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