A Poem For My Friend Angel.....'bout Birds....[Nature observations; Personal]
I enjoy seeing birds at our backyard feeder,
And, from bushes and trees, hearing some birds that 'tweeeeeter'.
Tiny black seeds attract finches, which have the name ‘gold'....
Who flee from grey juncos which are larger and bold.
Flitting chickadees and 'tufted' titmice, from feeder, eat seed,
While, on the ground, sparrows, towhees, and doves often feed.
They scatter when a blue and white scrub jay flies by,
Or when, overhead, a prowling hawk they do spy.
Waxwings and robins come to pick some nearby berries.
'sorry birdies, ....we have neither grapes nor red cherries.'
Ravens, vultures, and gulls pass high in the air, while
Bushtits and 'hummers' come closer to my chair.
I don't see all these birds every week, but.....i've seen more,
And some non-feathered friends pause, not far from our door.
And when around me i see no animal creatures.....
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poem by Bri Edwards
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Homage To The Turkey......[Humor; Holiday Food]
Carmi suggested this poem paying homage to a bird,
but first I had to consult a book to get a definition of that word.
'Homage' definition #2 is 'special honor or respect....publicly' shown.
Is the special honor therefore having ones flesh cut off ones bones?
Perhaps instead the honor comes in being 'served' with ceremony
at Thanksgiving, when a turkey's status soars above that of baloney.
As a kid I'd join for holiday feasts with assorted kin,
and await the carving of the naked headless bird with the golden skin.
Hours in a hot oven, accompanied by periodic basting,
produced a festive centerpiece which was well worth tasting.
And from its drippings gravy was made to drench potatoes yummy,
and cooked inside the bird was spicy stuffing, soon to fill my tummy.
And when the bones were stripped of meat, with none left for the flies,
I'd seek out the wishbone, the potentially-lucky prize.
So here's to you, the Turkey, who Ben Franklin thought much of.
We hope you rest in avian peace, when you reach Turkey Heaven above.
poem by Bri Edwards
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God And The Gas Pumps...........[religion; creation; short]
Now I'll bet God never pumped gas into a car, nor did He check the oil.
It's hard to believe He ever worked at any gas station doing manual toil.
And yet I've thought of a link that binds gas pumps and the Man Above.
The same Guy who sent the flood to Noah. Noah's the one who sent out a dove.
It matters not whether you believe the Earth is billions of years or only thousands of years old.
In church, as a boy, I learned God made all things. That's what I was told.
He was all-powerful according to the minister. He didn't need long to make stuff.
He could have put pools of oil underground and waited patiently, sitting on His duff, .......(take any dictionary definition of "duff" you please) ...to see how long it would take for parrots, or wolves, or men to pump it out.
Or he could have let Nature form petroleum from decayed fragile grasses and trees most stout.
So remember...., your electricity at home may come from wind or solar power or coal.....,
but most of your cars run with gas created SOME HOW by God, the Guy who gave YOU a soul.
(Nov.2012)
poem by Bri Edwards
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From The 'Other Side' Of The Binoculars.....[Nature; Birds]s
Our lives are not our own so much like two hundred years ago.
Instead we're watched and photographed as we travel to and fro.
Sometimes we're captured, tagged, and measured…..but luckily released.
Sometimes we're confined, on display, even at times when we're deceased.
Nothing's off limits about our lives for those who want to know.
Where we go in winter, how we build our homes, how we catch a beau.
True.....some of 'them' have provided some of us with shelter and some food.
But much of what they've done to our lives....... has been downright rude!
Tall structures and trucks and planes....kill us when we travel.
Drained wetlands, cut forests, and poisons cause....some of our lives to unravel.
We do get back at them a little bit, ....from time to time it's true.
We sometimes snatch a sandwich from them, or on their heads we poo.
We may wake them up at 4 a.m. with early morning chatter,
or dig holes in their wooden house siding.....while making quite a clatter.
We eat some of their fruit and grain; that is also true,
But what we'd really like to do to them is.......put them in a zoo! !
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poem by Bri Edwards
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What Makes Bri 'Feel Good'....[Personal]
I'll start with what makes me feel good, this windy, rainy night:
A recently showered and shampooed body; a 'clean shave'; electric light;
A moderately heated room; making rhymes; ....a sated appetite;
A kind and caring wife who 'forgives' me; underwear that's not too tight;
Being retired from post office and being paid for staying home;
Having good enough health; still having hair to brush or comb;
Getting under down comforter on our marriage mattress of foam;
Seeing lots of kinds of birds when outdoors i do roam;
Trimming annoying branches over sidewalks where i walk;
Keeping in touch with special friends via email or phone talk;
Finishing home projects using nails, shovel, or caulk;
Seeing 'attractive' women...though at them i don't gawk;
Giving a helpful answer when someone asks directions;
The yummy taste in my mouth...when i eat confections;
Deciding who to vote for in the upcoming elections;
Not needing, at age 63, to maintain 'too many erections';
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High School Clubs And Other Activities.....[Personal; High School]
-
Back then I joined two clubs where my main interests did lie.
Biology Club: I was surrounded by girls. My, my!
We saw local prehistoric bones on museum trip.
Conservation Club: At North Street pond, I think we nets did dip.
Varsity Club was just for guys. Sorry girls. Whoops!
One could get nice jacket if one was good at track or hoops.
Honor Society was for 'good students'. You know the type.
Perhaps, like other human things, it was a bit of hype.
I know there were many 'clubs' in which I did not partake.
In one girls and boys could shoot. In another they could bake.
Foreign languages and music interests were not ignored.
Hobbies and sports were pursued and future jobs explored.
There were social clubs for just one sex. I don't know what they did.
To join, did club invite you, or did you have to make a bid?
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poem by Bri Edwards
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What Makes Bri Feel Bad....[Personal]
I don't mean (by 'feel bad') unruly, criminal, or mean. I mean disgusted or disappointed, or somewhere in between.
It bothers me to see a person littering, but I still get through the day. If I think someone is wheeling a store's cart home, I really want to say:
'Did the manager give you permission? '.... It seems like stealing in a way.
I feel a little disappointed when the ice cream in carton is finished, and when old age causes a person's quality of life to be diminished. Of course I can buy more ice cream, though Aki may say 'no', and people really can limit how many years...they have left 'to go'.
I feel bad when I'm misquoted, when people try to 'put words in my mouth.' I actually manage to say enough 'bad things'...all by myself. I feel a little 'bad' if an [unnamed] woman complains.... when I raise my voice. I think it's a common trait of many men (Evolution?) : ...do we really have a choice? ?
So now I've told you some of the things that....can make me feel 'bad'. I tried to think of more things but couldn't, and that makes me feel very glad.
{Well, sure there are more things, ……but why dwell on what upsets?
Perhaps the more one dwells on positive things, ...the better one's life gets.}
(2-3-12)
poem by Bri Edwards
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A Bored Apple Seed............[Humor, i hope]
While sitting in our screen house I spit out one apple seed.
You'd think it would be grateful since from my mouth it had been freed.
But no, you ungrateful seed. Instead you turned and looked at me,
a frown upon your face, indeed!
You landed upon a white-painted floor plank, a few feet from the ground.
From there you saw trees and grass and bushes all around.
Perhaps you wished you had feet so you could find a spot, to sprout your stuff
instead of sitting idle, a seed without a pot.
[Or maybe you spied my bird feeders, stocked with sunflower and nyjer seed.
To them the titmice and chickadees, and goldfinches come to feed.
Could you possibly wish, if you could not sprout, to be eaten by a bird,
and vanish until the bird poops you out? ]
Where you landed it does not get wet, so you cannot reach the soil.
You look now so unhappy; I think your apple anger is about to boil.
I suppose the least I could do is give you a big kick, and knock
you off the flooring, onto fertile ground to grow into a stick.
[But I DIDN'T and now another week's gone by.]
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poem by Bri Edwards
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Silly; Religion: Rich Man Vs. Ghost
honest 'scrooge':
The rich man said 'I care not to breed; time's too valuable to sow my ‘seed'.
Money's my own evil, like cotton has its weevil.
All I really care about is greed.'
rich man is warned:
To rich man one eve came a tall ghost. Said the foretelling ghost to his host:
'All money you can save you can take to your grave,
but in Hell you'll still be scorched toast.'
ooh! scary ghost (not) ! :
Rich man to ghost: 'You're not so clever. You'll find I have no panic lever.
L. R. Hubbard did say 'rich men, live for today;
Scientologists live forever'.'
ghost retorts:
Ghost to rich man: 'I have discovered what became of your L. R. Hubbard.
He told a mighty tale, but his beliefs did fail….
to keep him out of the Devil's cupboard.'
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poem by Bri Edwards
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I Wish I Had Been Born A Bird...[Personal; Birds; Humor]
My parents were both humans, so I am human too,
but I'd wish to be a bird, if I could be born anew.
Though I 'love' birds, you may think my wish absurd.
But more absurd wishes I'm sure you have heard.
Of course I'm not a bird and never will be.
But if I could talk to birds I could better see
if the life of a bird would really satisfy me.
Eating seeds and bugs and such, and sitting in a tree.
My bird of choice? How would I pick a winner?
Not a penguin, who has to dress for dinner.
Not an ostrich, another flightless bird.
And a strutting peacock might just be absurd.
Perhaps an eagle, soaring high above you,
or a hummingbird, acrobat of the blue.
Or perhaps a mighty swan swimming gracefully,
or a nightingale whistling a concert, free.
For certain I would not choose a caged-life,
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poem by Bri Edwards
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