En.Citatepedia^®.ro

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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The Place Where My Heart Lives

it is on top of a cliff
it is an eagle's nest
there is a red egg
in the middle of those
blue eggs

there is no eagle
anymore that flies there
anymore

the blue eggs spoil
there is nothing there
the blue egg
cracks
my heart still sings
the blues

the clouds listen for a while
then they cry
the way the rain falls on the plains
then they drift away

the blue egg cracks
and shall be silent for a while
until the black eagle comes
and takes it back
to the place where it must be

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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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.

poem by Om Chawla
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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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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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When I was a Bird

I climbed up the karaka tree
Into a nest all made of leaves
But soft as feathers.
I made up a song that went on singing all by itself
And hadn't any words, but got sad at the end.
There were daisies in the grass under the tree.
I said just to try them:
"I'll bite off your heads and give them to my little
children to eat."
But they didn't believe I was a bird;
They stayed quite open.
The sky was like a blue nest with white feathers
And the sun was the mother bird keeping it warm.
That's what my song said: though it hadn't any words.
Little Brother came up the patch, wheeling his barrow.
I made my dress into wings and kept very quiet.
Then when he was quite near I said: "Sweet, sweet!"
For a moment he looked quite startled;
Then he said: "Pooh, you're not a bird; I can see
your legs."
But the daisies didn't really matter,
And Little Brother didn't really matter;
I felt just like a bird.

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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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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Flying Away?

i like to see the image of a lone bird flying away from me
two steady wings carrying a very light body of blue feathers
a kingfisher flying away against the morning sun
moving nowhere getting farther until it becomes a blue dot
dissolving in the distance that your eyes can no longer see

i sometimes like to think i am that bird flying away
from where i am
because this place is sad and cruel
i like to fly away
to leave everything behind me and then simply forget
and make new beginnings
as easy as that

sometimes however i ask myself:
where shall i go?
nowhere?
just nowhere?
where is nowhere?

just fly away and go
and leave and

then what?
i ask myself these real questions
calling for rational answers
begging
that i be reasonable enough with my life
and the life of others
who also depend
on me

it is not an easy stuff,
just flying away to nowhere and destruct
everything i build here:
a nest, an odor of familiarity,
a sense of home
(though sad and cruel)
a name for myself
a reputation
a family history
an ancestral domain

shall i go then and be foolish?

i am not a bird, i am a man
that is a very serious existence apart from those feathery wishes and dreams
with responsibilities, i have no wings just arms, i have no feathers
but this body

i am not just a bird, i have a soul
and so i decided to stay

with you.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Of Syntax

A poet and his bird, his dog, his cat and his tree
A poet and the bird in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree and the wind and the cloud
The bird in the tree, the dog in the tree, the cat in the tree,
The bird in the tree, the dog on the tree, the cat under the tree,
The bird on the tree, the bird in a tree, a bird in a tree, a bird in the tree,
And the wind and the cloud and the poet and his dog and his cat and the tree

The dog chases the cat the cat chases the bird
And they all arrive in that tree
Where the poet is sitting under that tree
The poet takes the dog and the cat was envious
And the bird looks at them in silence
The silence looks at the poet in the eye
Of the cat and the bird flies away
The poet and the dog is the poem of friendship
The cat and the dog is the poem of the endless natural quarrels
And the bird that flies away against the cat and the dog and the poet and the tree
And flies against the wind that the bird is now fighting
And the clouds that seem so blue and blue

The bird that actually flies away
Is actually me
I was not the poet with the dog

I am not the tree I am not the wind I am not the cloud I am not the poet there who had a dog as friend and I was not the quarrelsome thing from the blue and out of the blue

I am the bird with wings and I always fly away to places
Against the wind to places where I can be as always be the bird with wings in silence

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Blue Bird

Little blue bird
Sitting on a perch
Making noise for a boy
Found a mate
Flies away
Leaving the nest
Goodbye Blue bird

poem by Marissa Ford
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Unforgiving Love

one day a blue bird fell in love with a white rose..the rose was envious of everybod falling in love and was afraid that she will get hurt..the blue bird told her that he had loved her from afar but was too scared to tell the white rose how much he actaully did...the white rose told the bird when my petals turn from white to red i will fall in love with you back....the blue bird came by and by everyday and told the white rose how much he loved her...until one day the blue bird cut his wings and soaked the white rose with his blood...the white rose's petals turned from white to a luscious red and she realized how much the blue bird loved her..but it was too late the blue bird fell in front of the rose and the rose was red forever..that's why roses are giving to the ones we loved

poem by Ariff Khan
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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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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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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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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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L'oiseau bleu

The lake lay blue below the hill.
O'er it, as I looked, there flew
Across the waters, cold and still,
A bird whose wings were palest blue.

The sky above was blue at last,
The sky beneath me blue in blue.
A moment, ere the bird had passed,
It caught his image as he flew.

poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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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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Nest Eggs

Birds all the summer day
Flutter and quarrel
Here in the arbour-like
Tent of the laurel.

Here in the fork
The brown nest is seated;
For little blue eggs
The mother keeps heated.

While we stand watching her
Staring like gabies,
Safe in each egg are the
Bird's little babies.

Soon the frail eggs they shall
Chip, and upspringing
Make all the April woods
Merry with singing.

Younger than we are,
O children, and frailer,
Soon in the blue air they'll be,
Singer and sailor.

We, so much older,
Taller and stronger,
We shall look down on the
Birdies no longer.

They shall go flying
With musical speeches
High overhead in the
Tops of the beeches.

In spite of our wisdom
And sensible talking,
We on our feet must go
Plodding and walking.

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Symbols

I watched a rosebud very long
Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower:
Then, when I thought it should be strong,
It opened at the matin hour
And fell at evensong.

I watched a nest from day to day,
A green nest full of pleasant shade,
Wherein three speckled eggs were laid:
But when they should have hatched in May,
The two old birds had grown afraid
Or tired, and flew away.

Then in my wrath I broke the bough
That I had tended so with care,
Hoping its scent should fill the air;
I crushed the eggs, not heeding how
Their ancient promise had been fair:
I would have vengeance now.

But the dead branch spoke from the sod,
And the eggs answered me again:
Because we failed dost thou complain?
Is thy wrath just? And what if God,
Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain,
Should also take the rod?

poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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To a Sleeping Child

Lips, lips, open!
Up comes a little bird that lives inside
Up comes a little bird, and peeps, and out he flies.

All the day he sits inside, and sometimes he sings,
Up he comes, and out he goes at night to spread his wings.

Little bird, little bird, whither will you go?
Round about the world, while nobody can know.

Little bird, little bird, whither do you flee?
Far away around the world, while nobody can see.

Little bird, little bird, how long will you roam?
All round the world and around again home;

Round the round world, and back through the air,
When the morning comes, the little bird is there.

Back comes the little bird and looks and in he flies,
Up wakes the little boy, and opens both his eyes.

Sleep, sleep, little boy, little bird’s away,
Little bird will come again, by the peep of day;

Sleep, little boy, the little bird must go
Round about the world, while nobody can know.
Sleep, sleep sound, little bird goes round,
Round and round he goes; sleep, sleep sound.

poem by Arthur Hugh Clough
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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