That
is not known
cannot be known
but pigeons may
appear and may seem
in the evening
as dancing and
not separate from that
which is not known~
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.
~Wallace Stevens, Sunday Morning
Summer dazed in — it's dancing time!
Fred buffed his boots to dazzle-shine.
With a leap and a spin,
He clicked heels with a bin,
Rattling pigeons rapping in line.
when symbols are fraught
peace is a dirty bird~
once upon a dove
***
Smaller in stature, yet they are pigeons,
Not as colorful, but still gray, white, brown.
While pigeons thrive in cities, doves love woods,
Though both belong within the same bird line.
The symbol of peace, love, and purity,
Never regarded as pests like the pigeons.
They never dwell near filth nor in clutter,
So doves are welcomed more in human hands.
Timid, reserved, and forming smaller flocks,
Their cooing softer, sweetly resonant.
They show elaborate courtship in dance,
With flight more agile, graceful, and refined.
Unlike the pigeons, bold and unafraid,
A dove will flee before it stands its ground.
Yet still, it finds its way through storm and sky,
A creature born for silence, peace, and grace.
The pigeons of Trafalgar Square
Are feathered, yet lacking in hair.
They'd look erudite,
With wigs powdered white,
But wouldn't get up in the air.
Today the air is brisk and clear
With a whisp of winter in the air.
As pigeons coo, sweet morning doves,
Pitching woo like young love does.
And speckled dew upon the leaves
Uplifting every part of me
From tip of toes to top of head
Enthralled by all in this flowerbed.
Ashes to ashes, dust to rise
Transforming
Me,
When pigeons fly.
© Terrell Martin, 12/12/2024
Every tourist shares a trait;
they're walking, talking, f*cking bait
Who fog up our Earth's finest places
With fat wallets and fat f*cking faces
If you live in a City or by the sea
I'm sure you'll likely, mostly agree;
These scavengers of our landscape may pay cash
but leave in their wake a disgraceful dash
I admire their carelessness;
why should I have any?
The crimes of the few are the crimes of the many
I think I'll be a tourist
And maybe we'll see…
I'll be ‘that c*nt from another country’
Central Park pigeons were concerned about Walter M. Leed.
He usually brought them seed, nuts, and other wonderful feed.
They conversed among themselves and formed a delegation.
Flew to his house, to see if it was a funeral or weird celebration.
It’s my anniversary, he said, do you want to stay for the party?
They served all kinds of snacks and desserts hale and hearty.
Those pigeons had such a fantastic time, they decided to move in.
His wife moved out the next week; so let the party begin!
I’ve never seen a baby pigeon
And I’d be impressed
If anyone could show me one,
All cozy in its nest.
Their homes are likely hidden
In locations out of sight,
Perhaps unreachable to all
Who cannot manage flight.
The same applies to squirrels.
When we see them, they’re full-grown
And scampering from tree to tree
Without a chaperon.
When visiting a farm or zoo
Or pet store we might see
A creature in its youngest days,
But it occurs to me…
That in the city, we do not
Have access, like we should,
To the fauna we’re familiar with
In youth or babyhood.
An old man feeding pigeon birds.
So kind, it is almost so divine.
The water’s kinda choppy
But the sun, at least, is strong,
So I’m out here by the river,
On the bench where I belong.
I’m so rarely here on Friday –
It’s our day to watch the grands,
But my husband, with a virus,
Wasn’t up to those demands.
Which is why I’m out here, sitting
With the sunshine on my face.
Though I miss the kids like crazy,
This is time I will embrace.
Just pedestrians and pigeons,
With some canines on the squad,
Are my afternoon companions
On the east side promenade.
Choosing his lunch was the pigeon grandfather’s goal.
He liked lasagna and fettuccini down to his Italian soul.
But right now, he had to concentrate on his pigeon hole.
To relieve his constipation was his immediate goal.
Adventure awaits, my feathered little friend.
Never will I know the distance you have flown.
Though sorrow fills my heart watching you ascend,
I know it won't be long before you are home.
You'll be on my mind from the start to the end.
Will you join other pigeons or fly alone?
Until I see you back here comfy one day,
My hope little fellow is that safe you'll stay.
Written September 3rd 2022
For the "Ottava Rima" contest
Sponsor: L Milton Hankins
He was a cat amongst the pigeons
And just like the owl
Instead of saying who-whoo!
Just said MEOW
1/6/2022
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Cats are creatures, pure and simple
Hunters by the day and night
When they hide and stalk the pigeons
How they love to pick a fight
When they rest, they lick each other
As they groom each other’s head
What is fighting to a kitty
With a blanket for a bed
In the dawn of daylight creeping
Seeping in my sleeping hour
Both my cats are loud and leaping
For the food which they devour
How I love to laugh and watch them
For the futile things they do
Like a chase or losing race
To catch a taste of pigeon stew
Nothing beats a purring kitty
For the comfort people need
When a cat is full and happy
Then my sleep is guaranteed.
"Cat Among the Pigeons"
Written and submitted on December 6, 2021
Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh
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