She cries like a dove on the modern stainless steel bridge!
Pigeons and doves constitute the bird family Columbidae within the order Columbiformes, which include some 300 species of near passerines. In general terms 'dove' and 'pigeon' are used somewhat interchangeably. In ornithological practice, there is a tendency for 'dove' to be used for smaller species and 'pigeon' for larger ones, but this is in no way consistently applied, and historically the common names for these birds involve a great deal of variation between the terms 'dove' and 'pigeon.' This family occurs worldwide, but the greatest variety is in the Indomalaya and Australasia ecozones. Young doves and pigeons are called 'squabs.'
Have you seen my boyfriend?
Painful the kiss of his wisdom tooth
Stingy and uses my perfume,
Curly hair
Green eyes
Dimples on both cheeks
When he smiles
And he holds a guitar all the time.
If not the drawn mascara pencil mustache
He looks like a girl.
Swing walk and everybody likes him.
When I saw him last night at the theater
He wore a black T Shirt
And a Red Trouser.
O somebody must have eloped with him?
Swing walk and everybody likes
And I missed him
My boyfriend!
* for the boisterous Irene to reduce her speed!
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Related quotes
The Confused Birds
Sometimes things happen the way you don't want them to,
There was a Pigeon and a Dove to guide the life through,
Together they ate, Together they flew,
The pigeon was ready to wait a life long,
But the Dove had a rough stance that you move on,
The Dove always wanted the Pigeon to be comfortable,
But always thrash think that she didn't deserve such awesome individual,
The matter was closely watched by a gardener,
He called them...
The Confused Birds.
poem by Vikrant Jog
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An Intruder 3
Let me say straightaway, pigeons don't do it for me.
Maybe I've lived in the city too long.
If men can be called opportunists in the world of nature
Pigeons might be called the same in the world of men-
Having no clear role but to propagate the species
Which they appear to do with gusto,
Day and night, all seasons of the year, unlike men.
Unless perhaps to serve as falcon-fodder.
They speak no intelligible language, don't sing, and mightily puffed,
Drag their lecharous tails through the dust of August
Bill-cooing and straddling each other in a lovey-dovey way.
Their nests scarcely masterpieces of avian architecture-
In fact, they seem the air-buses of the earthier bird world
Weak-footed, bottom-heavy:
But this pigeon seemed different-
It was clean, pearley gray and, though motionless, industrious,
And bore a mirror of irridescence at its throat;
Minded its own business,
Bent, it seemed, on following the dictates of instinct
And wanting no trouble.
'Shoo, ' I said, firmly. It watched me in red-eyed wonder.
What to do? I felt like an intruder in my own home.
So I called Bob for some New Jersey council,
Across the river, soon after the pigeon moved in.
We talked for an hour-his opinion was very clear
But I didn't like it-it just wasn't me.
I am not...
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Patience, Patience
the child with a black coat
on this cold day
sits there beside a brick
church of spanish
architecture
the yard is quiet except
for the sound of the flapping
of doves feedind on some
rice grains
the boy has a black hair
and his feet are stained with
mud his fingers dirty with
some sticky sauce
he spreads the rice grains
from his palm to the
muddy grounds
the doves hover and land
on the spot where the grains
are freely spread
he sits with them
surrounded
the doves are watching him
and he watches carefully each
dove that eyes on his grains
he likes to snatch just one
to bring home to mother
the doves are too careful
it is just the rice grains nothing more
eye to eye
both wait for what shall happen next
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Hiding With A Squab
'Have you run out of luck? '
Said the goose who left a flock of geese,
On an approach...
To what was thought,
To be a sitting duck plucked.
~No not at all.~
Replied a nearby pigeon,
Practicing ventriloquism...
And hiding with a squab,
Of witnessing young pigeons.
~My family and I,
Have grown tired of berries, popcorn and nuts.
And we decided to use a decoy,
To see what showed up.
But to my surprise,
A nosey goose has arrived.
Strutting with a pulchritude...
To annoy a duck...
My uncle disguised.
Telling me that I had talents,
The family thought could be put to better use.
And here you come strutting...
Believing a plucked duck has run out of luck,
When tonight a family of pigeons....
Are going to feast on cooked goose.
Something to feed the younger pigeons,
To lift them with an ego boost!
Get 'em boys! ~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Cat Among The Pigeons
An alley cat with scruffy hair
got into the old pigeon house.
And all it wanted was its share
of pigeon meat, because a mouse
was such a bore and pretty small
variety, the spice of life
would play, exceedingly, a role
for this gray cat and for his wife.
The pigeons flew in all directions
some crashed like Kamakazi fliers
the cat cleaned up the closest section
and then returned to the home fires.
Revenge was planned by all the birds
as word got 'round about the raid
it was decided that with words
one could not sway a cat who made
these trips to be a connoisseur.
So they enlisted Mr. Eagle
who was so strong that they were sure,
that with some luck they could sweneagle
a devastating end for cats
so fifteen small birds were procured
from within ranks of ugly bats
whose parents had been well assured
that their excursion would be fun,
of course they were the Eagle's fee
when he would fly in with the sun
to maim and kill and set them free.
That's how it went, the eagle came
swooped down from lofty heights at speed
and knocked not only out his frame
but heart and lungs which cat did need
.
The end of cat was rather swift
he never did another raid
the eagle got his batty gift
and pigeons were no more afraid.
But on the Monday of that week
there was a storm, it seems, severe,
the cat's own spouse, just like a freak
killed all of them, oh dear oh dear.
poem by Herbert Nehrlich
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From Four Saints in Three Acts
Pigeons on the grass alas.
Pigeons on the grass alas.
Short longer grass short longer longer shorter yellow grass. Pigeons
large pigeons on the shorter longer yellow grass alas pigeons on the
grass.
If they were not pigeons what were they.
If they were not pigeons on the grass alas what were they. He had
heard of a third and he asked about if it was a magpie in the sky.
If a magpie in the sky on the sky can not cry if the pigeon on the
grass alas can alas and to pass the pigeon on the grass alas and the
magpie in the sky on the sky and to try and to try alas on the
grass alas the pigeon on the grass the pigeon on the grass and alas.
They might be very well they might be very well very well they might
be.
Let Lucy Lily Lily Lucy Lucy let Lucy Lucy Lily Lily Lily Lily
Lily let Lily Lucy Lucy let Lily. Let Lucy Lily.
poem by Gertrude Stein
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An Intruder 2
'Hey', I said, aiming the hey downward
toward a pot wedged in the corner, carefully planted
two weeks before with seeds of batchelor's buttons
according to package guidelines
for time, depth, moisture, exposure, etcetera
and set by bushes, charged with yellow roses
nodding heavily to one another, which
thorns notwithstanding, I intended to douse.
'Hey' to a smooth, gray pigeon-
attractive enough as pigeons go
who'd turned the porch into a dove-cote
and a flower pot into a sort of nest.
We'd gotten used to each other
after it wore off-early mistrust,
like the quick wore off the planters
exposing map-like zones of tolerance
respecting each other's goals:
that being the most important function of tolerance:
to stay the hand while we get used to things;
and miffed I was at first,
to see labor lost, the sprouts all squashed-
expecting to see them instead like a hot stock
split and split and fill the pot.
Alarming but charming the way she made her shape conform
to the bed of dirt, bent on her intent
brood-hypnotized thoughtless,
pigeons not held to think much, anyway.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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The Pigeons Of St. Marks
Something's wrong in Pigeon-land;
'Tisn't as it used to be,
When the pilgrim, corn in hand,
Courted us with laughing glee;
When we crooned with pinions furled,
Tamest pigeons in the world.
When we packed each arm and shoulder,
Never deeming man a menace;
Surly birds were never bolder
Than our dainty doves of Venice:
Who would have believed a pigeon
Could become wild as a widgeon.
Well, juts blame it on the War,
When Venetians grew thinner,
And gaunt hands would grab us for
Succulence to serve a dinner . . .
How our numbers fast grew fewer,
As we perished on a skewer.
Pa and Mummie went like that,
So when tourist takes his stand,
On his Borsolino hat
Soft as whispered love I land;
Then with cooing liquid vowels
I . . . evacuate my bowls.
Something's wrong in Pigeon-land;
Mankind we no longer trust;
Shrinking from the tendered hand,
pick we corn from out the dust;
While on guileless pilgrim pate,
Thinking that revenge is sweet,
Soft I croon my hymn of hate,
Drop my tribute and retreat.
poem by Robert William Service
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Blue Dove
The Blue Dove Legend.
says it's born every hundred years,
Blue Doves are true,
and brings love.
They say if the Blue Dove,
lands on your porch, or
near you, only good fortune,
for ever you'll have
Love always will be,
deep in your heart, so touching,
you with other down trodden
people, for you to reach.
An open heart to others,
a gift you will have.
Blue Doves are true
so if you see one,
do not flee.
Blue Doves are hatched,
in a nest of two
one white, one blue,
mother cuddles
with ever loving care,
she knows this little thing,
is so special and true.
The day that Blue Dove flees the nest,
and flys into the unknown
some lucky soul their fortune,
will change.
Blue Doves may be just,
a legend, but if you,
do see one, hope it comes,
your way, to bring hope,
love, life and better days.
Blue dove, does bring,
true love, and many happy
days, so watch out, look,
search the skys, Blue
Dove may be coming,
your way.
wrote 1-17-07
After The Great Flood
after the great flood
it was the black crow which was first
allowed to fly,
Moses had confidence on its
aggression,
it did not come back you know that well,
it puked on dead flesh and
flew away
deciding on its own now
charting its own
destiny,
then it was the pigeon's turn to serve
coy and shy and yet obedient
it came back with a twig and a leaf
whether this is all symbolism or not
an interplay and contrast between black and white
crow and pigeon, good or evil
disobedience or impunity, i don't
go into a hairsplitting
or argument with you
but i have to admit, i like to be that black crow.
i never want to be the pigeon that you believe i am.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Pigeons
There are many pigeons in the Cascais evening park and
see one I remember, the one that trips stylishly around
looking for crumbs, it looks at me, to see if I´m eating.
In May it was a baby on my terrace trying out its wings,
one day it succeeded and flew off.
A pigeon doesn’t remember its childhood, so it doesn’t
has the burden of remembering infancy, blames no one
when things go wrong. Two women come and sit on my
bench, talk about offspring who will not listen; pity they
have not understood, like a pigeon mother, to let go.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Pigeon's Plight
'(Craving from one place to another
For a false death with feathered life) '
Written in a paper-
A cushioned pigeon
Engrossed at my grimace ballad-
A dream finishing the final act to play-
The pigeon’s plight achieved the
Tensed past of beating waves...
“(Pigeons past, dream lasts
And the ballad still in turn....) ”
25/9/08
poem by Moushumi moushumi
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That Pigeon
Tony just brought
a pigeon
in his house
put it in a cage and
feed it
some grains
beside a bowl of
water
Every night since then
i cannot sleep
hearing always the sound
of a sobbing woman
grieving
i keep telling myself
that it is just
a pigeon temporarily
adopting to a momentary loss
of her freedom
Horrible nights
lots of horrible nights
the sounds of groaning griefs
are penetrating the walls of my mind
until one day
the pigeon died and Tony buried it
beside his house
now the pebbles are giving me
the silence of the dead
the air is so quiet
looking at an empty cage
somehow i feel guilty
not about the pigeon but about Tony
well, the story is quite long
what business do i have there?
last night i was thinking
what if it was Tony who died
and the pigeon went out of that cage
and buried him there
beside that lonely house?
shall i not hear the grieving sounds of
that pigeon again?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Wings Of A Dove
Let me fly in the wings of a dove
Above the Manhattan sky
So that all the yankies can see me
At least I will be safe in the wings of a dove
And I can sleep while I am fling in the wings of a dove
I love to fly in the wings of a dove
But the feeling of being high in the sky is great
But God gave me a chance to fly in the wings of a dove
When the opportunity came I didn't even think for a minute
I just jumped right in this opportunity
And I am glad I did it
Because I am having the greatest time when I am flying in the wings of a Dove
But I woke up at midnight and the sky was already dark
Eventhough the dove was still flying
The dove took me all the way to Chigago the windy city
Men I must tell you that it was very windy inthe sky in chicago
But we landed safe in Chicago by the shore
And I sleept in the shore of Chicago for the night
To me it was almost like being inside a movie scream when I woke up the next morning at the Shore of Chicago
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Let there be food in the pigeon-house, and the pigeons will come to it.
The poem's flight
A poet, far from his beloved,
wrote a poem full of meaning
and, calling a carrier-pigeon from his loft,
sent it as a white dove to his beloved
It was a long flight
and by the time his beloved read the poem
under the lamplight in her room
its meaning had changed for her
with the course of time and the human heart
If the pigeon, midway on its flight,
had rested in our loft
to drink a little rain, eat a little grain,
and we had read the poem - would it have
any meaning for us?
Where does meaning go
when it is not here?
How does meaning change,
between a smile, a tear?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Let there be no lack of food in the pigeon-house, and the pigeons will come to it.
Legend
The blacksmith's boy went out with a rifle
and a black dog running behind.
Cobwebs snatched at his feet,
rivers hindered him,
thorn branches caught at his eyes to make him blind
and the sky turned into an unlucky opal,
but he didn't mind.
I can break branches, I can swim rivers, I can stare out
any spider I meet,
said he to his dog and his rifle.
The blacksmith's boy went over the paddocks
with his old black hat on his head.
Mountains jumped in his way,
rocks rolled down on him,
and the old crow cried, You'll soon be dead.
And the rain came down like mattocks.
But he only said,
I can climb mountains, I can dodge rocks, I can shoot an old crow any day,
and he went on over the paddocks.
When he came to the end of the day, the sun began falling,
Up came the night ready to swallow him,
like the barrel of a gun,
like an old black hat,
like a black dog hungry to follow him.
Then the pigeon, the magpie and the dove began wailing
and the grass lay down to pillow him.
His rifle broke, his hat blew away and his dog was gone and the sun was falling.
But in front of the night, the rainbow stood on the mountain,
just as his heart foretold.
He ran like a hare,
he climbed like a fox;
he caught it in his hands, the colours and the cold -
like a bar of ice, like the column of a fountain,
like a ring of gold.
The pigeon, the magpie and the dove flew up to stare,
and the grass stood up again on the mountain.
The blacksmith's boy hung the rainbow on his shoulder
instead of his broken gun.
Lizards ran out to see, snakes made way for him,
and the rainbow shone as brightly as the sun.
All the world said, Nobody is braver, nobody is bolder,
nobody else has done
anything equal to it. He went home as easy as could be
with the swinging rainbow on his shoulder.
poem by Judith Wright
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The Pigeon Poem
The Pigeon is taking food away from her mate today,
or he is taking food away from his mate today.
She is taking food to put on fat for winter time,
or he is taking food from her to dine.
Pigeons are like people cause people are like that.
feeding Pigeons in the park is fine,
old people have the time, to dine with pigeons;
Time i have today:
the time i play away
thinking of (?)
the pigeons as I dine.
I am fine.
She is putting on her fat.
He is just out to dine.
People are like pigeons.
people are like that.
poem by Charles Hice
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Swing
(nick feldman)
Baby ben really likes to swing
Baby ben really feels like a king
As the wail of the horns make his body sway
Peggy sue likes to rock and roll
Peggy sue gonna lose control
As electric guitars play all her fears away
Chorus:
You gotta swing down tonight
Swing it real tight
Swing with your baby tonight
You gotta swing down tonight
Its gotta feel right
Swing with your baby tonight
Swing tight with your baby tonight
Swing down, swing down tonight, swing!
Baby ben knows just where its at
Baby ben wears a pork pie hat
Feeling so cool, he draws his baby in
Peggy sue dont care for no rules
coz peggy sue is his queen of cool
Locked in the groove they surrender to the swing
Repeat chorus
Swing, swing, swing, swing
Whether its rock or its swing
The groove is the thing
Gather the night around you
coz the world belongs to you
Swing with your baby tonight - swing tight
With your baby tonight
song performed by by Wang Chung
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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