A Wanderer's Imprisonment
A painful rhythm of a songbird's timbre
after a somatic somersaults in the nimbus.
The nocturne dragged me to her haunted nest.
I was trapped by her tricky sorrowful voice
and she has tighten me to the twigs
and it will never loosen.
She leaves early in the morning with the flock
and return by twilight to the roost.
I was a prisoner in her shady nest
and my wanderlust almost swept.
All my feathers she had plucked
and allotted a soft pillow to sleep
without any nightmares.
Oh! I am just a fresher in her night university
with all the fundamentals.
To the dainty migratory swallows where they hide in the cloudburst.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Robbin Tree
The Robin begins to build her nest
in the gnarled tree;
the twigs are twisted;
the branches lack leaves;
and the nest is exposed
offering no shelter.
She puts another twig
into the tree fork;
but it falls to the ground.
She looks away west
and leaves.
Her wings
flapping
out a message:
Nature is abandoning us.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Fifteen Acres
I
I cling and swing
On a branch, or sing
Through the cool, clear hush of Morning, O!
Or fling my wing
On the air, and bring
To sleepier birds a warning, O!
That the night's in flight,
And the sun's in sight,
And the dew is the grass adorning, O!
And the green leaves swing
As I sing, sing, sing,
Up by the river,
Down the dell,
To the little wee nest,
Where the big tree fell,
So early in the morning, O!
II
I flit and twit
In the sun for a bit
When his light so bright is shining, O!
Or sit and fit
My plumes, or knit
Straw plaits for the nest's nice lining, O!
And she with glee
Shows unto me
Underneath her wings reclining, O!
And I sing that Peg
Has an egg, egg, egg,
Up by the oat-field,
Round by the mill,
Past the meadow,
Down the hill,
So early in the morning, O!
III
I stoop and swoop
On the air, or loop
Through the trees, and then go soaring, O!
To group with a troop
On the gusty poop
While the wind behind is roaring, O!
I skim and swim
By a cloud's red rim
And up to the azure flooring, O!
And my wide wings drip
As I slip, slip, slip,
Down through the rain-drops,
Back where Peg
Broods in the nest
On the little white egg,
So early in the morning, O!
poem by James Stephens
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Lullaby of the iroquois
Little brown baby-bird, lapped in your nest,
Wrapped in your nest,
Strapped in your nest,
Your straight little cradle-board rocks you to rest;
Its hands are your nest;
Its bands are your nest;
It swings from the down-bending branch of the oak;
You watch the camp flame, and the curling grey smoke;
But, oh, for your pretty black eyes sleep is best,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to rest.
Little brown baby-bird swinging to sleep,
Winging to sleep,
Singing to sleep,
Your wonder-black eyes that so wide open keep,
Shielding their sleep,
Unyielding to sleep,
The heron is homing, the plover is still,
The night-owl calls from his haunt on the hill,
Afar the fox barks, afar the stars peep,--
Little brown baby of mine, go to sleep.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Child's Talk In April
I wish you were a pleasant wren,
And I your small accepted mate;
How we'd look down on toilsome men!
We'd rise and go to bed at eight
Or it may be not quite so late.
Then you should see the nest I'd build,
The wondrous nest for you and me;
The outside rough perhaps, but filled
With wool and down; ah, you should see
The cosy nest that it would be.
We'd have our change of hope and fear,
Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet:
I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer,
Or hop about on active feet,
And fetch you dainty bits to eat.
We'd be so happy by the day,
So safe and happy through the night,
We both should feel, and I should say,
It's all one season of delight,
And we'll make merry whilst we may,
Perhaps some day there'd be an egg
When spring had blossomed from the snow:
I'd stand triumphant on one leg;
Like chanticleer I'd almost crow
To let our little neighbours know.
Next you should sit and I would sing
Through lengthening days of sunny spring;
Till, if you wearied of the task,
I'd sit; and you should spread your wing
From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask.
Fancy the breaking of the shell,
The chirp, the chickens wet and bare,
The untried proud paternal swell;
And you with housewife-matron air
Enacting choicer bills of fare.
Fancy the embryo coats of down,
The gradual feathers soft and sleek;
Till clothed and strong from tail to crown,
With virgin warblings in their beak,
They too go forth to soar and seek.
So would it last an April through
And early summer fresh with dew,
Then should we part and live as twain:
Love-time would bring me back to you
And build our happy nest again.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The return of the native,
Fully teethed I left you.
Toothless I return to you.
Where from I had come,
There to I want to return
In between, I never came back
Nor did I give you any thought.
Which bird thinks of the nest
When he flies in gay?
In twilight, cows return to shed.
As night falls, I return to you.
In your cradle, I was born,
Only where my roots are known.
On return, I shall dropp to you
What I had earned elsewhere
So that, of me, you are aware
And I can pass away with after care.
24.05.2002, pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Build Your Nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest
Build yo' nest on tenderness
The nest is yo' home and launcin' pad
Vibes ain't good gotcha' feelin' sad
Build yo' nest on love that tells it all
Gives you the strength to walk mighty tall
With a song in yo' heart most every day
song performed by by Earth Wind & Fire
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Ploughman's Life
As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin', thir words he did say, -
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount i' the air wi' the dew on her breast,
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,
And at night she'll return to her nest back again.
poem by Robert Burns
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Ploughman's Life, The
As I was a-wand'ring ae morning in spring,
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to sing;
And as he was singin', thir words he did say, -
There's nae life like the ploughman's in the month o' sweet May.
The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her nest,
And mount i' the air wi' the dew on her breast,
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and sing,
And at night she'll return to her nest back again.
poem by Robert Burns
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Lines On A Visit To Port Fairy
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Island off Port Fairy by the sea
In latter March a bright though breezy day
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay.
On Easter Sunday nineteen eighty nine
A breezy day of spasmodic sun shine
Sweet scent of sea and tide sound in my ear
And weather pleasant for the time of year.
Muttonbirds dig their nest holes in the ground
And their nest burrows were plentiful all around
And I quote from ornithologists who know best
That this year same Muttonbird use last year's nest.
Parent muttonbirds gone fishing out to sea
Leave behind them their nest bound families
Their three months old nestlings unable yet to fly
Future earth born distant travellers of the sky.
In metre deep burrow in fore shore sand
I searched along it's bottom with my hand
Felt the soft down feathers of a sea bird's breast
A young near full fledged nestling in it's nest.
In Island off Port Fairy by the sea
With voice of seagull ringing down the bay
I walked Pathway that led through muttonbird colony
On Easter Sunday quite a pleasant day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Viewing The New Day
as you begin to open the shutters
letting light in
letting them land on that soft white pillow
that which comforted your doubts
last night
become interested on the sparrows
that dance on the twigs of the tree fronting you
lush green leaves
a new nest, light of the sun caressing the barks
dews diminishing in numbers
on a time for surrender
listen to the usual sounds of the day
exaggerate, sensitize, imagine
those that are not there but must satiate our sense of journey
the excitement is here
when finally the lover is gone for another absence
when your heart finds your hands
caressing your body again
on this tender moment
of another solitude.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Springs Arrival and Winter Thaw
the sun rises to greet the morning
the ground dew only winters thaw
soft to the touch of the hand
leaves and flowers spread out
centre picture of the setting scene
springs arrival postcard of the season
birds return to roost in trees
naked branches now filling up
rainfall fresh and awakening
its a new beginning, new life
something to grow into
the daylight lasts longer
and the air smells fresher
winter melts away slowly
with the arrival of spring
poem by Matthew Holloway
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As There Aren`t Safe Nests...
A migrating bird chirps into my ears,
'Can you make a nest for me that will be safe for ever? '
I don`t know what he means by a safe nest
For my nest has been on the verge of a collapse.
He flies away dreaming about a safe nest.
That leaves me with a question, ' Where to fix a safe nest? '
Safe nests should never be on the branches of trees
For trees themselves are tormented by storms and quakes.
Safe nests shouldn`t be on the roofs of man`s homes either
For his mischevious kids may throw away the eggs.
Safe nests should not be under the water or in the skies
For the fury and the terror of these elements are disastrous.
Safe nests shouldn`t be anywhere that eyes see or ears hear
For there are humans living on this earth.
You migrate my dear bird to anywhere you feel it safe
And never return to these unsafe homes.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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It is not Always May
No hay pajaros en los nidos de antano.
Spanish Proverb
The sun is bright,--the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing.
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying Spring.
So blue you winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west-wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.
All things are new;--the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree's nodding crest,
And even the nest beneath the eaves;--
There are no birds in last year's nest!
All things rejoice in youth and love,
The fulness of their first delight!
And learn from the soft heavens above
The melting tenderness of night.
Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh, it is not always May!
Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;
For Time will teach thee soon the truth,
There are no birds in last year's nest!
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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October [Octombrie]
As if it were an icon full of light
Inside my heart your lovely image looms,
And my own dreams – small apricot tree blooms –
Fall like the snow around it, soft and white.
And when I see you standing at the door
I leave my dreams and bow down at your feet;
I'm like a flake that's melting in the heat,
Under your eyes, which I so much adore.
But when you're bored and quickly go away,
When with small steps on narrow tracks you sway,
And trample on dead leaves with awe and fear,
I feel the autumn twilight in my breast,
I cannot think, I'm empty as a nest,
When the last swallows fly and disappear.
poem by Al. O. Teodoreanu, translated by Octavian Cocoş
Submitted by anonym
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Mother Song
_From the Portuguese._
HEAVY my heart is, heavy to carry,
Full of soft foldings, of downy enwrapments--
And the outer fold of all is love,
And the next soft fold is love,
And the next, finer and softer, is love again;
And were they unwound before the eyes
More folds and more folds and more folds would unroll
Of love--always love,
And, quite at the last,
Deep in the nest, in the soft-packed nest,
One last fold, turned back, would disclose
You, little heart of my heart,
Laid there so warm, so soft, so soft,
Not knowing where you lie, nor how softly,
Nor why your nest is so soft,
Nor how your nest is so warm.
You, little heart of my heart,
You lie in my heart,
Warm, safe and soft as this body of yours,
This dear kissed body of yours that lies
Here in my arms and sucks the strength from my breast,
The strength you will break my heart with one of these days.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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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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The red weaver
The red weaver flies from a plate of bulrush
dances on a branch while it slap its red wings,
walking whistling to and thro,
before it whispers twittering deep in the reeds.
It flutters around draws sparks through the air,
swoops down at it's weaved nest
with a beak full of grass, twigs or some hay,
flies up and down and suddenly back.
There is something pretty to it that catches the eye
when through the blue sky it draws a glowing line,
when early in the morning it awakes me
when it hangs twittering at its small nest,
the red weaver flies from a plate of bulrush
before it whispers twittering deep in the reeds.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Prisoner
Whoa oh prisoner
My pretty oh oh prisoner
A black ocean is the sky above
Tiny lights bob what star you from
Trapped in material plane
She wants to fly and they think she's insane
But she knows what she know
Give that girl wings and that's all she wrote
Twilight zone twilight zone I'm
Floating in the dark alone and
Is there any love out here let me know
A laser lights the top of my dome
Then through my body
As if Scotty's
Beaming up a wayward soul
Mutant races in an ancient universe
Dark shadows humans rhymin' in a reggae verse
It's gone if you blink
I can see it as soon as you think it
Dancehalls crystal balls
On sidewalk malls
Psychic people outdoors reading palms
I believe that you know more
To survive the dimension is four
oh oh prisoner
my pretty oh oh prisoner
Look at the way she's searching
Trapped in a world that's hurting
So bad it makes her cry
But i won't let her say goddbye
song performed by by 311 from Transistor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk
A rose-bud, by my early walk
Adown a corn-enclosèd bawk,
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk,
All on a dewy morning.
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled,
In a' its crimson glory spread,
And drooping rich the dewy head,
It scents the early morning.
Within the bush her covert nest
A little linnet fondly prest;
The dew sat chilly on her breast,
Sae early in the morning.
She soon shall see her tender brood,
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood,
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd,
Awauk the early morning.
So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair,
On trembling string or vocal air,
Shall sweetly pay the tender care
That tents thy early morning!
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay,
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,
And bless the parent's evening ray
That watch'd thy early morning!
poem by Robert Burns
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Abandoned Nest
abandoned nest
on a wire
autumn wind
abandoned nest
on a wire
this loneliness in me
applying lipstick
she discovers the cracked voice
of teenage son
summer breeze
leaves dance
with light
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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