Homeless Bird Quotes

Kill two birds with one stone, feed the homeless to the hungry.

I may name the title of my next duck quotes book: “I shit where I want.” The cover will feature ducks, but inside the book I may sneak in a few photos of homeless people in San Francisco.

You never knew what to expect with Ingrid. One minute she could be sawing the locks off Pierpont's freezers; the next, providing shelter for the homeless birds of Switzerland.

I see time flies, when birds flew to their nests The wind is blowing wild; but never mind They keep flying towards home for a rest. I wish to fly along with them,don t know where My home is no more.. and nobody waiting... When everything seems as gloomy and grey All i recall is the smell of my beloved home.

As the director of one of the agencies providing free mental health services says, the Audubon Society spends more time, care, and money counting birds than we do counting homeless people.

The kind of music you listen to influences who you are as a person. That’s why I make my own, with the help of the birds, the breeze, and a homeless man named Dale who lays down the rhythm by beating on a metal trash can.

After a month my thinking processes had so changed that I was hardly recognizable to myself. The unquestioning acceptance by my peers had dislodged the familiar insecurity. Odd that the homeless children, the silt of war frenzy, could initiate me into the brotherhood of man. After hunting down unbroken bottles and selling them with a white girl from Missouri, a Mexican girl from Los Angeles and a Black girl from Oklahoma, I was never again to sense myself so solidly outside the pale of the human race. The lack of criticism evidenced by our ad hoc community influenced me, and set a tone of tolerance for my life.

I see time flies, when birds flew to their nests The wind is blowing wild; but never mind They keep flying towards home for a rest. I wish to fly along with them,don t know where My home is no more.. and nobody waiting... When everything seems as gloomy and grey All i recall is the smell of my beloved home. - Raigon Stanley

Somewhere in this world, the tides are rising high and washing away the negative tides of curses that bind my life. Somewhere the sun is sprinkling some glitter on the ocean’s surface, and in the same place, a bird’s feather is gently floating in the wind. Those thoughts alone give me faith because I know somewhere in the world what I imagine is happening precisely in that order. Therefore, I know that hope and faith do exist, and the impossible is possible.

That was our first home. Before I felt like an island in an ocean, before Calcutta, before everything that followed. You know it wasn’t a home at first but just a shell. Nothing ostentatious but just a rented two-room affair, an unneeded corridor that ran alongside them, second hand cane furniture, cheap crockery, two leaking faucets, a dysfunctional doorbell, and a flight of stairs that led to, but ended just before the roof (one of the many idiosyncrasies of the house), secured by a sixteen garrison lock, and a balcony into which a mango tree’s branch had strayed. The house was in a building at least a hundred years old and looked out on a street and a tenement block across it. The colony, if you were to call it a colony, had no name. The house itself was seedy, decrepit, as though a safe-keeper of secrets and scandals. It had many entries and exits and it was possible to get lost in it. And in a particularly inspired stroke of whimsy architectural genius, it was almost invisible from the main road like H.G. Wells’ ‘Magic Shop’. As a result, we had great difficulty when we had to explain our address to people back home. It went somewhat like this, ‘... take the second one from the main road….and then right after turning left from Dhakeshwari, you will see a bird shop (unspecific like that, for it had no name either)… walk straight in and take the stairs at the end to go to the first floor, that’s where we dwell… but don’t press the bell, knock… and don't walk too close to the cages unless you want bird-hickeys…’’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

For the first time in my life, I felt I could truly see through God’s eyes and feel what He felt. I could see the homeless and feel the sting of reproach in which they lived their lives. I could see my brother striving for acceptance and love from my father and feeling the pain of his constant rejection. I could see the popular girls at school and feel their emptiness and desire to have more than outward beauty. I could see creation—the flowers, the birds in the air, the smell of the morning dew—and feel the joy of my Father in heaven delighting in His creation. This compassion was definitely something I had never experienced before until my commitment to follow Christ.

So much of what we dream flickers out before we can name it. Even the sun has been frozen on the next street. Every word only reveals a past that never seems real. Sometimes we just stare at the ground as if it were a grave we could rent for a while. Sometimes we don’t understand how all that grief fits beside us on the stoop. There should be some sort of metaphor that lifts us away. We should see the sky open up or the stars descend. There are birds migrating, but we don’t hear them, cars on their way to futures made of a throw of the dice. The pigeons here bring no messages. A few flies stitch the air. Sometimes a poem knows no way out unless truth becomes just a homeless character in it.

Permission Granted" You do not have to choose the bruised peach or misshapen pepper others pass over. You don't have to bury your grandmother's keys underneath her camellia bush as the will states. You don't need to write a poem about your grandfather coughing up his lung into that plastic tube—the machine's wheezing almost masking the kvetching sisters in their Brooklyn kitchen. You can let the crows amaze your son without your translation of their cries. You can lie so long under this summer shower your imprint will be left when you rise. You can be stupid and simple as a heifer. Cook plum and apple turnovers in the nude. Revel in the flight of birds without dreaming of flight. Remember the taste of raw dough in your mouth as you edged a pie. Feel the skin on things vibrate. Attune yourself. Close your eyes. Hum. Each beat of the world's pulse demands only that you feel it. No thoughts. Just the single syllable: Yes ... See the homeless woman following the tunings of a dead composer? She closes her eyes and sways with the subways. Follow her down, inside, where the singing resides.

Woodpeckers are natural engineers whose abandoned nest and roost cavities facilitate a great diversity of life, including birds, mammals, invertebrates, and many fungi,moss, and lichens. Without woodpeckers, birds such as chickadees and tits, swallows ans martins, bluebirds, some flycatchers, nuthatches, wood ducks, hooded mergansers, and small owls (screech, saw-whet, and pygmy) would be homeless.

Dear Earth, I hear you whispering in my ear. The crisp breeze is telling me a story, and I am so intrigued. The breeze and the gentle wind are telling me that you all are lucky. I agree with them because you have a mother who cares deeply about you so much! You have four seasons, and Mother Nature takes her time to prepare you for the changes to come in such a gentle and comfortable way. I imagine her smiling as she gently pushes the leaves as they dance in the wind. She caresses the leaves while they slowly turn different colors as they change, falling calmly. Fall harvest prepares you for the winter days ahead as you peacefully sleep. Spring awakens you from your well-needed rest. You joyfully bloom with so much grace while the bees playfully enjoy the flowers and the birds sing as the sun rises. By the time summer comes, you are wide awake, enjoying the extended daylight. As fall peacefully tiptoes in, you prepare yourself for a new and prosperous year to come. Unlike you, all four seasons in my life are always heavier, year after year. Every day of my life is filled with uncertainties. I am free-falling, not knowing where I am going to end up. Although everything is closing in on me, I keep going. Most times, it is hard, but I try to keep a little hope and press on. However, when things do not work out accordingly, I replace hope with a higher perspective of fear and uncertainty. As I admire the soul of the earth and the Grandfather Tree, I am confident that I can try to believe again. We shall see. Longing to be the soul of the earth.

the fox has a den and the bird has a nest only humans go homeless

The most astonishing, countercultural truth in the kingdom of Jesus is that love and acceptance have zero basis in worth or accomplishment. A billionaire in the Upper East Side in New York City is no more worthy of love and acceptance than the schizophrenic homeless man sleeping in an alley in the Bronx. Before any of us build a business or declare bankruptcy, before we earn a PhD or drop out of high school, before we establish a soup kitchen or star in a porn video, we are equally loved by the God who shows no favoritism. Our personal success does not attract his love, nor does our failure expand or contract it. The God who is love loves us indiscriminately, passionately, furiously. That love was on cosmic display when, atop a Roman tree of crucifixion, Jesus became the millionaire and the addict, the nun and the stripper, the newborn baby and the wrinkled octogenarian. All humanity—with its sores and wounds and twisted souls and barren lives and evil-infested pasts—he became, that all humanity might become, in him, resplendent in the eyes of the Father.

Vagrants huddled in doorways, their hands tucked into their armpits, hats pulled down low, like sleeping birds. But they were city birds, dull in plumage and faded into their corners.

I heard a story about a homeless man who was often hungry, cold, and tired. He was in poor health and had no family to love him. Although this man often had to find scraps for himself to eat, he always fed the birds some of what he had. When asked how he felt about being homeless, he replied, “I have air in my lungs and I’m grateful for everything I have been blessed with. I am especially grateful for three things: I’m alive, I have the ability to love, and I have my beloved birds.” This is a pretty amazing story. This homeless man was more thankful for the very little he had than most of us are for the abundance we enjoy. We should let his example challenge us to grow in this area.

Swallows   The peppered sky chimes in the key of swallows. Arcing northward from Central America, dual citizens of the torn world, though native to the unity, wonderful yet I find myself dispossessed of wonder. Like the birds, we all sleep under bridges of one kind or another. When the core competency of a culture is strategic judgmentalism many things go rancid into the mean and meaningless. The routines set in, the procedures, the long, slow death-drone of sameness. The occasional lone hawk feathers up a bit of mild novelty here and there, then gets wing-clipped by celebritism, homeless in a cage. If my faith was real, I would abandon my luxurious pursuit of a mythopoetic identity and go fetch water for the dying. We are each and all the dispossessed if one child stands at our gates unwelcome.

It was a reasonable request: Pigeons prefer dense urban settings, and they congregate in open spaces. It’s exactly the same environment favored by the mentally ill, drug addicts, and homeless people. I suspect that some of the disgust we feel for pigeons is associative. We’ve grafted our feelings about human outcasts onto these birds because they share the same spaces and hang around waiting for handouts. Perhaps we’d feel differently about pigeons if we were better at dealing with our own species.

Wild Plum" They are unholy who are born To love wild plum at night, Who once have passed it on a road Glimmering and white. It is as though the darkness had Speech of silver words, Or as though a cloud of stars Perched like ghostly birds. They are unpitied from their birth And homeless in men’s sight, Who love, better than the earth, Wild plum at night.

Pigeons prefer dense urban settings, and they congregate in open spaces. It’s exactly the same environment favored by the mentally ill, drug addicts, and homeless people. I suspect that some of the disgust we feel for pigeons is associative. We’ve grafted our feelings about human outcasts onto these birds because they share the same spaces and hang around waiting for handouts. Perhaps we’d feel differently about pigeons if we were better at dealing with our own species.

was commanded, in a dream naturally, to begin the epitaphs of thirty-three friends without using grand words like love pity pride sacrifice doom honor heaven hell earth: 1. O you deliquescent flower 2. O you always loved long naps 3. O you road-kill Georgia possum 4. O you broken red lightbulb 5. O you mosquito smudge fire 6. O you pitiless girl missing a toe 7. O you big fellow in pale-blue shoes 8. O you poet without a book 9. O you lichen without tree or stone 10. O you lion without a throat 11. O you homeless scholar with dirty feet 12. O you jungle bird without a jungle 13. O you city with a single street 14. O you tiny sun without an earth 15. Forgive me for saying good-night quietly 16. Forgive me for never answering the phone 17. Forgive me for sending too much money 18. Pardon me for fishing during your funeral 19. Forgive me for thinking of your lovely ass 20. Pardon me for burning your last book 21. Forgive me for making love to your widow 22. Pardon me for never mentioning you 23. Forgive me for not knowing where you’re buried 24. O you forgotten famous person 25. O you great singer of banal songs 26. O you shrike in the darkest thicket 27. O you river with too many dams 28. O you orphaned vulture with no meat 29. O you who sucked a shotgun to orgasm 30. Forgive me for raising your ghost so often 31. Forgive me for naming a bird after you 32. Forgive me for keeping a nude photo of you 33. We’ll all see God but not with our eyes

Odd that the homeless children, the silt of war frenzy, could initiate me into the brotherhood of man.