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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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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Japanese lullaby
Sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with velvet eyes;
Sleep to the singing of mother-bird swinging--
Swinging the nest where her little one lies.
Away out yonder I see a star,--
Silvery star with a tinkling song;
To the soft dew falling I hear it calling--
Calling and tinkling the night along.
In through the window a moonbeam comes,--
Little gold moonbeam with misty wings;
All silently creeping, it asks, "Is he sleeping--
Sleeping and dreaming while mother sings?"
Up from the sea there floats the sob
Of the waves that are breaking upon the shore,
As though they were groaning in anguish, and moaning--
Bemoaning the ship that shall come no more.
But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings,--
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing?--see, I am swinging--
Swinging the nest where my darling lies.
poem by Eugene Field
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The only difference between a pigeon and the American farmer today is that a pigeon can still make a deposit on a John Deere.
quote by Jim Hightower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Dilettante And The Critic
A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.
An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,
Talkative, clever, and learned as well;
The boy his society used to prize,
Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.
"My friend the fox my pigeon must see
He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he
"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!
His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"
"Let's see!"--The boy gave it.--"'Tis really not bad;
And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"
So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.
The boy screamed.--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply,
Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."--
Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.
He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,
Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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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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Sleight of Hand
I put my handkerchief into your holey pocket
And take out a Pigeon,
Again I put the Pigeon into your pocket
And take out my handkerchief.
A middle aged woman with a singsong
Winked at me among the crowd at the roundabout
And it says willing to come with me.
What a real gimmick?
She took my fragile heart
Through the broken ribs
Without my knowledge.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The boy who was so innocent and kind
Once upon a time there was a little boy
He had a mind so pure, innocent and kind
He lived in a village so quiet and secluded
Nothing but trees from the village were protruded
One day, the boy took a stroll in the wood
And found a rabbit which in a trap stood
The boy having a kind heart, set it free
The rabbit ran away and the boy felt pleased
On another occasion during his leisurely walk
The boy found a pigeon which was got caught
Feeling sorry, he also released it from the trap
The pigeon fluttered its wings and flied towards its nest
Not long after that the boy found himself in the wood again
This time he discovered a tiger which was being contained
Again feeling pitiful for the captive animal, he set it free
The tiger jumped out of the cage and made the boy its meal.
poem by Henry Chen
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The Pedlar
FLY, fly, my pretty pigeon, fly!
And see if you can find him;
He has blue eyes--you'll know him by,--
He wears a pack behind him.
He's gone away--ah! many a mile
Because he could not please me,
And, oh! 'twill be a weary while
Ere next he comes to tease me.
He carries wares of every kind,
Fine ribbons, silks, and laces,
Bargains to rhyme with every mind,
And hues to suit all faces.
He has gold rings and pretty things
That other maids will throng for,
Ah, pigeon! spread your pretty wings,
And fly to him I long for.
Tell him to turn and come again,
For once I sent him packing;
He offered me a bargain then,
But wit and price were lacking.
I have the price he asked of me,
The wit that will not weigh it;
Ah! bid him come again and see
How gladly I will pay it.
A heart of gold he offered me
As 'twere a penny fairing,
And only asked a worthless fee,
This heavy heart I'm wearing.
I would not then--now long and drear
The white way winds behind him;
Ah! seek him, seek him, Pigeon dear,
But you will never find him!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Tony The Race Car Driver
His name is Tony, but I call him Tone,
he has a D.J. business to play your songs,
while you dance all night long.
Now I met him one night on New Year's Eve,
I was dancing on a table and did not see,
Tony sitting below me at the bar,
he smiled at me then gave me his business card.
Scorpio was the name of his D.J. business,
he also plays the drums, I do confess.
Now, he has one shy Persian cat,
she hides under the couch,
no one knows where's she's at.
Other than that, he watches football
Fan of the Pittsburg Stealers,
they lost over Wisc. last year, people where squealing.
Tony has a red corvette that I can't drive,
Tony goes real fast, thank God he's still alive.
Now Tony and his Uncle Lenny are really fun,
they always joking around with everyone.
Thanks Tone, I hope you get the girl,
and she colors your world.
poem by Suzae Chevalier
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Wings In The Night
Now in the soft spring midnight
There's rush of wings and whirr,
Birds flying softly, swiftly;
The night's a-flutter, a-stir.
Home by the bitter seas,
They have sped home together.
So glad to be coming home
To the grey hills, the grey weather.
Calling and calling softly
One lights by the window-pane:
The rook, weary with building,
Turns to his sleep again.
Ere ever the moor-hens wake
And the wild duck come in,
The birds are about the house
With a long call and thin.
They have wakened the wood-pigeon
To make her plaintive moan,
The wood-pigeon lamenting
For sorrows not her own.
Oh, they are never birds,
But souls of men on the wind,
Seeking the mother's breast,
The heart that is soft and kind.
Souls of the Irish dead,
Flown from the fields of slaughter,
Home to the mother's arms
Over the wild grey water.
poem by Katharine Tynan
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He that would keep his house clean must not let priest or pigeon into it.
He that wants to keep his house clean must not let priest or pigeon into it.
Let there be food in the pigeon-house, and the pigeons will come to it.
Tony The Race Car Driver
His name is Tony, but I call him Tone,
he has a D.J. business to play your songs,
while you dance all night long.
Now I met him one night on New Year’s Eve,
I was dancing on a table and did not see,
Tony sitting below me at the bar,
he smiled at me then gave me his business card.
Scorpio was the name of his D.J. business,
he also plays the drums, I do confess.
Now, he has one shy Persian cat,
she hides under the couch,
no one knows where’s she’s at.
Other than that, he watches football
Fan of the Pittsburg Stealers,
they lost over Wisc. last year, people where squealing.
Tony has a red corvette that I can’t drive,
Tony goes real fast, thank God he’s still alive.
Now Tony and his Uncle Lenny are really fun,
they always joking around with everyone.
Thanks Tone, I hope you get the girl,
and she colors your world.
Written by Suzae Chevalier on September 26,2011
www.puppetpoems.com
poem by Christina Sunrise
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Let there be no lack of food in the pigeon-house, and the pigeons will come to it.
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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Pigeon holes for M lady Anna Russel
Don’t put me in a pigeonhole
It is the last thing you should do.
You do not understand my role.
Take note of what I’m telling you.
There is nobody quite like me
I am unique I stand alone
I can act independently.
I’m like no one you have known
You are entitled to your view
but I’m afraid that’s limited
You know less than you think you do.
But be my guest and go ahead.
Believe what you want to believe
convince yourself you are correct.
It is yourself that you deceive.
That you will change I don’t expect.
You see the world in black and white,
you have a neat and tidy mind
This does not mean that you are right.
Some things just cannot be defined.
Forget your pigeon holes my friend
each human being is unique
Though unlike you I don’t pretend.
It is the real you that I seek.
I have no time for pigeon holes
I want to see behind the mask
we wear to play to play our public roles.
Maybe that is too much to ask.
1-Feb-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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These Are Desperate Times For You, Aren't They?
If,
I were fed pigeon...
Would I then have pigeon vision?
If I were a duck,
After being plucked...
Would I then run out of luck?
And if I had an oink,
But a sheep I thought myself to be.
Would I want my pork chops fried...
Knowing a pig was meant to be my destiny.
And if I sneezed by a bee...
Will that bee that buzzed believe,
What I did was dumb...
To deserve a stinging,
Stung done that comes.
And if I had an oink,
But a sheep I thought myself to be...
Ooo ooo weeee.
Would that bee that did the stinging,
Wish it had hooves...
And,
Kicked me in the knee!
'These are desperate times for you,
Aren't they? '
Why do you say that?
'Your stimulus package,
Seems to lack stimuli.
And...
I am concerned for your well being.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Pigeon
The dreams are not merely dreams,
Though they are often considered the fantasies,
And futile vain imaginings of the mind;
Yet they portend the stuff for the future.
I dreamt once, I was on the route shingled long,
All alone with grimness I walked,
No one accompanied to share my pang,
It was almost dark, the time of sunset;
All of sudden I heard a voice, urging me to stop,
I stopped and turned behind;
And saw a damsel simply clad,
Though she was bare feet, yet from head to toe,
An incarnation of simplicity and elegance.
She stopped beside me and had a pause,
And in silence stared at me,
Then she brought out a white pigeon,
That she had kept covered under her shawl,
And handing it to me went back,
With out a word spoken.
Many years later I happened to meet the same elegance,
And she became my life partner;
In her company I journeyed the remaining part,
Of the route shingled long but with the soft pigeon of love.
poem by Muhammad Shanazar
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