Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.
poem by Amy Lowell
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The Way To Wonderland
Who knows the way to wonderland?
Oh, I know, Oh, I know!
Trotty-te-trot on mama's knee,
Then over the billows of sleepy sea,
Down through the straits of by-lo,
Oh, who but mama could understand
The ways that lead to wonderland.
Now we are off to wonderland,
You and I, you and I,
Into the harbor of happy dreams,
Oh how misty and fair it seems,
Rock, rock a-by;
Ah! no one but mama could understand
The way that leads to wonderland
Now we will anchor at wonderland.
Slow-slow-slow-slow.
The magic place where angels keep
Dreams for babies who fall to sleep,
Down we go, down we go,
Oh, who but mama could understand
How to anchor at wonderland.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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