I Simply Like The Word Roost
and its variations,
refer to the latest poem i wrote on the word
ensconce, it is roost that you use, which signifies
about chickens
but honestly i prefer the pegions
which we had
once in my youth
the boy who chased and hit birds
feeding on our rice
drying under the sun
and i did not know what i did
stoning birds and killing them
not really thinking
that they would be happier
and nicer to see
when they are alive
and flying and feeding
on the pavements where
rice is abundant and
it woudl have been more
memorable if i feed
them myself
with rice on my palms
which i never really did
because in my place
a boy is a boy and he must
hit the birds with stones
from his slingshot
until i have seen real birds
and real people shot
and killed on the fields
like birds but
with real ammunitions
from government armalites
and brothers
killing brothers
which really bothers
me a lot
until now
when finally i get tired of thinking
when i simply write
poems and poems, not judgments
not commands, just feelings
like hot and cold, fever and the coldness
of death
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Set them free..They will multiply..
Watching the birds is real fun,
no need dime, only the time,
colorful birds to colored birds,
chirping birds to singing birds,
flying birds to walking birds,
cunning birds to love birds,
Watching birds is just a lesson,
making mind to have a vision.
collect the twigs to make the nest,
one by one, they think the best,
choose the right tree,
just high and free,
Making the nest perfect,
without any single defect,
The birds toil together or alone,
all day long until it is done.
I bought two love birds,
that were kept in a cage.
Hung the cage under the balcony,
above the reach of dogs not felony.
chirping disturbed their sleep,
Nikko, the dog set them free.
Only two flew away,
but I have a few dozens now,
making their nests,
right in front of me, on the trees.
Watching the birds is real fun,
no need dime, only the time.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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Beak Kind To Birds!
Beak kind to birds both near and far,
Both high and low as well...
To me, each bird's a superstar!
In fact, to me, they're swell!
Beak kind to birds and show you care
With titbits now and then...
And watch with wonder as they share
Their breakfast once again!
Beak kind and keep your cats at bay...
Else feeding birds take flight!
It's nicer seeing birds at play
Than watching them take fright!
Beak kind to birds, give them their space
So they may co-exist...
For none on Earth can take their place,
So they'd be sorely missed!
Beak kind to birds, they'll flock to you -
They're all our feathered friends!
It doesn't matter, black or blue...
Beak kind - 'cos it makes sense!
poem by Denis Martindale (2003)
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Maya
little brown birds with grey beaks and a patch of black
on their heads
three of them
drinking water on a pond of water created
by the little rain this morning
as i go near them
they all look at me and then in a sudden
they all fly away leaving some ripples in the
muddled pond
i never think of them as my enemies
they all leave at once
i do not have a gun
or a club or a slingshot
what i have in my hands are rice grains, nothing but rice grains
yes, rice grains for all of them
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Sky's Bird
Do you still remember the color of the night,
How endless it seemed to go out to,
So stunning, yet frightnening its beauty was
Like a sky calling the birds, you can't resist its cry.
Another morning rises up,
As another dream falls down,
And even though I know its going to disappear,
I don't want to let go.
It's like the sun and moon,
Always going around and around,
Never meeting up with one another.
The shadow of reality,
Cast this illusion onto my life,
So I don't what's real and what isn't,
Holding on tight, I never plan to let go of my beliefs!
I believe in a night that draws you in,
No matter how hard you fight back,
Even though it may grow tiring,
You'll always run back like the birds do to the sky.
Escaping its grasp is inevitable,
If you resist too much, you might lose yourself,
But even though it was once your home,
You'll always have a place to fly back to like the birds to the sky,
Like the birds, like the birds, do to the sky,
Like the birds like the birds, do to the sky.
poem by Alex McCullough
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The Crooked Ways Of The Tiny Birds
feelings are sometimes like the tiny birds
of summer feeding on a few grains
on the wide yards of the garden where the grasses
spread far
some feels being smothered by the indifference of other
tiny birds
separated by the distance of the long lines of
parallel electric poles
imagine the image of tiny birds sitting in there
looking for pecking
one notices the vastness of the sky
the unfinished climb of the hill
the vanishing paths of trails long untrue
feelings like tiny birds fly away
but there is no reason to be afraid on the
facts of nonreciprocating birds
ah, the world is wide and too interesting
to be ignored
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Birds cheer others
Birds ae flying
Do not shout or beat gong
Birds are not pests.
Birds cheer others
Do not pollute atmosphere
Do not cut down trees
Birds are settling.
Take care of the birds
Life take care of you
Take care of you cheerfully
Birds are flying
Life is smiling.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Birds
On seeing Birds, shot in the air,
Falling half-dead to the ground,
I simply fume, ’Tis not fair,
For the hunter is the world!
Birds like only freedom,
They get it but seldom,
Caged are they so often,
Killed for no good reason,
Witness to the creation,
They glide and dart in fashion,
It is He that feeds them,
Not the world, I or them.
Why then disturb the plumes,
And feathers of the air?
They can bear no ill-will,
Nor do they complain still,
Birds are beauteous beings,
Innocent, habits so nice,
Render the air with music,
To ears, so pleasant and wise.
Birds have their courtship,
And times of hardship,
Changing seasons, Sun and food,
Prefer to live as they should.
poem by John Celes
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2: 25 P.M. Roxas
there are things that do not jibe
round peg to a square hole for instance
birds that dive and fly in the belly of the sea
or fish that swim in the molten lava of the earth
us, for instance, is another thing
we have ceased to be human tired of the power of words in our lips
we should have kissed as often as we signify a love that does not change
but, we are some of these things that do not jibe at last
our dances have become awkward
people are watching and they just couldn't say it honestly that we have to stop
us, scarecrows
not scared but powerless over the vultures that feed on our flesh
over those birds that steal the grains of our youth
over time that is too cruel
us, feeding upon us,
about to puke.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Feed The Birds and Play With Them
I was tired and exhausted
I felt as if
There is nothing in the world
Except work
I went to the nearby garden
Saw an old man
Feeding the birds with seeds
He smiled when a bird
Came near him
Picked one seed
He Laughed
When another came
Picked another seed
I did not understand
His smiling and laughing
I asked him
Why he was so happy?
He replied in measured words
Everybody works
To feed himself
When you feed others
It makes you happy
You have satisfaction
Of living for others
I feel fresh
And without stress
I understood
What he mean't
Feeding the birds
And playing with them
Has now become
My usual routine
poem by Nirantar Dr.Rajendra Tela
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Yeheyy It Is A Holiday Today
Philippines,11: 13 a.m.
it is a holiday today, officially the President celebrates the
National Heroes' Day
with her soldiers offering flowers for Dr. Jose Rizal,
Apolinario Mabini, Juan Luna, etcetera, etcetera
(sounds of trumpets and gun salutes
release the doves that symbolize purity and freedom and peace
to the confused and polluted atmosphere)
i sit and write this poem and the other Bisayan poems for my
bisdak friends remembering the past and how we must be angry
about the present,
let us not talk about the future, we may become revolutionaries
again,
i stop. i stare at the wall. i open the window, Look at the dry fields of rice,
and some sparrows
yes, the sparrow unit, still killing some policemen and raiding
far municipalities and
i remember the moslems, their agongs, and malongs and clean rivers
and silent determinations to be free...
brothers killing brothers? oh too normal, too sane to kill another brother
in this country and the
government soldiers, yes, they too kill, as a matter of fact if you are too
candid,
like me, oh, they may not hesitate too, to kill all of us, but
do not take me by mistake, i belong to the government and i still support it,
even if is too hot yet to be hot
again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Crooked Ways Of The Tiny Birds 2
feelings are sometimes like the tiny birds
of summer feeding on a few grains
on the wide yards of the garden where the grasses
spread far
some do feel being smothered by the indifference of other
tiny birds
separated by the distance of the long lines of
parallel electric poles
imagine the image of tiny birds sitting in there
looking for pecking
one notices the vastness of the sky
the unfinished climb of the hill
the vanishing paths of trails long untrue
feelings like tiny birds fly away
but there is no reason to be afraid on the
facts of nonreciprocating birds
ah, the world is wide and too interesting
to be ignored
on a few grains one feeds upon
and having satisfied sits lonelier on the line of an electric pole
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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When the birds fly
When the birds fly
the mind opens its eye
the heart looks up to the sky
the birds fly.
The birds fly south
the ear opens its mouth
the nose sees summer
the kids they are playing out...
When the birds fly
we dream our words dont die.
Reborn with a babys cry
the birds fly leaving stars
they stay in the night,
we are the birds
we escape to the light.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Under The Water
The bird was
Flying
Under the water...
Under the water
Fishes and frog
Also swmming...
How the birds
are flying...? ? ?
It is not qustine...
You also
Go and see
Any lake...
Sincerly watch it..
Natualy
Birds are flying sky;
Shado will be
Seen under
The water...
Sky also there:
Only way its true
Shadows...
The birds are
Simply flying
Under the water......
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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The Flight of Birds
“a poem should be wordless
as the flight of birds.”
—Archibald Macleish, Ars Poetica.
birds don’t sing in their flight
for them flying is a muse
they compose mid-air
weave agnostic verse
sneering haughtily at our absurdity
as they float over our meaningless mosques and churches
and those patrolled international borders
and other disputed sites
where the guns go bang bang bang all the time
they swing over there losing their birdegos
(ego is difficult to retain in mid-flight)
wondering about and watching men plucking out
and quashing the lives of other men and women and
poor helpless children and they
shed a birdtear or two from there
a birdtear that is lost midway due to heat of some explosion
down below some crazy fanatical bomb detonating
killing instantly the people and the city and the forests
and even the pitiable babybirds who are yet to learn to fly
they contemplate of writing poems
about a bird’s egg charring
before even being boiled and scratch their beaks
unsure if this is a metaphor or simile or other poetic device
o the birds have lots and lots and lots to write about
o their writings will never be banned
they borrow freedom
to write poems in the sky
they come back and
pass it on to us
we take the song only
brutally
but at least we take the song
to take the poem
to unscramble the words from the song and to put it back again
as song so spontaneously that it remains the poem and the song
to remember forever this refrain whose melody haunts us
and to hum that refrain which preserves our sanity
perhaps we need to fly
a trifle aimlessly like birds
or because we are humans
six-sensed creatures with massive egos
and massive superegos and massive egos on the ego
and because of possessing gray matter
what doctors call medulla oblongata
we need to feel with our red hearts
than think with some unlocatable mind
we need to look deeper. . .
into ourselves, into eyes
we need to lose ourselves
then, and only then
the poems will come
silent
wordless
as the flight of birds
(First published in Indian Literature)
poem by Meena Kandasamy
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The Plow Of My Papa
today is the last day to sell the plow of my papa
it is a necessary part of his lifetime
in fact
his lifetime is the plow itself that made the lines
of his own poetry in the fields
of rice and corn
today another man shall have it
at the price we all wanted
we have sold all that he had
the land, the house, the trees he planted
when he was still alive
when he was still strong and cruel and so imposing
this is his only plow
and we have dedided to dispose it finally
to any man
we are now at the stage of reconstructing our lives
and the plow of papa must go
we shall have our own fields now of rice and corn
on a white canvass we draw
the new sun, its color shall be warm, something new really
to the feel of our skins
the darker ones shall be replaced by the flowing color
of the clouds like feathers of birds always ready to fly away
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Spring
Birds' love and birds' song
Flying here and there,
Birds' songand birds' love
And you with gold for hair!
Birds' songand birds' love
Passing with the weather,
Men's song and men's love,
To love once and forever.
Men's love and birds' love,
And women's love and men's!
And you my wren with a crown of gold,
You my queen of the wrens!
You the queen of the wrens --
We'll be birds of a feather,
I'll be King of the Queen of the wrens,
And all in a nest together.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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I Wanted My Poem To Be A Real Poem
I WANTED MY POEM TO BE A REAL POEM
I wanted my poem to be a real poem-
I have read and studied and memorized
So many real poems-
I wanted my poem to be one of them
Which others would read and feel and memorize
And make their own –
We want and we want and we want
And who are we with all our wanting?
Who am I with all my wanting?
One more dreamer
One more ambitious person
One more lover of poems
One more writer of poems
One more wanter of real poems
Who writes this poem
For others
who dream like me
of writing real poems.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Silver Birds
Silver birds
getting ready to fly
red, white and blue
it's our pride in the sky
Silver birds
above the clouds
making waves
making us proud
Silver birds
shining bright
into the evening
into the night
Silver birds
amongst the rest
flying strong
to be the best
Silver birds
coming round the bend
getting ready to land
out of their descend
Silver birds
representing the states
with the colors of freedom
at all their gates.
Charlie Vergara
11.21.2007
2576
poem by White Tiger
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The Birds and The Worrier
it is raining and as usual
the worrier is worried about the birds
they have no house of their own
and they may die in the cold she says
unknown to her the birds are happier
flying in the rain
chirping and catching all the prey
that are too worried
about where to stay
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Stars In The Heavens....
i was the praying
mantis on the grass
when we first met
here in this
spot of mud and
water
we talked
and i made promises
like turning
dusts into butterflies
and stones into
birds
and birds into
stars
in that black sky above us
now i am watching
all those stars of you
once stones
without minds of their own
once dusts without
meaning
once birds flying without
directions
i like the way all of you glitter
as i sit upon this strip of grass
covered by
black skies
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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