Waxwings in the supermarket car park
Directing the traffic
Seagull on the trolley
Pushing his family to go Christmas shopping
Buzzard at Mcdonald's picking up
his happy meal
Blackbird prittle-prattling in the planted pot
Crows flick-flacking on a lamppost
Below a pied wagtail strutting its stuff
Busy birds bush whacking the red berried trees
Off the M5 motorway service station pit stop
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Cuckoo, cuckoo
He says spring has sprung
Cuckoo, cook who?
Who has rung?
Cuckoo spit over
A pint over
A pint?
No bird could
What are you talking about?
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Under the arches the coal tits dart
Around the quarry they flurry
Down over that little bit of swamp
Where the railway men's waste was dumped
Over the piles of rubble, brick work and industrial trash
The leached-into, the sodden ground, near the river, brown bushes grow
That make homes for the Coal Tits, they flit and dart between them
And hang on to the brick work
With their little claws
In the embers of December, they are the spark
In the grey rainy Novembers, they come again like filaments
of colours in the filigrees of green and brown, agricultural hedgerows
In the borders of the town, where the dogs and dog walkers
go around
Not forgotten about
But just hanging around
Like a resident nobody knows
Except you'd miss their sound
Because they're like a loved one
In the fabric of the town
A backdrop scenic prop
Except they chose to stop
There who knows, what senses
Just an ideal bit of real estate
To live beneath the arches of the viaduct
Close to where the Sheppey flows
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Coo, coo, Ha, Haa, Ho, ho, He, he,
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Down to the gate road,
And beside the running brook
The gargling of sea gulls
As the starving starlings look
The road is cold
The frost takes hold
But robin cheerily sings
things unfold
He is bold to talk of happy things
And mist enfolds the hills
And clings to valley bottoms
It is sticky in the trees
Where the river sheppey rolls
But not forgotten
And we wander over storks of fields
We crunch in icy puddles
As spinneys of trees shine on hill tops
And the sun breaks through
As a yellow shield shining
Through bright dew drops
And snaking along the treeline
The sheppey does take shape
And lifts the pages of the mist
Like bed sheets from its face
The old oak with the spidery crown
Waits beside the gate
And we take turns to clamber down
Across a broken field stile plate
The post is rotten in the ground
It wobbles and it shakes
As we walk around the Lorax patch
Where the cocks crow as men of state
The hens are brooding in their hutch
Like glamorous fashion models
Kept there ready to lay such and such
A golden egg to bottle
As proudly strutting cockerels parade
Their fleeces, like dandified fops
Their ruffs like Elizabethan curls
The court of the Queen of chops
Off with their heads she cries
And headless chickens run a mock
And chicken feet run down the street
And upon the hills spill their blood
As the Cathedral peeps over the brows
Of hills which are vacant of cows
And streaming white whiffs of clouds
Float gently in the blue
I can see through these see through days
Can you see through me too
Invisible in the olden ways
Awaiting the tides of new
As I bend down to tie my shoe
A cockerel cries a murder blue
And digesting all that we've been through
I fill it up and bring it to you
You offer it back like your take affront
I take it back but not from want
I wish I could give, but what I have
Is taken up by the ditch grab
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I saw you lost your throne of stone
I saw your crown was broke
And in amongst the daisy chains
Was where the blackbird spoke
Saying I lost you in the morning
I lost you in the spring
And the fourth time I was calling
You came home to me again
For the cross was born in the winter
And the tides rose up in field
And we all feel so brave on the short summer waves
When the heat is our only meal
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The water of the moors
Is a dragon's land
It is meant for
The grey cloaked wizard Heron
and the white cloaked wizard Egret
These are the druids who commune with
the Nature Gods
Stare into black pools
Read in the brown tea leaved peat water
The signs of things to come
They know when to fly
And when to stand still
To catch the darting fish
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Duck butts in the air
Stick your duck butts in the air
Like you just don't care
while looking for your grub down there
Shake those tail feathers
Fellas, ladies
Mallards, Drakes
Come on and waggle it
Just a little bit
Make no mistakes
There's party going down on the lakes!
Come on and haggle it
Come on duck on the dance floor
Dance, dance duck on the ice some more
Slap and tickle those little duck flipper flappers
Slipping off a duck's back like Jack Daniels
Don't throw no stones at glass houses
Fly on home
In your thousands
Canada Geese just looking for release
Come abounding, resounding to the beat
Of a hundred duck feet,
paddling
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
What do you say to the twigs that fall?
The whispering Starlings shush shushing
The air and all
Hushing the reeds like a lullaby
The level's baby to sleep
Moses drifts up in a basket
Somewhere down the Euphrates
And the crocodiles all drown
In their own tears
The borrowed frowns of bucaneers
Postpone the hate of conquering years
In which enemies fall at their gate
But No speck of blood falls
In their spotless cities
No nagging horse neighs
Without the controlled rumble
Of cannon fire
And I am the tear
That rolls down the knoll
The fear in the belfry
When I hear the bell toll
Another and another soul
Yet elsewhere the sky is yellow and bold
And the bright blue sea shines like gold
And a penny is tossed splashes and ripples
The cats and dogs dash, the priest has his tipple
The hum and roll, the ebb and flow
Of cavorting children
And parents extoll the virtues of being virtuous
And how sadness lies like misty veil
Over the memory of this town
But some professors write
That all things come around
Again, as they sweep through cloistered halls
In black and white gowns
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Swan you little plesiosaurus
Look you up in a thesaurus
You're a synonym for white
And some how you learnt to fly
but prefer the water to the sky
I can't control it said the swan
The sky and the earth on this day
I am the king of the pond
I am the mirror bird I say
I hold your reflection in my mind
And I give back you my white in kind
Give back the white
Oh will you read between the lines
Of the black and white
And see through to the otherside of the mirror
Said to the lily, why be a pad
Like a biscuit
I sip from your waterlip
And swill down the plankton
Into my gullet
And you have to give me your yellow
And I'll cut loose Mr goose
And give you back my white
Give me your green Mr froggy
And he said ribbet and swam along
I'll give you my green if you sing your swan song
So the swan sang a beautiful blood red tune
And Froggy gave him his green
And he gave back his white
Give me your brown Mr Otter
And the Otter dipped into the jelly black lake
Said I'll give you my brown if you prove you're no fake
So the Swan rose up like a dragon and beat his wings
And Otter gave him his brown
And he gave back his white
Give me your black Mr Raven
And Raven said no way and flew away
But wait! cried swan, you swore you were my mate
And raven's beady eyes spied him, said Ok
Friend, you can take a piece of my black
And Swan gave him his white
And Raven danced his Magpie jig
Why then, said Swan, with all these colours am I still white?
And the lake spoke up and said you made a grave mistake
While you gave away your white there was no promise made the other way
So the only colour your young may be is grey
To remind you of the trust you had in other animals
Then the white to remind you that all animals lie
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Chicken wow, chicken in the trousers
DANCE AROUND YOUR PEN
Hen pen these chickens
They will love you if you speak to them
With a chicken heart
Some call of way back when
The Hen was brought from South America
Dashing across the forest floor
Chased by the native Indian
Who in turn was being chased by
A conquistador
But can you see her this half human bird
Half a girl she is like half an angel
Who will never fly
But she will try
Perhaps to the tree top
Then stop
Perhaps she'll
Spy the moon
She'll hear the cock crow thrice
And her beautiful chicken dreams will fade
But be born again in her eggs
Specially hatched
To one day reach the sky
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Robins
In the tree
Like oranges with wings
Singing oh so sweetly
But bitter rivalries win
The peel of bells
Across a winter scene
And he dived down into hell
To deliver water
To souls in purgatory
The Orange smells
The Holly pricks
The cocks fight themselves
To find the biggest dicks
But Someone shot him
On the road to ruin
Caught red handed
By the river Brue in
His red coat
His scarlet tail
The blood was flowing
until the January sale
And we keep our sides of
the garden wall
But I hear he cried
As the buckets fall
Down the well
To fetch the water
Wren, and hen and cottage daughter
Jack is lonesome on the hill
Mary's waiting blood and all
The rose is pricked
Plucked petal
placed in the mouth
Twin tongues call
The Robin sings
all winter to spring
In coldest times devouring
Such little birds but stout of heart
Ever ready reddened breast out
Facing the hedgerows
Turning about
Without a doubt
Like an arrow
Said the sparrow
Like a plough
Said the cow
On garden fork
Said the spying hawk
As gardeners busily work
Won't follow the swallow south
But stick it out
With true grit
As the snow falls
from the sky's bit lip
And paintings of Christmas quip
Have him chirping about as reindeers skip
But shaded in obscurity,
the blotting out of infirmity
The raging shout
The angry bull
Whose crying out
In push and pull
the little snout
with brave pout
sings
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Oooh, oooh, I'm on a starling hunt
looking for inspiration in the skies
I'm starling gazing, quite amazing
Look at the way the big flock flies
Murmuring like a galaxy,
(Andromeda is speaking to me)
Swirling like a Milky way
Shooting like a meteor, a shooting star
Falling in the field of my vision
I'm stargazing on the levels,
Wet with binoculars and telescopes, the other
Astronomers like me
have come to pinpoint constellations
work out how the universe is revolving
by looking at starling symmetry
,symbols and syncopation, the beating heart
of the nebulae, starburst quite
amazing
erupting white dwarf
Red giant blooming like a pillow
Star birth above the willow
Firework explosion of a thousand dancing
suns
And my eyes are crossed, my stars are
crossed
As lovers holding hands
tessellated above the level lands
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
The woman who turned into a bird
Haven't you heard
She lay down in bed to rest her head
And awoke in a flutter of feathers
From her skin had grown quills
And like the ribs of Adam
Given her chills
In the fridge of Iron
Railings that made her bed
She sprang from the springs
And onto her wings
Turning wildly up in the air
Knocking off vases from places
Then she flew down the stairs
And out of the door
To the new morning thaw
As the sun called her
Up to the sky
She was free as a bird
Unchained from the woman
to whom she said good bye
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I'm in the Buzzard BnB in Bedfordshire
I'm sleeping on the wing
In a feather down mattress
My pillow is of duck down
And my bed fellow a funny fucker
She's a buzzard the same as me
Oh a real Buzzcock cocker
I'm in the Buzzard B 'n' B,
Come pack up your sheet
I'll go down to breakfast in the morning
Claw my way down the stairs
I pass a Golden Eagle in his Eyrie Attic
And Sparrow in his window box
A lot of us Buzzards here we lost our nest
We flew it long ago
In the long flight West
Looking for a new home
In a countryside so green
Yet we ended up in Shepton Mallet
If you know what I mean
The streets are pretty busy,
well the streets are pretty clean
The houses are full and empty
Helps with the homeless scene
Some have too much
And many don't have any
And they think they'll take a shot
At the national lottery penny
But no they never win
Only scrape by a livin'
Yet the pallets keep on turning
The lorry wheels keep on spinning
I'm not saying it matters
I'm just a buzzard on the brink
I speak my beak
And think my think
If they start policing that
Then the whole pontoon might sink
We'd be back in 1984
And pigeon holing people
Based on their way of thinking
Let me see if you will commit a crime
My monitoring machine is blinking
well in a sense we already have it
With a google can of beans
GDPR and algorithms who know where you've been
Think they will predict where you are going
If in your thoughts they've seen
Some evidence of intention to a crime scene
It's a fair cop governor, I've been circling around
this field of dreams
Longer than my tail feathers
Shorter than a stream
I'm trying to catch a little mouse
But all I can find is carrion
If you call me a predator on the prowl
I'll scream and shout and swing my towel
In such a carry on
This town is a birds nest baby
It's full of stick houses yeah
And all the match stick people
Go about combing flames out of their hair
And each fiery tongue licks the next
As every wing is clipped
By a cuckoo government
who've taken over the nest
So show me back to Bedfordshire
Where I may rest my head
In the Buzzard B'n'B
back in my home
Bed stead
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
I am a sky lark
Trilly, trilly trilly
Burble, bible, bibble
Syllable, syllable
I am a rising sky lark
Higher and higher I soar
To match the pitch in my voice box
to call, call, call call
I am a sky lark rising
or buried down in the grass
Of field meadow
The syllable shadow
Hidden in the dark
Or rising in the morning
The trill, of billy, bibbling spark
Hear my song arising
Like a fountain in the park.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.
Today David Attenborough introduces
The flied pie catcher
This bird is really very fat, and as its name suggests, attracts a lot of flies
It is highly unattactive and lives by the side of the road
Outside Ginsters pasty shops mainly and other pie shops.
I like to write poetry and perform it at poetry nights. I've been writing some form of it since school years.