Poems about pigeons


№ 1187336

Your clay pigeons

Wednesday 17 December 2014

This one was beautiful. I sculpted it myself. Did you know that?
It took years and, if I'm completely honest, I was overly fond of it.
I'd made many, of course. I had to. We all had to.
Cupped, round, and smooth, heavy in my hand like a clay pigeon.
So beautiful...

Somehow it began in light,
NaГЇveto and youth.
I used to say it just felt right,
And free from all abuse.

At first it formed a perfect ring,
Of lies I thought were true.
I bring it, now, to end the thing.
I bring it, now, to you.

Because every thing must have its place,
Every thing in its own time.
This beautiful thing has failed it's need,
Inspiring only pain and rhyme.

-but may it live in memory, still,
May the growth outweigh the pain.
When pain brings growth beyond your will,
Remember fondly, this thing, again.

So why did I smile when you asked me to hold it?
Why did I find it fitting that you made me load it into the trap?
Why were the lines formed by your braced shoulder,
Your leveled forearm, your
Outstrectched, cradled hand,
So beautiful...
When you inclined your head,
Closed one eye, and,
Steady, raised your sights?

Why did I love you so much for pulling the trigger?

clay,  pigeons.

Author: wes parham
Date: 17/03/2020

№ 1167173

Pigeons at Granville Station

Symmetric shapes of forms unchanging,
Their wings beat as one to turn-
An angle to encompass the dry sun
Of which lights sable days.

But human minds, are no different.
Though each politically independent:
Believing of truths and Free; We
Are guided by inhibition and the
Need for clarity.

Circling the damp waters, they do not ask,
They tell-The river reflecting that of
An illusory image: It tells none but reveals all.
We cannot fly and though cement cannot reflect:
In our faces, we mirror actions and recollections.

pigeons,  station.

Author: Ana Kruscic
Date: 28/02/2020

№ 1166953

The Pigeons

Twenty-five pigeons are doing bong rips in my living room.
In the middle of my living room
Twenty-five pigeons
Are doing bong rips
Of weed that they bought
Off my next door neighbor
Who just happened to have some lying around.
There are twenty-five pigeons
Doing bong rips in my living room,
And they will not stop watching
Battlestar Galactica.
The twenty-five pigeons
Doing bong rips in my living room
Ate all of my Cheese Nips,
And they drank the last
Of the RC Cola I bought.
I try to get
The twenty-five pigeons
Doing bong rips in my living room
To leave,
Because I hate it when they do this,
But they just coo at me
And that shuts me up.
One of the twenty-five pigeons
Doing bong rips
In my living room
Accidentally knocks over
The bong
And spills bongwater
All over my goddamn carpet.
The bong cracks.
They start flapping their wings really hard
And shitting everywhere,
Because they're pigeons
And they're mad.
But then,
One of the twenty-five pigeons
Produces some hash wax
From under his wings,
And now there's twenty-five pigeons
Doing knife hits
Of hash wax
Over my stove,
And quite frankly
I'm pissed.
I run in
And start waving my arms
And scream,
"Get the fuck out of here,
Who let you in anyway? "
And the head pigeon drops the knife on accident,
And they all fly out of my living room
And into the sky,
All really blazed,
Leaving me here,
With a bunch of stains on my carpet.


Author: Michael Siebert
Date: 28/02/2020

№ 1163256


Pigeons are so unappreciated
Being the rats of the sky
They overpopulate the park benches
Waiting for a crumb food supply

Yet if you look at the bigger picture
Isnt our species just the same
Over populating social networks
Waiting for a supply of attention or fame

And i use the word 'species' quite lightly
Is human even an appropriate label
Because most of us are so inhumane
Compared to pigeons we are the unstable

Pigeons just want food to live
Humans live to want more
Yet we are the ones shoo-ing them away
When they are the ones who deserve to be adored

I mean yeah they seem to be everywhere
But take a minute to look around
We are the ones causing the destruction
Stuck on this filthy ground

They deserve this earth
And so do you and i
So next time you call any creature filthy remember
You are stuck on the ground as they are in the sky


Author: luna
Date: 24/02/2020

№ 1133867

Racing pigeons

There is no day
No black, no white
Hooded figures in the night
With one thing only on their mind
To find
Another vestibule and feed the fuel of their desire
Set on fire
Bound in wire
Men in dire circumstance
Not a chance
Except to die,
And now we don't ask why
But we the living
Accept that which is gone
We go on
Some in

pigeons,  racing.

Author: John Edward Smallshaw
Date: 28/01/2020

№ 1125069

A row of ten pigeons

A row of ten pigeons on the edge of
A roof while balancing their perspective
They bob their heads to be more objective
A few of course are at their beaks for love
Two among them resemble a white dove
As they fly my poetry finds motif
On my flower a few are destructive
For few minutes I look and dwell above
Suddenly a crow joins them in the row
I too am taken a little aback
Activities of the pigeons get slow
In the focus of pleasure a slight crack

Both the pigeons and crow in our thoughts grow
It's good that now the white pigeons are back

pigeons,  row,  ten.

Author: Probir Gupta
Date: 21/01/2020

№ 1082326

Sixty doves, five pigeons, and a canary

Canaries, doves, pigeons
In your image they made religions

Pigeons, canaries, doves
Both in seventeen and in love

Doves, pigeons, canaries
Scholars devoted to you, libraries.

canary,  doves,  pigeons,  sixty.

Author: September
Date: 13/12/2019

№ 1063669

Pigeons & Demons

Beggars line the busy streets
Cup and cloth outstretched
The look of desperation etched on their faces
Like the dawn shadow of a carved lithograph

They don't ask me for spare change
Just a simple nod of acknowledgement;
Even after a shower and a change of clothes
I must have their look, that broken beaten look
The look of the street.

George Square is busy today
Tourists happy clicking panoramic memories
Admiration of forced foolish bravery at the Cenotaph
A list of names they will never know
And marvel at the antiquated architecture
To later revel in the wonderment of how anyone
In a civilised and modern society can do without skyscrapers
While they grudgingly share a half-measure of a single malt

I sit on a bench that marks a families love and remembrance
To the passing of a woman named Judith
The pigeons flock in carnal mass gatherings
Knowing I've been there for 3 hours already
Because I have the look of someone who hides his crusts
Because I have the hungry eyes of the look of the street.

The well dressed man at the end of the alleyway,
The plume of carcinogen cigar smoke
Like a coal fired power station in the sunlight
This is where they go for over-priced craft ales
With Sautoed Wild Rabbit starter and Ј65 Wagyu Tomahawk Steak
A place for fine pickings in the alleyway ashtrays
Dispensed cancer sticks left disregarded
The half-finished defiance of another Ј9 packet
That was simply spare change to begin with

I hover around making false promises on a deadline phone call
Pretending in mime to be semi-OK
That the compadres are running late
And "tell me about the theatre show later"
The misdirection amid the camouflage of plastic peace lilies
While my other hand rummages the unspent tobacco
And the black-on-black door steward keeps clocking me
Because I have the look of the street.

amp,  demons,  pigeons.

Author: Steve D'Beard
Date: 26/11/2019