Gador
Gador was left in an island
hot and bare
his mind is obsessed with the boa
with two white eggs
behind the cave where he dwells
lies the nest of the black bird
his feet do not grow
his brain smells like chloroform
he learns to love it there
and shall soon die there
only if he wills it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Black Bird That Keeps On Flying
the black bird
keeps on flying
over my head
its wing tips
touch my hair
the black bird
weeps
and my mind
cannot ignore
it
it is seeing you
again
and it does not
know
what to do
with its beak
it wants to kiss you
but your eyes
are angry
it wants to land over
your hair
but they are hard
as wires
the black bird
has no nest for
its eggs
you never mind it
your mind
thinks always of
that white bird
in the sky
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Eggs Of The Blue Bird On The Nest
the blue bird
takes care of its nest
all the white eggs
warm beneath its feathers
all those nights
and even cold days
and then when the eggs hatch
the fledgelings
prematurely spread their wings
fall off from the branch
where the nest hangs
on the following morning
you see the ants feasting on their flesh
ah! the blue bird sings again
readies itself for the rain
it escapes away from its sorrows
and flies away...far, far away
far, far away....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Matter Of Decision
the black bird of loneliness
hovers over the window of the house
and stops to look at
our roof
we shoo it away
there is no place here
where it can build its own nest
we still wait for the bird of bounty
the one that brings us
the eggs of grace
the feathers of happiness
it is the only bird that we welcome here
as a matter of our own decision
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Quail's Nest
I wandered out one rainy day
And heard a bird with merry joys
Cry 'wet my foot' for half the way;
I stood and wondered at the noise,
When from my foot a bird did flee--
The rain flew bouncing from her breast
I wondered what the bird could be,
And almost trampled on her nest.
The nest was full of eggs and round--
I met a shepherd in the vales,
And stood to tell him what I found.
He knew and said it was a quail's,
For he himself the nest had found,
Among the wheat and on the green,
When going on his daily round,
With eggs as many as fifteen.
Among the stranger birds they feed,
Their summer flight is short and low;
There's very few know where they breed,
And scarcely any where they go.
poem by John Clare
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The Good, The Bad and The Ugly
The bird of paradise to the vulture has said
I wonder what you do to find yourself a mate
You're the symbol of filth, rotting flesh you cherish
Your bare head, crooked beak embodies ugliness
You do not feed your young with 'freshly processed milk'
But do with foul substance that you regurgitate
Rotten, so obnoxious for a baby not fit
On your legs you defecate, so ill-mannered you are
Hurling your foul vomit is so abhorable
And the Cuckoo agreed, yes it is true my friend
You're but the epitome of ugliness and filth
Nobody wants to care for you, nobody really does
I will not marry you if I'm your kind and size
Well you have said it all, everything for my kind
But before you speak, you should first understand
That for anything I do there is logic behind
On our legs we defecate to kill the bacteria
That cling to our feet from our dining area
The juice just cools our feet when the weather is hot
Not only that, my friend, it's anticeptic wash
And the vomit I hurl, it serves a purpose well
A projectile we use, enemies to repel
You spoke so fast my friend, you did not ask before
who between you and me has the misdeeds the more
between the two of us, it's you I'm very sure
You listen well, my friend, to you I'll say them all
You are a lazy brat, own nest you do not make
Nor hatch your eggs, just find a mother surrogate
In the nest of others there you just dropp your egg
And then leave everything to your demonic ways
The surrogate mother doesn't seem to realize
That one egg in her clutch is a stranger and fake
The egg you laid on the usurped, coveted nest
Of the other eggs therein, hatches way much ahead
Your chick having been born to harm and to destroy
Shoves up the rightful eggs, off the nest jettisons
A sure untimely death when it touches the floor
And if the lawful eggs are the first ones to pip
The chicks will surely die when your evil chick emerges
Very fast it will grow, the right ones overtake
without pity mauls them all with a hooked beak
Bleeding bodies fall to earth, sure and gory death
After the crime the hook fall from the nasty beak
Beak of a bird so young but knows the art of death
In this community, of sanitation we're in charge
Disposal of the dead is our daily job
What happens if carrions are to rot everywhere
Disease and death spreads, you won't be spared my friend
More than I, you're the one guilty of felony
If I were you, scram, and lost I better be
And you, Beautiful Bird to Paradise back you go
To the forest where you belong, enjoy your fashion show
poem by Pacific Hernandez
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Forever Feeling
Store a feeling forever by learning it for the brain,
This brain you carry learns faster than others.
My favours are concrete, excelling others,
They show you the way home, and beyond.
Beyond our leisure they are feelings to treasure,
Like golden ornaments, like jewels and magnets.
The feeling to keep lies beneath, beneath the island,
This region I store in my youth, so emotions destroy
The region, that little island in my younger years.
Store the feeling of youth once you are old,
Then old ways are confirmed, old ways are learnt afresh.
poem by Naveed Akram
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If Love Is A Wild Bird
if love is a wild bird,
then i must be a cliff or a rock
far away from the trees,
where the wild bird
builds its nest,
i must be an unknown forest
where the eggs are hidden
where the hatching is done
without even my knowing.
if love is a wild bird
beyond the grasp of my twigs
then i must be the night that hovers
on its wings
and stays also wildly on its dreams
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bare Feet!
your religion smells like
shoes left in a corner, never worn!
i want to know what
your bare feet smell like!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Birds Nest
Have you not seen the bird
flying far, again and again
collecting straws to weave a nest-
a home- for its young ones to be.
As eggs are hatched
out come the young
chirping or crying, to be fed,
the bird flies again, and again
collecting grains
to feed the young
who cannot fly
It chews the grain but does not swallow
beak to beak it feeds young fellow
caressingly and lovingly
so all are fed properly.
Young get wings, by and by:
and coaxed by the mother bird;
attempt to fly.
Then suddenly one day
the young one flies far away
It knows not where: and
The nest gets barren,
Lonely...
The bird DOES NOT GRIEVE
OR DOES IT
We humans, we do not know.
Black men, White men
should i be led to believe
that the white men's heart
is soft as cotton? and when
touched, is torched, bursts into flame
to settle comfortably in black,
a trail of humble lesson for the soul
should i be led to believe
that a black man's heart is
full of courage? charging like a bull
through America black or white
settling for nothing in between?
should i be led to believe that
black and white work the
theory of ying and yang
ever balancing to rev up the world?
rice would even grow in bush
black hair turns eventually into
a crown of white wisdom
and blackboards light up
knowledge in white chalk
white shines at its best in black
and where else but a piece of white
where black could make its clearest stamp
of its stand - left or right, right or wrong
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Crazy Island
Written by John Mellencamp
Hey Hey America
You're some kind of crazy island
You're a place where dreams can grow
And there's history in your mansions
Good fortune in your plantings
You're well respected we all know
Hey Hey America
Let's check your children
And see what they might know
Hey Hey America
With your salesmanship and your salaries
And your strip malls a growin'
And your handguns and your heresies
Don't hold no responsibility
In this land of easy millions
Hey Hey America
It's so thrillin' to see you grow
You're some kind of crazy island
You're some kind of crazy island
Well I prefer a sunny day
I just thought maybe I'd live a little bit longer that way
I don't think we should look the same
Or talk the same
Yeah I think it's a shame
And Hey Hey America
Across the new horizon
Are you sure that's the way we should go
'Cause I don't know
Maybe it's too late for all that
And Hey Hey America
You're wrapped up in your red, white and blue
Hey Hey America
Wrapped up in yourself and your red, white and blue
Hey Hey America
You're some kind of crazy island
You're some kind of crazy island
Hey Hey America
You're some kind of crazy island
You're a place where dreams can grow
And there's history in your mansions
Hey Hey America
You're some kind of crazy island
Some kind of crazy island
song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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Little White Bird
little white bird
now that i have set you free
from my hands
to the winds you shall go
to its whims shall you be
search the skies
map out your freedom
be carefree
little bird
do not look back
i am in the prison walls of my mind
still thinking about your white wings
feeling each feather
in every patch of my skin
little bird, little white bird
how pure was that love?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Blue Tit's Nest
Some childhood memories with us seem to linger
And I recall when I was nine or so
Of seeing blue tit fly from hole in standing tree stump
One April day more than forty years ago.
I stood on tip toes and tried to look inside the tree stump
But all seemed dark in there I needed light
I hurried back home for to fetch a flash lamp
And what I saw a memorable sight.
A little nest of moss and hay and lined with feathers
And nine pale eggs with freckles brown to red
Laid by the little bird with yellow unders
Blue wings and tail and tiny blue cap on head.
I marvelled at this wondrous sight of Nature
How one small bird so many eggs could lay
The memory all those years has remained with me
And I still can picture what I see today.
I still can picture forty five years later
Nine speckled eggs in nest of moss and hay
Some things from childhood always remain with us
And from the memory never fade away.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Black and white
A white bird is flying at day,
Or a black bird is flying at night,
Or a black bird is flying at day,
Or a white bird is flying at night,
Black and white, black over white.
Oh, my Lord, how painful can be
This need of touch in his absence.
White and black, white over black,
Oh, my Lord, how painful can be
This absence of his touch.
Black is penetrating white
And white is penetrating black,
Never finding the gray.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Jane and Bullfinch Eggs
Those are Bullfinch's eggs
Jane said
pointing at
the 5 eggs
in a nest
hidden in a hedge
and as she pointed
you imagined
that some god
modelled all female fingers
on that before you
how the nail was set
so perfectly
on the finger's tip
the colour pinkish white
the skin almost blending in
we mustn't disturb
she added
or the mother bird
will fly away
and not return
oh right
you said
gazing at the eggs
once her finger
had been removed
from the hedge
you studied
the pale blue eggs
speckled there
and sensed her presence
near your cheek
the lavender
that she wore
the way her hair dark
coming to her shoulders
was tied back
from her face
some collect them
Jane said
and pierce the top
and bottom
and blow through the contents
and have them on display
do they?
you said
seeing the sad expression
she wore
why is that?
you asked
she stood back
from the hedgerow
and looking at you
with her dark eyes
said
because they must have
they have to collect
what is there
for all to see
they must just have
for themselves alone
the May sun
was shining warm
and she took your hand
in hers and walked
you on along the lane
the small stream running
by the lane's edge
her grey skirt
and white blouse
and white socks
giving her a plain look
but her eyes lit up
and she smiled again
and you wanted
at that moment
as she held your hand
for that hour
to be there forever
not to be lost
thinking you knew then
the depth of love
and not its loss
of that
and feeling sense
and not the cost.
poem by Terry Collett
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Incantation
A white well
In a black cave;
A bright shell
In a dark wave.
A white rose
Black brambles hood;
Smooth bright snows
In a dark wood.
A flung white glove
In a dark fight;
A white dove
On a wild black night.
A white door
In a dark lane;
A bright core
To bitter black pain.
A white hand
Waved from dark walls;
In a burnt black land
Bright waterfalls.
A bright spark
Where black ashes are;
In the smothering dark
One white star.
poem by Elinor Morton Wylie
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Memory...
winged white bird
hovering
nesting in my hair
staying
inside my brain
laying
eggs inside my
heart
heard the sounds
of hatching...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Robins Call
As the Robins cherps in the early morning light,
the female comes into nets to relieved her mate,
the male goes of to find some food to eat,
as then the the female begins to tweet,
"the egg is cold you lazy baster,
I should peck your dairy after,
I will have to sit here way to long,
as your lazy ass is gone,
she chirps I need to eat,
and repeats I need to eat, "
The male comes back into the nest,
a chance for him to rest,
to keep all the eggs warm,
he sounds out a alarm,
"I see Cat, I see Cat,
may it get go away,
unit another day,
it leaves, then nest is safe,
as he calls to his mate,
you slut, you slut these eggs are not mine,
all of this is a waste of my time,
come back to keep these eggs warm,
you slut, you bitch, I will sound the alarm."
this is the fruit of life,
bare it but think twice,
poem by Walter C. Edwards
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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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