Pecking and scratching
Searching for little morsels,
Let's feed the chickens!
haiku by John Thorkild Ellison
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Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens
Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.
They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see...
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.
poem by Jack Prelutsky
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Mutuality In Kindness...
the chickens
so many of them
make a music for him
who sleeps
on the haystack
he gathers the grains
to feed them
early morning
to the chickens
they found a master
at last
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Morning's Commotion
outside the house
the commotion starts
with the chickens
pecking each others'
feathers for
the lesser number
of grains.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Civet
At night a civet
sneaks around in the chicken pen,
biting Bantam-fowls, big white Leghorns
and every chicken
that it finds dead.
At sunrise it is gone,
with dead chickens lying in a row
while those that it could not find
are cackling frightened
as if a snake is in their nests.
In the mornings mom is way past angry,
buys a spring trap
to catch the chicken thief red handed
and to me the teeth
that springs shut
looks strange and deadly.
The spring trap is set
but the wild cat is far too clever
for that thing and sneaks past
night after night,
until mom gets wolves poison
that she mixes with the guts
of one of the dead chickens.
The next morning
the grey civet
(just a little bigger than the housecat)
with its black stripes covering its body,
lies rigid and stretched out
and around it
the chickens are pecking in peace.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Eggxample
What came first chickens or eggs?
Chickens of course!
Chickens have legs!
Chickens have feathers,
Eggs have a shell,
How would you like your eggs, done well?
This may be a 'yolk',
But consider it folk!
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Much More Work to Do
Why are those chickens running around,
And their heads have been cut off?
'They've been conditioned that they are not chickens.
They've been programmed to believe they are constituents.
And that's the name they prefer.
It has stuck with them!
Like feathers attached to birds.'
You are what you believe, you know?
'I know!
And those heads?
They've never used them anyway.
So the running around,
With their heads cut off the way they do?
They've been told only 'chickens' do that!
And as luck would have it...
They can't see themselves that way!
No heads?
No eyes!
What about all those pots you've got?
'Well...
We've been promising to get one in each pot!
And that's the dilemma.
Like I said...
They can't 'see' themselves as chickens.
Nor do they believe,
We can get one in each pot!
So they are running around...
As if a lottery to be played,
Will be stopped.
And...
I don't have to tell you,
There's a lot of convincing.
With much more work to do.
None of this was planned too well.'
Or at all!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Time For Roosting...
IT IS sad to see
chickens
when the hour of
fading light comes
when they all start
to look up
and find their
respective roosting
places
upon their chosen
branch of the
tree,
it is like
going home
after the day
of pecking
grains, and when
full
you find
solace upon
a chosen home
as the night
starts to
cover
everything.
it is like
death to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The World Of Either Or
you cannot have the best of
both worlds
when you have all those chickens
you have to sacrifice your flowers
these chickens eat flowers for breakfast
on the other hand
when you keep those flowers
you must first kill all the chickens
as i once told you, this is the world
of
either or
not both
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Learning about chickens
Last year I was given some chickens
Of which I did not know a lot;
I gave them a home in my orchard,
Then read up to see what was what.
The book that I took for instruction
Said that chickens must have some protection
From cold, and the damp English climate,
From foxes and chills and infection.
So an outhouse, I used for the purpose,
And covered the floor with some hay;
Then I sat back to wait for them laying,
Expecting a dozen a day.
But at night they seemed nervous and jumpy
And I knew not for what they did search;
'Til my father-in-law said, 'you nitwit!
Don't you know that a bird needs a perch? '
So I took his advice and I chopped them
A branch, upon which they could roost;
My knowledge of chickens now growing,
Their comforts now given a boost.
Then I found from a friend that a nest-box
Would help to persuade them to lay;
My chickens were then more contented
And gave me my breakfast next day.
Then along came the cold winter weather
With a worrying dropp in supplies;
But the book said that this was quite normal
And in summer, production would rise.
Yes I'm learning a lot about chickens
And their greedy omniverous diet;
And the order enforced by their pecking,
And that cockerels can't stand being quiet.
Now I'd say, in my humble opinion,
That it's better to give chicks a name;
Then identification is easy, and,
If there's trouble you'll know who to blame.
But trouble was rare in my orchard,
My flock of ten enjoyed their days;
Belinda and Sally, the elders,
Five others, marrans, and all greys.
But things changed when Rocky the rooster
Took to scrapping and doing his nut
Over two of the birds, presumed female,
Rocky knew they were anything but.
The book said that more than one cockerel
Would surely result in disaster;
Poor Speckleand Snowy's salvation lay
In the fact that they both could run faster.
So an uneasy truce is at present
Existing between the cocks three;
But if anyone's wanting a rooster
Come and see me, I'll give you one free!
Written Feb 1996
poem by John Carter Brown
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Branch Library
I wish I could find that skinny, long-beaked boy
who perched in the branches of the old branch library.
He spent the Sabbath flying between the wobbly stacks
and the flimsy wooden tables on the second floor,
pecking at nuts, nesting in broken spines, scratching
notes under his own corner patch of sky.
I'd give anything to find that birdy boy again
bursting out into the dusky blue afternoon
with his satchel of scrawls and scribbles,
radiating heat, singing with joy.
poem by Edward Hirsch
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What's Going On With The Chickens?
What's going on with the chickens?
'No one really knows exactly how all of this started.
Or wish to connect any of this,
To the making of common sense.
They are baffled.
We are baffled.
And since it was reported,
Those chickens were going home to roost...
Well,
The abundance of eggs they once had laid...
Has been limited to quite a few.
And 'now'...
Someone has decided to use them,
In some foolish sexual preference dispute.'
And...
Who is that guy tied up to the chair?
'He was the one who first declared,
A suspicion he had that chickens everywhere...
Were preparing to come home to roost.'
Oh yes...
I remember.
He was the one daring to tell the truth about the chickens.
And he was labelled a racist too.
'What are they calling the people,
Choosing to protect their rights...
Not to cater to those with same sex appetites? '
Conveniently they have called them conservatives.
'Has everyone lost their minds? '
I have no idea.
But grateful I am to be a vegetarian.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Aint Nobody Here But Us Chickens
(j. cramer/j. whitney)
One night farmer brown was taken the air
Locked up the barnyard with the greatest of care
Down in the henhouse somethin stirred
When he shouted,whos there? , this is what he heard
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So calm yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble with your chin
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
Youre stompin around, shakin the ground, kickin up an aweful dust
Were chickens trying to sleep and you butt in
And hobble, hobble, hobble, hobble, its a sin
(bridge)
Tomorrow is a busy day, weve got things to do, weve got eggs to lay
We got ground to dig and worms to scratch
Takes a lot of sittin gettin chicks to hatch
There aint nobody here but us chickens, there aint nobody here at all
So quiet yourself, stop that fuss, aint nobody here but us
Kindly point that gun the other way
And hobble, hobble, hobble off and hit the hay
(repeat bridge)
Its easy pickin, aint nobody here but us chickens
song performed by by Lisa Stansfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Monster in the Bath
Well, it happens once every year:
There is a monster lurking somewhere near;
This time it has been locked in the bath,
Scratching & screaming to get out;
But I have a family to feed:
Who must not fall destiny to that need.
poem by Stan Petrovich
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Poetry, Poesy, Ars Poetica, Erotica,
i am hooked to you.
i need rehabilitation
in China, the bamboo rafts there
can help, i will sail
on the Yangtze river
together with you
my rudder on the shallow
jade green waters,
i shall hear robins making
love calls,
i am stuck on this trip
lots of rainbow illusions
colors in my mind
i am jailed in your arms
my heart enthralled to
this injunction
everyday i set aside other
works, the plants are wilting
and the trees are dying,
my dogs are hungry
unfed
my chickens cross the
fence
to feed on other grains
i am stuck in here
because i like it here
China can wait
the chickens may die
even my dogs
let them be impounded.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Broken
I'm A Lonely Road Of
Broken Dreams
Its A Boulevard That
I'm Searching For
These Stars Are All
So Dull
Its The Moon That I'm
Searching For
Happiness Is So Angry
At Me
Its Life That I'm
Searching For
There Is A Crowd
Around Me At All Times
Its a Friend That I'm
Searching For
My Life Is Just Like
Path
Its A Destination That
I'm Searching For
Don't Know What Is It
That I've Lost
May Be Its 'ME' That
I'm Searching For! !
poem by Vizard Dhawan
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All Night Long (feat. Merle Hagggard)
Every Saturday long about now
I feed my chickens and my milking cows
Air's fillin' up with music ands ong
Gonna have a party all night long
Chorus:
All night long, listen to the fiddle
Music's goin' strong
Heart's alive it's Saturday night
Gonna have a party all night long
I got a gal lives across the creek
Every time I look at her my knees get weak
First time I tried to take her on my knee
She took after me with a singletree
Chorus
Sun's up high the Fourth of July
Chickens won't lay and the cow's gone dry
Creek's dried up, I can't go fishin'
Should be workin' 'stead of sittin' here wishin'
Big watermelon hangin' on the vine
Said
song performed by by Randy Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meering Their Fate
Uncle said you can fed
the chickens and then
later you can choose
which one we have for
dinner tomorrow and he
went off to work someplace
leaving you to feed and fret
over which of the noisy hens
would meet their end by
Uncle’s hand and end up
as the Sunday roast sitting
among potatoes and parsnips
as each of the family widened
their eyes and licked their lips.
You walked up and down the
wire staring at each hen in turn
wondering which one deserved
to live or die but they all had that
chicken look that unconcerned air
of being and walking each one
settled on the next mouth feed
the next bite and so you wandered
off not knowing which hen would
meet their mortal fate that night.
poem by Terry Collett
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What Is Natural Is Best
i built a chicken house
but the chickens still prefer
to roost
on the branches of the
kamuning tree
last night it rained so hard
the chickens are silent
all wet they
peck on grains scattered
on muddy ground
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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People who count their chickens before they are hatched, act very wisely, because chickens run about so absurdly that it is impossible to count them accurately.
Oscar Wilde in Letter from Paris (May 1900)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seek Peek from Out The Blue after David Adams N'kima Speaks forelock tipped to JoVial Scavenger
He reached down, carressed her scar
and she remembered herself.
This rhyme she did not brush away
or shake, remained like Shaka the lion
She knew she was all ears, should stay.
Ear scratching pleasantly reveals
brain teasing ticklers light as Spring breeze
that begin and end
text messages
or calls from out the brightest blue
dispersing the MUST for inner might, the past's clog logs
fallen, replaced by dialogues
that beetles away from distasteful time-traps,
snub grubs, grab dainty morsels.
Dishevelled, clothes in disarray,
he lay awaiting her return,
patient without watching
the movement of all
the humming of the city,
Internet buzz and double clicks
proving mouse pads
refute the bugs that move
behind the page ink link.
Were they destined for each other
without Bragg_in, bussing to breathe debt free
where playing for time met cusp watershed springs
to and through unpolluted air clear across the ocean.
She knew him not at first, and yet
rode beside window
whispering awakening.
David Arthur Adams N'kima Speaks
I reached up and touched his scar
and he remembered me
This time he did not brush me away
or shake his mane like Numa the lion
He knew I was here to stay.
Ear scratching is pleasant and reveals
many things the same as the wind
that begins and ends
with messages
from the deepest green
the musty odor of the rotting logs
where they have fallen
the beetles that crawl there
the grubs and dainty morsels
all the places I lay in the heat of day
awaiting her to return
whiling and watching
the movement of all
the humming of the forest
the buzzing and clicks
the footpads
the little bugs that move
upon the page of it.
We were destined for each other
The clambering to the upper terraces
where the swaying springs into
the clean air across the chasm.
He did not know me then and yet
I rode upon his shoulder
manu whispering awakening.
(26 February 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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