rooster close up 


One of the neighbours’ chickens

has turned into a rooster,

poor bastard,

he’s sure to get the chop.

No place for a rooster in suburbia it seems,

the city by-laws are quite clear on this,

their raucous clarion calls considered

a nuisance and noise pollution.

Meanwhile every day

(and weekends are worse)

I listen to a pandemonium of revved up garden tools,

lawn-mowers, whipper snippers, leaf blowers,

buzz-saws, sanders, polishers and more.

No more the gentle snip snip snip of leaves,

you have to have a 40 horsepower chainsaw

to trim the oleanders.

Overhead jet planes submerge the whole neighbourhood

with the dull rumbling wave of their roar,

Petrol-heads rev and screech down the street,

police and ambulance sirens blaring follow them,

Meanwhile the helicopters hover in the air,

news, hospital and fire-ant patrol,

they’re all there.

Mate, I haven’t even mentioned the student parties yet

and the continuous subterranean thump of the bass

vibrating through all structures in a 500 metre radius.

And amidst all this cacophany

of the inner suburbs

some soul-less dried up bureaucrat in a suit

has decided that roosters are noise pollution.

 Rooster 1

Personally, I like to hear

this raucus rural voice ringing through

the neighbourhood

His brave, brazen Call of Life itself

crying, “HERE I AM” lifts the spirits.

He’s still an adolescent,

so his voice breaks half the time

mid-call, but he keeps practising

(and practising and practising)

Fool, I want to warn him,

every time you do that

brings you closer to the chopping block,

play like Achilles and hide amongst the women.

But like Achilles, Glory calls him,

and he strides forth to battle

and lets loose his clarion call

so that all might know he is there.

Poor stupid bastard.


He’s very protective of the chickens,

whenever there’s a fuss he runs

and checks to see that all is well

with his girls.

Now I worry, like the fool I am,

about his well being;

We hatch wild plans to kidnap him

and take him to a refuge in the country

where he can live out his days

strutting around a friendly farmyard.

No point trying to negotiate

with the neighbour,

relations are frosty at best,

if he knew we were taking an interest

he’d probably kill it quicker.

Oh well, I’ll probably have to wash my hands

of the affair in the end

and tell myself yet again,

“you can’t save every rooster in the world”.



Cocka-doodle Doo!

Cocka-doodle DOOO!

Rooster 2


Sad Jpig


and for those in the Reverend’s vicinity..

Poets Breakfast posterJPIGwith border



The Reverend Hellfire is a practising Performance Poet and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism AND the Church of the Universe. He is also el Presidente of the Kurilpa Institute of Creativity Inc.

Shoots his mouth off first, asks questions later.




~ by reverendhellfire on August 25, 2013.

4 Responses to “ROOSTER”

  1. Love the poem, Hellfire! My sympathy is with the rooster!

  2. After I got over the rising of the gorge that always occurs when I ponder the stupidity of bureaucracy, I began to sing that racy ditty from the 1968-69 broadway musical , Canterbury Tales, “I Have A Noble Cock”—–love that one, and I am a woman! Thanks for amusing my Sunday morning.

    • Glad you enjoyed it Cynthia. Unfamiliar with that musical alas, but I’m guessing the song is based on the anonymous medieval poem “I have a gentil cock” which is quite saucy in a tounge in cheek sort of way.
      “Achilles” is still strutting his stuff but sadly I heard people plotting his demise today.

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