He was mighty as could be venturing down by the sea,
revered as the king soaring over his golden throne-
He was respected yet felt neglected and could never see,
all the beauty he held and sadly felt so lost and alone.
Self-respect, he had some but always searched for more,
he sought no prey, for he saw himself as the target-
The game that he played, he knew not what for,
and blamed his spiritless life being bought on the black market.
The depth in his hazel eyes showed remorse for his poor behavior,
his long beak, razor sharp to slice his heart from sorrow-
For so long he took flight searching for a savior,
but never saw the beauty of flying away to escape tomorrow.
A honey-hued tail with feathers to be respected,
should hold passion for freedom, yet held chains of regret-
He felt he could never live up to the standards expected,
see, when your different you have tendencies to forget.
Aviation should be sought and trajectory should be taught,
for the mounts beauty needed him to soar nearby-
He felt he was nothing but an apathetic Red-Tailed Hawk,
even though he was created to freely fly high.
One day his talons were hanging off the edge of a cliff,
he knew how low he had become and filled with self-pity-
But all he deserved and craved was a windy lift,
but ended up plummeting into the depths of the sea.
His wings could not move and his claws could not grasp,
for no longer could the remorse fill his soul with fire-
His final descending flight had been flown at last,
plunging downward into nothingness was his last desire.
There’s no evasion or escaping when your beak can’t talk,
even when you’re a lonely majestic Red-Tailed Hawk.
This poem is about my sister who took her life 12-31-10. Her favorite animal was the Red-Tailed Hawk. She was always so beautiful, mighty and well respected. She had so much to live for yet found herself worthless. She thought of herself as the "prey", as opposed to searching for things in life she deserved and needed to survive. She craved deep love yet found deep sadness. I always looked up to her and saw her as this mighty woman carrying the strength of a hawk and she saw herself as a tiny bird cold and alone in the wilderness during the cold depths of winter. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to live through. Even though it's been six years, her death haunts me daily and she is one of my greatest inspirations for my poems. If only I could have filled her with more love and compassion maybe she wouldn't have fallen off that cliff like the Red-Tailed Hawk. Her beauty was evident to everyone around her, yet she felt she was not worthy because she was a lesbian. Her life was so hard because of that and to me that is very sad. I feel that you should be able to love who you want to no matter the race, sex or beliefs. Unfortunately, many people do not agree with me. Her life was a constant struggle and in the end she just couldn't take the pain and ridicule anymore.
I love my sister more than I can even comprehend. She was my best friend was my rock during the hardest of days. I know where she is now...she is happy and free. She is soaring high with all the hawks spreading her wings as far as they can spread.
Blessed be to all the people who struggle with depression and mental disorders. Life is short and there is help out there. Believe in yourself and love yourself for who you truly are.
My morale of the story...
Beauty is in all of us. Our majestic souls should take flight to the highest of heavens daily. Freedom to be who you are should be embraced not looked down upon.
A Natural Metaphor Contest
January 19, 2017
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2017
Oh sea of love!
How bitter the mem'ries I have!
This place reminisce the pain
Of not seeing my love again.
Your birds up high
Remind me of his goodbye.
Your water so deep
Makes me yearn and weep.
So let your breeze blow,
And dry the tears that flow.
Let your waves take away
The griefs and sorrows that stay.
Oh sea of love!
Erase the mem'ries I have!
Wash them out of the blue,
Take them away with you.
Copyright © Flora Mae Gudez | Year Posted 2013
The romantic poets were too early to postulate total atheism,
And so freshened up the church by aligning god with nature,
And I believe they had a preference for nature over god or theism,
Because they never posit him as social with high, tall stature.
Keats says that the nightingale exemplifies nature as active,
As bestowing upon all human beings meaning, sense and worth,
Since the bird’s song objectifies how nature truly is effective,
Fulfilled by happiness, and aimed at contentment and rebirth.
Nature triggers in us thoughts and words to settle and allure,
Offers us our language to dispel pain and find the cure,
And Keats contends that poetry, the credibility of its form,
Epitomises what nature proffers, a receptacle rather warm.
When you feel awkwardly suicidal with nowhere else to turn,
Nature lullabies you into your own sense, one you can rip and burn;
No controlled access freeways, no road signs for your safety,
Only soft, quiet communication that's never guilty of brevity.
Just as nature is beautiful, so Keats claims people as beautiful too,
As he uses the word beauty right in the middle of his nature exposé;
He referred to flora, the moon, the stars, the forest and what seems true,
Tnat song of the nightingale that's for anyone, as this bird is not choosey.
He suggests that light or positivity in nature means movement,
That the soft breeze dispels the gloom and mossy pavement;
Quantum physics does reduce matter back down to interactive particles,
In which kinetic energy can be mistaken for minuscule, motionless articles.
His mentor is the nightingale as part of nature’s whole,
No minister or clergyman to advise him on his soul,
Stillness and bird song scent his poisoned air surrounding,
And it is all but for the silence of that beauteous music, astounding.
Nature does not irritate him when he surmises and introspects,
But upholds itself in majestic grandeur with unquestionable prospects;
It speaks about life, your life, your daily happenings and exotic dreams,
And forever exists for us when sense is just not within our means.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
I Love You Bird
Becca's Inspiration Waiting Contest
Sponsor: craig cornish
As I sit delaying any action until something else happens, I am reminded of that day you left.. I said good bye and didn't know it was for good, if only I could've had more insight. There I was dropping you off at your destination...me kissing you goodbye, you telling me...
“I love you bird”.
You were the only one who called your baby sister bird. I drove away. Too far to keep good watch of you, too close to not feel you closing your eyes. Such tired eyes you had. Exhausted and defeated from everything this world couldn't offer you, sweetheart. I sat by the phone~minutes~turning into~hours and when days had passed, I was still.....waiting....for your phone call. Surely, you would have called me if you were in trouble, surely I'd be right by your side. I swear, I sat in that exact chair every night for three months just..waiting for your phone call. Waiting is a funny thing, you see, seems so slow as each minute passes, and oh my, how long three months really is. March 17, 2011 I finally got the phone call. They had found you broken and torn and your eyes had been closed for awhile.Stuck in the snow so cold and alone.. My waiting was finally over..I had the answers I needed as soon as I read your letter. Nightly, as I sleep with your bear, I wait all night long to hear you whisper in my dreams...
“I love you bird.”
Date Written: January 26, 2016
Copyright © Laura Loo | Year Posted 2016
The poetry I write seems harsh
it seems sad and powerful,
sings songs and pslams to the sorrowful soul,
sung its song in the past of sorrow in all.
The poet's blood flows like champaign
on a wedding day of young couples in love.
Champaign that flows like rivers and streams
in the green plains of Mid West America,
and the poet writes about the land and the bird
that sings afar in a tall, old oak tree
thick at barch with experience and age.
The soul burns and cries out to be freed,
yet sits and reads poetry till the crack of dawn
in an old apartment house on the second floor,
and the rats run along the walls, and the cockroaches
in cerial boxes,
with shotgun in lape and cocked, ready to fire,
one in the chamber.
Whiskey in the lungs,
and whiskey on the ground,
in the hand
and upon the feet
of a sorrowful soul, filled with pain
and age, age full of tender love that never was discovered
by any naive soul.
One time the clock ticks and tocks,
echoes rings in an empty mind,
that echoes the sorrowed mind and tortures the pale soul.
One pull of the trigger,
and the sound of an explosion of faint silence
and a smile on a face of a dead man is shown in the light,
and watch the blood flow on the white pannel wall,
flowing like champaign on a beautiful wedding day.
Two weddings and a funeral...
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
She's been feeling alone for way too long
Her childhood dream was to fly
She's wondering if she can
Make that dream come true
She goes to a building
The tallest one she can find
She looks at the sky and the birds
She can't wait to join them
So she jumped
She missed one small detail
Humans can't fly
So now in the afterlife she followed her childhood dream
She's flying with the birds you see
And with that being said
She was finally happy
Copyright © Kyleigh Henderson | Year Posted 2015