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Yellow Jack

 

I have a pet canary,
I call him Yellow Jack.
He has white feathers on his wings
and yellow on his back.

I love my pet canary,
I feed him every day.
I put fresh seeds into his bowl;
he pecks them straight away.

My dearest pet canary,
I love to hear him sing.
He chirps and cheeps to me each day
and even more in spring.

My lovely pet canary,
I watch him day and night.
Today I watched him lay an egg.
Oops!
I think her name’s not right!

Kristin Martin

Poem of the Day

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Words and Birds

by Virginia Lowe

 

A queue of curious pelicans

A cue of queueious pelicans

The English language

Never ceases

To amaze

And amuse

 

Mother counted sixty four

swans and pelicans

on Lake Colac once

when I was a child

in the days

when the lake

was full

before

climate

change

hit.

 

  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #7

Prompt7

Virginia says: I wrote this poem for exactly the reasons given in the poem. The memory, and amusement at ‘curious’ and ‘queue’.

 

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Who Is Outside?

by Jodie Davidson

 

I see you through the glass

I can’t hear any sound

Your feathers are multicoloured

You start to move around

 

You have funny extra toes

At the end of pointy feet

Lifting quickly up and down

To a very peculiar beat

 

When you begin to flap

Those spindly looking wings

Your beak opens and shuts

And your feathers start to swing

 

I wait for you to rise

Up high into the air

But you stay flat on the ground

And all I can do is stare

 

I ease a little closer

And softly I hear you tweet

A pretty little tune

To match your dancing feet

 

I open my small eyes wide

And take another step

I stretch my short neck forward

Then all of a sudden… ‘WACK’

 

That stupid piece of glass

That separates you from me

I’m going back to my home

I’ll watch you from my tree

 

  • This poem was highly commended in the 12th Kathleen Julia Bates Memorial Writing Competition.

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The seagull squawks speaks

by Jane Williams

 

Hey you!

You’re looking at me like

you’ve got something to say –

Well OK then

I’m up for a chat,

a chitter, a chatter,

a yabber, a yak,

a tittle-tattle

jibber-jabber,

a yammering yap.

I’m open to suggestion

on topics for discussion

Let’s communicate, confabulate,

wag the chin and chew the fat.

Let’s prattle and babble,

let’s talk, talk, talk!

But first you’ve got to learn

how to screech, how to squawk –

so stretch out your neck,

now open your beak …

wait … what’s that?

You don’t have a beak?

Beg pardon, my mistake

for presuming you could speak!

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Bird bomb

by Jenny Erlanger

 

From morning to evening its scream can be heard,

a warning to all from this dive-bombing bird.

My brother’s too frightened to venture outdoors.

He’s already suffered a scratch from its claws

and Dad has to run from the house to the shed

his arms waving stupidly over his head.

It happens the moment we step out of place,

that flurry of feathers, that beak in the face.

So, hurry up babies and fly from your nest.

Your mother’s becoming a serial pest.

 

 

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Brown Honeyeaters

By Helen Hagemann

 

A brilliant blue rising from a bronze morning

and Brown Honeyeaters are circling the garden.

 

Today, they are in the olive tree in my neighbour’s

yard, performing aerial songs (although it’s more a short

 

sharp, tweep!). Before spring, I counted two regular

visitors to our horticulture of Canna lilies, Yellow

 

Bird-of-Paradise, Grevillea, Frangipani, now there are

four! As if in concert, they dance, plunging to and fro.

 

It’s balletic, reminding you of Rudolf Nureyev and Dame

Margot Fontein in Romeo and Juliet. One of the

 

fledgelings is as graceful as Maria Kochetkova, a

Giselle fluttering her wings, thin as the veil of a tutu.

 

There’s fussing from parents, followed by a preen on

brick wall and hedge, a bird commotion of tutelage.

 

The best is their closeness, high in the branches, and now

that the young are fed and sleepy, the show has stopped.