An Epilogue to a Prologue
A nest of intricate design
A piece of art unmatched in decor
Amid the verdurous darkness
Of needle like leaves
The gay habitat of a swallow and her brood.
How suddenly it erupts into a clatter of sounds,
As the mother bird comes diving in
With a wee bit of a wriggling worm
Discreetly borne in her tiny beak.
Thrusting it into the gaping mouths
She departs and comes again
And again comes with something
A whirring insect or a twisting thing.
Nothing can appease her ravenous horde
And on she goes ferreting about.
At night fall she alights abrupt
From what infinite heights, God alone knows
Darting into her nest as she hovers,
The din subsides............
First into a fizzle, then into sharp silence
Bundled in her warmth, the little ones
Sleep till the first flutter of dawn
From my window, I enjoy this diurnal scene
Repeating itself in methodical precision
Until someday, into heaven's insurmountable heights
The young ones take off on tiny wings!
A sight so accustomed, cheery and gleeful
My eyes would soon be deprived of
And the thought makes me ill at ease
A wonder it is, the young ones
Inexperienced though, thrives so well
On catapulted suddenly into an eerie world!
What husbandry in nature!
What Godly solicitude!
The next morn, my heart missed a beat
At what I espied through my open window.
On the ground lay the swallow's nest
Ripped, broken and blown to pieces
Like a heap of rubble after a tremor.
By its side lay, a few downy feathers
The sad reminder of a stark felony!
In an instant flashed past
The grim image of the black Tom cat
That prowls my courtyard in the dark
With glowing eyes and bristly whiskers
Damning that accursed thing
I picked up that wreckage
My mind violently mutinying over
The ‘insolent might'! ! !
poem by Valsa George
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Related quotes
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.
Thomas Ross, Jr.
This I saw with my own eyes:
A cliff-swallow
Made her nest in a hole of the high clay-bank
There near Miller's Ford.
But no sooner were the young hatched
Than a snake crawled up to the nest
To devour the brood.
Then the mother swallow with swift flutterings
And shrill cries
Fought at the snake,
Blinding him with the beat of her wings,
Until he, wriggling and rearing his head,
Fell backward down the bank
Into Spoon River and was drowned.
Scarcely an hour passed
Until a shrike
Impaled the mother swallow on a thorn.
As for myself I overcame my lower nature
Only to be destroyed by my brother's ambition.
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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First Flight
The young bird hops,
into my open garage.
Head hunched
it studies the veined floor
like a map; lost traveler
cast low from
wooded heights,
and lifts to its mother
a raspy cry.
Too early from the nest
fearful of the sky,
unsure of tender wings,
not able to fly,
it’s helpless.
I want to hold it,
feel its heart
tremble in my gentle hands
return it
to shredded nest,
or,
like a prayer,
cast it high to heaven
and watch it fly
or fall,
but I do nothing.
when echoing its mother’s call
the youngster stumbles out the door
and into the still street -
Breathless,
I watch mother bird
diving near
as the fledgling
rises
into familiar air.
poem by Steven Federle
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Insatiable Greed
mouths open,
...like tiny birds...
swallow every morsel
...without thought;
only to roll out
..of the nest and fall
prey to their own
....insatiable greed!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Sparrow
A sparrow
from somewhere
flew in my window
soaked and bewildered
from the storm and rain
I didnt have the heart
to drive her away
could`nt shut the window
because it was in the way
I let her be there
but could`nt keep the wind away
a thought in my mind
sent shivers down my spine
is her nest blown away?
or is there water in her nest?
where her babies rest
she looked in my eyes
and then out again
It came a little closer
and it made me feel better
when the night became calm
and the breeze little warm
It flew away
at the break of dawn,
but the stormy night
continues to haunt.....
poem by Dr Madhavi Grace
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The Dunnocks Nest
A memory from the past I still recall
In the box hedge by the old garden wall
I saw two male dunnocks and a hen
Fly out of hedge and then with food fly in.
I heard their little nestlings for food cry
And I with the curiosity of a boy
Peered in the hedge a moss built cup shaped nest I see
With pink skinned nestlings in it I counted three.
To the ways of Nature I was young and green
And I marvelled at the wonder I had seen
Three blind and pink skinned nestlings the shy dunnock's brood
Thought I too was a carer with some food.
With their tiny mouths wide open for food they did plead
And when I did not satisfy their greed
They slumped back in their nest as in a heap
And within a few minutes were asleep.
It must have been close to fifty years ago
Yet of Nature little I still seem to know
But such a precious memory bound to stay
With me until the reaper has his way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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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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The Magpie's Nest, Or A Lesson Of Docility
A FABLE
When the arts in their infancy were,
In a fable of old 'tis exprest,
A wise magpie constructed that rare
Little house for young birds, called a nest.
This was talked of the whole country round,
You might hear it on every bough sung,
'Now no longer upon the rough ground
Will fond mothers brood over their young.
'For the magpie with exquisite skill
Has invented a moss-covered cell,
Within which a whole family will
In the utmost security dwell.'
To her mate did each female bird say,
'Let us fly to the magpie, my dear;
If she will but teach us the way,
A nest we will build us up here.
'It's a thing that's close arched over head,
With a hole made to creep out and in;
We, my bird, might make just such a bed,
If we only knew how to begin.'
To the magpie soon every bird went,
And in modest terms made their request,
That she would be pleased to consent
To teach them to build up a nest.
She replied, 'I will show you the way,
So observe every thing that I do.
First two sticks cross each other I lay'-
'To be sure,' said the crow; 'why, I knew
'It must be begun with two sticks,
And I thought that they crossëd should be.'
Said the pie, 'Then some straw and moss mix,
In the way you now see done by me.'
'O yes, certainly,' said the jackdaw,
'That must follow of course, I have thought;
Though I never before building saw,
I guessed that without being taught.'
'More moss, straw, and feathers, I place,
In this manner,' continued the pie.
'Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the case;
Though no builder myself, even I,'
Said the starling, 'conjectured 'twas so;
It must of necessity follow:
For more moss, straw, and feathers, I know,
It requires, to be soft, round, and hollow.'
Whatever she taught them beside,
In his turn every bird of them said,
Though the nest-making art he ne'er tried,
He had just such a thought in his head.
Still the pie went on showing her art,
Till a nest she had built up half way;
She no more of her skill would impart,
But in anger went fluttering away.
And this speech in their hearing she made,
As she perched o'er their heads on a tree,
'If ye all were well skilled in my trade,
Pray, why came ye to learn it of me?'-
When a scholar is willing to learn,
He with silent submission should hear.
Too late they their folly discern;
The effect to this day does appear:
For whenever a pie's nest you see,
Her charming warm canopy view,
All birds' nests but hers seem to be
A magpie's nest just cut in two.
poem by Charles Lamb
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Helderberg Hill (Sestina)
You are the high hill with numerous peaks,
that in summer looks magnificent and cheery,
where I have climbed up to waterfalls, to heights,
where I got a view of sun, beach and sea,
felt as if in presence of God, with tranquillity
with your moods you remind me of a lady.
Once I wandered with a young lady
on a twisting trail among your high peaks
to find some inner peace, some tranquillity
and she was quite happy and rather cheery
gazing up at the blue sky, down at the sea
from both of those dazing heights.
Climbing up to the sheer heights
was like exploring the body of a lady
as if finding a secret kind of sea
with beautiful rising pointed peaks
and the experience was quite cheery,
suddenly leaving an own tranquillity.
My privacy is invaded by her tranquillity
as from far I still do watch her heights
and although feeling rather cheery
there is danger in this lovely lady
that beacons me with her high peaks
to look upon an endless open sea.
I long to gaze out upon the sea,
to be with her in tranquillity,
to wander among her peaks,
to again explore her heights
as if to visit a dear kind old lady
but I wonder if I will find her cheery?
But I must now continually stay cheery,
keep far away from the troubled sea,
avoid all of the dangerous heights
of live to be able to find tranquillity
but still the beautiful ageless lady
is luring me continually with her peaks.
How glimmering and cheery with ice her peaks
high above the sea, do glow from their heights,
she is without tranquillity, a chilly frozen lady.
poem by Gert Strydom
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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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Window Left Open...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces.
the broom in the corner wept.
the box in the closet drew breath sharply,
the book on the shelf turned away.
the bulb in the lamp burned out.
the spider packed up its web and left.
the empty nest fell from the tree.
rainwater gushed from the gutters.
the young boy locked in his room
crawled out the window.
the neighbor's dog barked...
god gathered her clothes,
and put on her shoes.
while warships sailed for another land.
drones killed three women on the way to market,
another baby died without having lived.
another factory shut down,
another church burned to the ground,
so many things said and unsaid.
another chapter, another book unread.
things are not what they seem.
another war on pillows fought by silence,
another day in a land untouched.
old trees pray for lightning,
old dogs wait without fear.
old photographs turn yellow and fade.
old men empty their pockets and die.
even Jesus couldnt wait this long....
they say the good die young.
the thief in the garden steals roses,
that he gives to a girl wearing glasses.
while passion weeps waiting for snow.
and leaves prepare to fall...
the vase fell to the floor,
and shattered into tiny pieces...
the moth flew through a window left open!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Dragon Fly
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
is swept away
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird
and I am caught in the scene
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire,
is swept away
where the insect looses its life
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
where it pierces the insect on the barbed wire
and I see the bird spreading its black wing
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird is preparing for its next victim
while each insect it catches so smartly
where it is set on each movement,
as it twitters on the barbed wire and slaps its wings
and the bird becomes a deadly thing
that lingers at the mirror image of the window
where it is set on each movement,
when every insect catches the eye of a butcher bird.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Rumi Says
Rumi says I have wings
Asks me if I've felt the wind glide beneath them
Or had the courage to fly through clouds up high
He says I can fly
Lately, I sing on pavement ground
Wings clipped
I Keep falling down
My feathers are everywhere
But where it counts
I refuse to live in a cage
So I built my nest on the side of an old dirt road
Underneath the great wide open
Under the canopy of heaven
This is my home
I look up to the circling sky
My eyes - they can see
Where it is I'm headed
That someday
I'll be free
poem by God Diaries
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From The Short Story What The Swallows Did
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Starting on your autumn flight,
Pause a moment at my window,
Twitter softly your good-night;
For the summer days are over,
All your duties are well done,
And the happy homes you builded
Have grown empty, one by one.
Swallow, swallow, neighbor swallow,
Are you ready for your flight?
Are all the feather cloaks completed?
Are the little caps all right?
Are the young wings strong and steady
For the journey through the sky?
Come again in early spring-time;
And till then, good-by, good-by!
poem by Louisa May Alcott
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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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Cathartes Aura
Walking to my car
on a warm afternoon
up on the high hillside lot
close to the cliff drop,
I see rising beneath me
the bird,
wings spreading six feet,
head naked and red as blood,
white beak hooking invisible winds
to fill the creamy hollow of under-feather,
lifting on thermals
before my eyes,
when two small blackbirds
dive from unseen heights
and viciously caw as they peck
the black back.
Top guns, fighter aces;
these lords of the open sky
sharply turn as the heavy buzzard wheels
through dark pines.
I clutch my keys
and stay to watch the fight.
I want to see how, with curling feathers
and piercing rage
these small beasts
protect their living nest.
poem by Steven Federle
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Fledgling
you beak is too big
for your wings
you see
you cannot really fly on
your own
you have fallen again
and your claws
are broken
surrender now to
mama-bird who is anxious
waiting for you
with a nice worm
in her nest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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There’s a dragon fly
hanging at the mirror image of the window
catching the eye of a shrike
and the bird flashes past with stretched out claws
and for a moment the insect vibrates scared
and are swept away
by the bird that later twitters on the barbed wire
where it pierces the insect with a nail
and I am caught in the scene
and see the spreading its black wings
preparing for the next victim
and every insect that it spots
it catches.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Inside The Hotel Room In Hongkong
IF YOU SEE me here inside my hotel room
in Hongkong
you will not perhaps believe
that in such a short time of our separation
I am now looking
at our pictures
the one where we simply sit on the train
going to Baclaran
on the busy day
where we were looking at the other side of the window
taken by that stranger
upon our request
still strikes me
there was something in your eyes
that gives the premonition
something in the misty window
speaks about the unexpected twist
of a sad story
a plot that i have not mastered well
perhaps because
i was too trusting
the stupid man falls in love again
with a woman still possessing the full senses
of her world
i have decided to tear this picture
into tiny pieces of paper
my hands like a shredding machine
i open the window of this hotel
and let the tiny shreds of your face
be blown by the wintry wind
from the 13th floor.
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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