Fly so fast, cry for wind
Carry me between your wings
Me, me, tiny, olive skinned
Blood of beggars, blood of kings
Lost forever, never found
Roar your cry across the land
Where the road once walked and wound
Stranded in mountains of sand
Clamp your claws around my waist
‘till my harness groans and falls
You will hold my torso raised
You, impenetrable wall
No giant strong enough to win
Or to grab us from the sky
No demon vile, no sinner's skin
No Cyclops to burn us with his eye
Fly my Harpy, take our dreams
Kill the bad, the hurt, the sad
Cherish fragile shining beams
Screech seductively and glad
Fly so fast, cry for wind
Carry me, my love, your wings
Me, me, tiny, olive skinned
You and me are blood of kings
March 23, 2017
Copyright © Darren White
Copyright © Darren White | Year Posted 2017
Sitting on a wire
Why is your back turned towards me?
Do you wish to hide the intelligence of your eyes,
or do you wish to create some mystery?
I have seen you
Here at this old dump
Picking through the unwanted wanted things
I wish I could search along with you
Check out what the Jones's have no more use for
The bits of unfixed
The not new enough
Their "I think we deserve the very best"
"This ain't good enough, let's buy more and more stuff!"
At one time
I wore their discarded clothes
Wore them without pride
I should have been proud
For I dug for them with wanting hands
Hands that waded through decadence
I watched you and your brothers
As you feasted on our last suppers
Ripping open black bags
Fighting for morsels
Unconcerned with the rotting
Intoxicated by fermenting fruit
Bones that needed to be picked clean
Me noticing but not recalling until now
I was hoping
Praying for a bicycle
Desperately wanting to ride far away from here
Escape my then
My, I hope no one sees me!
"Where did you get that coat?"
"We threw that in the dump!"
Boy oh boy do I like clothes now.
No one makes fun of what I wear!
Part of me wishes to return with you Black Bird
To see what I left behind
Recycle that little boy
But I can't
The dumps aren't open anymore
It is like those old bones
Items placed in appropriate piles
All the while
You sit on your wire
Back turned to me
Intelligent eyes hidden
Knowing I can't disturb you
In a while you will feed on yesterday
For this place
Is not closed to you!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
Tell me of your peace.
Let it tell your story now
Of trials and tribulations, a tale not of dreams
Weary from a journey of self-discovery
My child, know the comfort in your peace
You feel hope in this familiar place
As it gently sloughs the pain away
Tell me of your peace
In which we all are blessed and free
Search throughout your soul sweet child
Peer not within your cluttered mind
Look out to rest your tired eyes but do not let them see
Solace found strewn upon daily thoughts is fleeting at it's best
Lasting merely moments, in untouched souls a true peace
Oh yes! You'll know when you arrive but only you will know
The world will melt away as a candle left under the blazing sun
Away away, until you feel home again, an unguided familiar scene
An innocence once lost is restored, all sins suddenly forgiven
Soaking this in with relucant ease,
Breathe it deep with a slow release
Take it in, delight in details you discover
Be calm here child, please have no fear, I am here
You are safe in this place of yours, no hurt no tears
We share not the same peace, no no
Unique to each of us, yet stranger to none
Trust in more than what you see, know beauty is within reach
We share this unspoken bond of freedom from ourselves
Please young one, listen closer now
I say, leave it all behind you love, it will only weigh you down
Cleanse yourself of careless words and careful lies
I know you're weary, let go of all you carry
Don't be afraid, here you are burden free
Trust in you, blessed one, it's easier than you believe
Sweet child, tell me now if you see
Peace resting deep within
Waiting for you
For you to let it be
Copyright © Gabrielle Charisse | Year Posted 2013
Looking all around me and becoming more aware,
Of the people and surroundings at which many children stare.
I come to terms and realize the acts of hate I see,
And now I fear that this same scene will soon envelope me.
Walking on a lonesome road, though crowded it may seem,
I pass through silent hordes of people hushing silent screams.
Beside me standing hand-in-hand, an older man and wife,
I wonder if they thought like me, what happened to their life.
I reminisce now further back before these broken days,
A time of wasting food and drink and dressing different ways.
But now we all look just alike in tattered grays and browns,
Drifting through these damaged streets and sporting matching frowns.
I thought we'd left the two world wars and poverty behind,
To linger in our broken books and fill an older time.
A time where death would cloud the world with sorrow and disease,
And fear would plant itself within the innocent with ease.
This made me think and look around for Noah and his arc,
And for the first time since the night I heard a flustered lark.
I quickly turned around to spot within a child's hands,
An injured bird whose time had brought it here from other lands.
The child stole a piece of thread from a redbreast robin's nest,
And wrapped around the ailing bird a splint so it could rest.
An hour past the lark took flight and answered to the wild;
The only resting place of hope is in the bright eyes of a child.
Copyright © Elaine Ho | Year Posted 2007
It was birds Yes Ducks !, Mallards no less
Flown down from Alberta that made this great mess !
I tried to stop them though I shivered in fear
They flew right on past me and landed right here.
They surrounded your cupcakes like an army brigade
and attacked them they did not a one could be saved !
Frosting was flying from the mauls of their beaks
cupcake crumbs scattered all around their webbed feet !
And when they were done and finally flew out
the leader duck threw the last cupcake in my mouth !
I tried not to eat it but it was stuck to my lips
I guess they were just hungry after their long trip ?
Copyright © Randall Conklin | Year Posted 2016
“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”—Psalm 34:18 New International Version (NIV)
Little sparrow, what troubles thee;
is it the stigma you face?
Little sparrow, what pierces thee;
is it the shame of disgrace?
Is it the brokenness in your heart,
or the sorrows you can't outlive?
Is it the anguish that sets you apart,
or the hurt that holds you captive?
What befalls you
is neither unfelt nor unknown;
God cares and calls you
when you're cast out and all alone.
God will never forsake you
in your time of need;
God will never permit you
to suffer or bleed.
02/19/2014; for "TO HEAL A HEART" Contest
Copyright © Ngoc Nguyen | Year Posted 2014
They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
Some take a child for angels, some for birds.
How much is it worth with the child’s face?
I’ll tell you now and rest my case!
Who can resist the charm she casts?
Who can foretell how long it lasts?
Who can reject the smile she gives?
Who doesn't like the life she lives?
Who can refuse to play with her?
Who can’t be kind? Who can’t be fair?
Who doesn't feel the words she says?
Who can translate or paraphrase?!
It takes a child to learn these facts!
It takes a man to grasp such acts.
This tiny child inflames our pride.
This shining pearl remains inside.
And comes out like a rising tide .
Copyright © OMAR JABAK | Year Posted 2014
Bursting with luck
Dragons dancing in the street
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
Reflections of imperfections
have shown me a way
that I can move mountains
through my power of faith
even though I can't see him
I know he is real
through the power of prayer
and a Love that I feel
It's growing inside me
like a flower in bloom
shall I reveal my powers
or is it too soon
I am reading the signs
through my darkness I find
a reason for belief in
the light of mankind
that I know shall overcome
the greatest of odds
the Love I seek amazes me
especially through the flaws
because now I am inspired
through the hero's that bring
my throne through the darkness
on which I return on as your King.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013
‘Do you like Pigeons Dad’
“They’re scummy things
They’re Rats with wings
They’re vermin of the sky”
‘That can’t be right Dad’
“They pilfer seed
They breed at speed
And harbour disease you know”
‘Are you sure dad’
“Since the Rock Pigeon flew
And ended up in a stew
Since their domestication by men”
‘But I like Pigeons Dad’
‘I like how they sing
I like the shape of their wing
So you should like them too’
“But I don’t like Pigeons Son.
Their walk is bizarre,
They crap on my car
And they’re really not that clever”
...they wake me in the morning,
With their delightful coo,
Their plumage is wonderful - an iridescent blue.
They look good in the garden Dad
They don’t make such a mess
Do you like Pigeons Dad?’
[This poem was the result of being asked this question many, many, many times by my son. My son is on the autistic spectrum - he has Asperger's Syndrome to give the official diagnosis. He is a lovely human being & I love him dearly. But one of his most irritating traits, is the fact that he asks the same questions continuously all day every day. No matter how you respond, the same question will be posed minutes later. Currently and for at least the last 2 to 3 years: 'Do you like pigeons daddy?' is his favourite/most frequently asked question. Now that you know that, perhaps you can really feel the exasperation in that final ..."Yes"]
Copyright © David Sollis | Year Posted 2013
Through a school window,
I watched a bird fly.
It landed on the window sill,
and we stared, eye to eye.
I thought, Oh little bird,
change places with me.
You study geography
and I will fly free.
Copyright © Darlene Gifford | Year Posted 2014
On an open road through the driving rain
She drove fast and deadly like a hurricane
Sad yellow stripes in between white lines
Covered cold dead flowers and some valentines
Her baby grows and her mother cries
A painful evelution right before their eyes
She left him bleeding as the future glowed
From a dying past down the open road
She fights the lions as she curse it all
The men the drugs and the alcohol
The radio dj makes it all look good
With songs about love and of motherhood
She saw her future going down the drain
Her baby's tears feeds her growing pain
A blade in the night and the bad blood flowed
Down in the gutter on the open road
A big black bird at the top of the shelves
Judging what they all did to themselves
With fingernails growing like a raven's claw
She will never see what the big bird saw
Like the drugs of the dying like a martyr's faith
There was light in the dark but no open gate
She hunted the keys to the secret code
As she watched him fade on the open road
Copyright © Steinar Gismeroy Olafsen | Year Posted 2014
Big blundering beast
Poor fish have no chance whatsoever
Neither does the slowest runner in your group
Copyright © Smail Poems | Year Posted 2013
The peaceful, humble beauty
of a white lily drifting on reflective night
hums a sweet melody
of contrasting light.
Trusting the darkness
to be his throne
and the moon of loneliness
to crown his soft, unheard moan.
I watch from bushes of scorn
that mock him cruelly.
His fragile crest is pierced by the thorn
of rejection and bleeds its sorrows silently.
The rejected jewels of nature are mourning
for the king of the skies to raise his wings
but he can't see beyond remembering
and can't see past the thorn's stings.
Oh, scarred heart of grace,
spread strenght and flee with wild freedom
unto priceless solace
away from this desolate kingdom.
Oh, jewel in creation's crown,
look not to stirred reflection
for it is mere perversion, a frown,
of the white rose of perfection.
Go now, leave behind only
a legacy of despised beauty.
Copyright © Robyn Thomas | Year Posted 2013
by the seashore
open your eyes
and you shall see more
of the world's magik
in front of your face
why oh why
would I ever replace
the memory of that foamy sea
crashing onto the shore
while the seagulls are laughing
with the children once more
who feed them with eyes full of wonder
to their curious delight
seashells from dead oysters
shine of the moon's pale sea light
as they mate like the birds and the bees
my sea kisses the sky when it rolls with the breeze.
Copyright © Bj Fard | Year Posted 2013
Larks parched on power lines
seem hoards of drowsy sheep.
Soft eyes of child with tears
sparkle with stellar gleams.
Moon climbs on crimson clouds
like squirrels climb tall trees.
Fireflies descend from clouds,
children think they are stars.
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2016
Important chicken poetry coming up,
though no binary fantasies shall deconstruct
into raucous biddy enjambment.
Grandfatber always kicked Grandmother's chickens away
while he sat whittling under the Oak,
Those ruddy, Cherokee cheeks sweating even in the shade
as sweltering Carolina summers and bifocaled
old women melted him away in his seventies;
(Nothing heard by telephone,
cackling when he put the speaker to his mouth
or laid down to rest from the planting or harvesting,
On the flowered sofa
fussing with him to take off this boots,
putting The Liberty News under his feet);
But watching was Grandma's joy,
Haystack Calhoun and the Nature Boy,
wrestling on Saturday night
on the Philco black and white,
jumping up and jumping down
fists flying with each takedown;
Her fussing when he kicked her chickens--
He was a man of the Land not of the Leghorn;
Course he still cut off their heads for
with a whistle of his axe,
quick and clean;
So much better than Grandmother's
Flung blood and feathers,
The live body's flight
After wringing its neck.
Must take chickens seriously.)
my brother and I hated that rooster!
I'll give you Mean!
Why that Leghorn from hell,
with the perfidious, featherless rear,
That wily old bastard,
laid for us kids from under the porch
flying at us spurs first
when we snuck out to play.
You had to admire his fierce
Protecting his brood
or just plain crazed for children's blood
Therefore, I must insist
That you take chickens seriously.
The greatest chicken lit will not be televised,
but written by neurotic poultry
flirting with free verse
or thrown helplessly into concrete idioms,
wallowing in dirt-poor sentience;
on the identity crises of Rhode Island Reds
and the propensity of White Leghorns
to transfer insecurities of undifferentiated
as violence enacted on certain small children
will be written but will probably not help chicken poetry endure.
I pledge allegiance to the celebration of chicken poetry,
And the underappreciated poultry for which it stands,
One species, flightless but enduring,
With free range and corn for all.
Copyright © Thomas Martin | Year Posted 2015
I once joined the procession of colors and lost my heart
Till a wave colors distilled through night knocked me down dead.
Besides the mountain, the midnight festival of colors is on.
Lying in my arms you imagine your blood is burning in my veins
I am only listening to the chariot of the queen joining the revelry.
I knew you were being vain when you came to see me
I did know when your heart missed a beat. For the air was my friend.
And the tiny bird building its nest in the rafters of my roof
Did not bring a straw as long as you talked.
You never said bye. For you wanted me to do that. But I had no time
And kept riding on the wave. The storm is not away. What if I fall.
Tomorrow I will be lying in these shores caressed to sleep by a smiling sun.
I don’t have the time to forget you in the endless expanse of this blank night.
Last night’s sun was but a spot hewn out of the tragedy of the heavens.
A tragedy that survived the ages to live in my heart in fire and smoke.
You keep away while I create my pieces in these desert sands. When I proceed
To give them the finishing touches, you shriek in despair. For you think
I am going to spoil the lovely piece of some great master with my clumsy hands.
Tomorrow is the illegal child of today abandoned in the dark.
I end up at night and my child is born at night, having passed
Through the summer that seared my skin and heart.
The cup of sorrow is never full, so there is no overflowing.
Yesterday we witnessed the winter night breathing its last.
Winter was in lament for the little bird that went up but never returned.
I bear no gifts for you. I know not your names. I know not who you are
But I recognize you without mistake against this backdrop of misery.
I come here with my empty bag to gather the drops of your sobs
And consign them to the flame in my mind leaving your smiles behind.
For: Catie Lindsey's Free Verse contest
Copyright © S.Jagathsimhan Nair | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
Hey little horn, where are you born?
Hey little horn,
where are you born?
Hey, little unicorn,
do you eat corn?
I'm a narwhal and want a treat
do remember I can't stand too much heat
I am very sweet and clear
and I don't fear
BECAUSE I AM A NARWHAL the great
Copyright © Manasvini Kolavennu | Year Posted 2015
Bird, bird, when would mother come back?
The pumpkin leaves is dying and our
Compound is filled by spilled blood.
Would mother ever come back again friend?
Would there be more blood in the compound?
Father has fallen, Nkechi is gone and
The future of those living is blank.
The shrine has be dismentled and the
Walls of the compound has fallen apart
And I am all alone, alone in tears.
Child, child, mother won't be coming back.
She had gone with the breast milk and smiles.
Leave the pumpkin leaves for her own trouble
Having what matters at the time it matters is
The best child, hold those tears for your beloved country
Until the end of time in death before dishonour.
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2015
I am just the dreaming child of a king who resides in the heavenly skies above. The only thing that I have ever wanted to do was help people who were in need by building hospitals, bringing food, clean water, and promoting the recovery of lost dreams.
The only thing that I the dreaming child of a king desire to do is bring a smile to a downtrodden face, mend a weary heart, and remove the scars and cuts from someone's beaten and contrite heart before I depart from this earth now that to me is my true life's worth.
I the dreaming child of a king paints a picture with words to show that my heart is a heart of love, I also paint a picture to show those who have never met the dreaming child's soul that it is a soul that aches to help the dreams that were once lost be achieved again.
Destined to destroy dreams that was not what I was put on this earth for I was created to help those lost like me find their way back to Heaven's door. I was not created to shed other's blood, scar their hearts, or make them weak I was made in his image so me being the dreaming child of a king he is the only thing that my dreams and I truly seek.
I lie awake with the paint brush of my dreams in my hands using many colors and painting many dreams from different lands whether rich or poor the only thing that my dreams and I desire is to be like a free bird and finally soar. Being the dreaming child of a king haunted by his sins, forever trying not to fall into the pit, the only thing that this dreamer desires is to one day hear the words well done and as a result my sins will no longer cause me to run.
Copyright © Charles Hill | Year Posted 2014
I'm tired of people saying that soups only for the poor
I have tons of money just lying on the floor
Sometimes I come home to a nice bowl of soup
Even though I'm considered in the "Rich group"
If I have a bowl and a spoon
I'm out eating soup under the moon
And guess what, I ain't no hobo
Neither am I a homo
When I eat soup, I feel like I'm in love
I even gave it to my fat stupid dove
See anyone can eat soup man
Not like the rich can't eat it, it's not banned
I'll kill someone for a can of that soupy delight
heck, I might even tonight
Well I guess I've made my point
So calm down and go smoke a joint
Because soups also for the rich punks
I ain't no munk
Go get yourself something to eat
Maybe a hamburger or some other type of meat.
Copyright © Sloppy Joe | Year Posted 2015
I love the book you gave me with birds on the tree,
Grandpa can I say something, please listen to me,
It is not about the chocolates, but what I want to be,
I want to be like a bird, fly up in sky and feel free,
Can you buy a pair of wings, I know you will agree.
March 30, 2016
Personal Memories-Monorhyme - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Laura Loo
Copyright © Meenakshi Raina | Year Posted 2016
An elusive pedestal amidst the lights darkens the lounge
And many drink with a glittering eye of scorn
And the snickers only make the room spin faster
And indifferent fingers fashion you forlorn
But you can't help but notice that strange caster
There upon the sofa
That impossible being feeding off her little bird
Flings a silhouette in the brittle blight
Every sickness is now blurred
It looks upon you before taking flight
Copyright © Sam Blake | Year Posted 2015
Every child deserves parents but
Not all parents deserve a child.
Men on assignment don't die,
The moment you fade, memories fades,
Paradox fades but its only those things
That has eternal values remains valid.
Come with me little African child,
Come with me, mother and father had
Ran away, they saw hardship and poverty
And they zoomed off leaving you here.
I shall take you to a new world, come with me,
Let us fly up to heaven to enjoy life.
No mother bird! I can't go with you.
My tradition taught me to always protect home!
Africans always protect their own, they don't
Run away from their problems.
The land we are running to was built by another,
Why should I run there leaving my home?
Although mother and father has gone, I will
Not leave my fatherland because of poverty!
Cowardice is not of a true African believes.
Mother Bird, go for I belong here forever.
(C) John Chizoba Vincent
Voice Of Vincent 2016
Copyright © john chizoba vincent | Year Posted 2016
A Blackbird seeks out
another bird’s weakness,
(fly nest, die nest,
you’d better get away to another)
Sparrow, why did you throw away your egg?
Now you beg,
but I know that
you’re marrying the Blackbird
(give the word: scurry, hurry,
find another home)
Then a peck, claw (what’s the law?)
Make another egg
for the Blackbird
(chase an egg, make it drop away
to the black day)
Another fell away.
Copyright © Garth von Buchholz | Year Posted 2016
As black birds, bad luck shadows us,
For we have many personas like trickster
Or ill-omened out caster, cast away
No matter how our broken speech sounds.
Our mere presence spark uncomfortable discourse.
How many chances can they take with our lives?
I’m cursed, within this unnoticeable room,
Where my only odds are fight or flight.
Except, my wings have been clipped, so it’s pointless.
Still, I’m dubbed as the freedom fighter,
And yet, I remain locked in a steel cage.
My sanity splits into delirium.
Fear burrow ever deeper into my fragile soul.
Anger begins to throb inside my once gentle heart,
When the sadness starts clawing at the darkened pupils.
All the while, the hunger instills its own painful symptom.
So, I peck, I claw, I snap at the lock,
While screeching the dialect, everyone forgot.
As one of them, I am voiceless.
A handful of grain is tossed in, with little care.
Above, the water rains down from the silver jug.
This occurred, till one hand unlocked it.
I struck her— blood had trickled down.
I clawed— I struggled for the sweet scent of freedom.
I hopped—I hopped from that oppressing cage.
Willingly, I followed her out of the devil’s domain…
Never to return.
Copyright © David Ferguson | Year Posted 2017
Little bird, little bird
open your eyes and play.
Spread your spotted wing
But don't fly too far away.
Little pup. little pup
Whine though you may
Pudgy little play thing
Rest your little head, it's all ok
Little kitty, little kitty
Meow meow you say
Drink all your milk
Purr purr purr all the long day.
Little fish, little fish
glub glub glub in the bowl you stay
Swimming in circles,
Round and round so happy and gay!
Copyright © Deborah Foster | Year Posted 2015
A story this is that most certain will please,
A tale of a girl by the name of Louise,
An unusual child with unusual knees
Who whistled “Too-WEET” and sat in the trees
And spoke to the sparrows and sang with the bees.
When her mother and father cried,
“Where is Louise?”
She simply ignored them and swung in the breeze
Till her parents said, “Oh, what an awful disease,
That our baby Louise must sit in the trees
And speak to the sparrows and sing with the bees!
Louise, Louise…we’re on our knees!
Oh please, please, come down from those trees!”
But little Louise, with a snort and a sneeze,
Tears on her elbows and tears on her knees,
Taunted them like a terrible tease,
Saying “Cross the rivers and cross the seas
But you won’t ever get me out of the trees!”
And so our Louise who sat in the trees
And spoke to the sparrows and sang with the bees
Stayed there till the day (or the night, if you please)
When the birds picked her up, and away on the breeze
Flew the little gray sparrows
With little Louise.
Copyright © Garth von Buchholz | Year Posted 2016
The door felt it was better to stay open
And let as much air as possible come in
Along with the air the handsome grin
Of the fragrance we left in childhood
We have to pass down-to-earth day
Job and home and job and job again
Silky birds do come and call all in vain
Woods and hillocks are quite far away
The other day the yellow taxi called me
But I lacked in responding adequately
The bird felt wounded and flew away
The nest wept alone the whole day
Nowadays the doors are insisting
To be left open to receive letters
Mails and calls that keep ringing
Getting rid of rubbish fetters
The doors are restless to let the air in
And take a deep breath in lifting the chin
Copyright © Probir Gupta | Year Posted 2015