Best Pinions Poems
I rise from deep within the earth
out of pressured lavas
I rise above the level into
breathable realms
I rise following the risen
He who set my path and
monitors my lift lovingly
tenderly, yet such pinions
given of steeliness unpluckable
I rise for the grace of the Father,
for the loving sacrifice of the Son,
for the Spirit, all Powerful, Ever-present,
All Knowing – I rise from man's mental
coma...from delirium of his lesser ego,
from estrangement of his physical-obstinance;
climbing higher, into loftier, far brighter reality
of being...
cleanly exalted, my consciousness purified –
I rise on frequencies of heavenly choirs...
throngs of worshiping angels welcoming, wings
fanning my once fuming soul – all the while
singing Praise to Christ, man's Conqueror Lord:
The slayer of Death; the Subduer of devils
and their throngs of whispering, shouting,
deafening demons;
I rise from out under the Master Liar...jealous possessor,
once Arc of God's Most beloved till Fallen...
I rise on a divine swell of compassion and forgiveness –
carried yet higher, on upward, surging tide of greater purification,
resurrected with Divine momentum...a soaring sea of expanding
spiritual freedom...
It is Easter,
as The Risen One anointed, so shall we follow
and rise!
“Glory to God
in His Highest!”
I thought the landscape burst in sudden flame
with embers wild cavorting in the glare
of dawning sun, but boundless sparks became
a throng of monarchs flitting through the air
above a field as though on charcoal ash
that gusts of wind then carry as they gyre.
From wings illumined spread the brilliant flash
of pixie dragons breathing threads of fire
as fine as frog hair glinting in the slow
emission of the morning's creeping light
that struck the gloom with every lambent blow
until each wizard shadow was in flight.
The tartan tiger eye that draped the glade
was blazoned on the pinions as they flew
like flower petals of the clans arrayed
in Lilliputian combat on the dew.
A cadence of disheveled leaves they fell,
these butterflies upon the turrets mean,
escarpments and fay parapets to quell
the mist ascendant from the April green,
then rose again like prodigies from smoke
that came to cloak them from the murky foe,
kaleidoscopes of flutterings that broke
the cling of darkness with emerging glow.
By noon the burnished battle scene had cleared
as dandelions waved their vanquished whites,
the gleaming copper standards disappeared
and I relinquished images of sprites.
My Crumpled Wings
My crumpled wings
Quiver as pinions tremble
Bandaged by your balm
Brokenness shed to soar at dawn
5-10-22
Contest: Naani Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Joseph May
Four lines/14-25 total syllables
Syllables checked with howmany syllables
Syllable count 24
it is my lady
it is my love
and so the story unfolds
of the passions fervor holds deep
where the heartbreaks searching
for a modicum more time
between the decision does the
nightingale or lark sing
repeated over and over
an echo of the heart
spanning untold generations
when our helpless eyes fall
into that delicious abyss of love
from whence we cast to fate
the exquisite moments when lips taste
the ambrosian fruit of paradise
when arms embrace no longer a dream
we become a ship at sea
in the net of time
fair or foul weather we sail
for it is love that life survives
it is love that gives meaning
and somewhere between the songs
of birds lost in the heavenly notes
we linger in the arms of love
whether caught in the pinions
or left in the mocking bird's call
an appeal for a mate
we continue in the fault
of our stars, locked in a headlong rush
to close any separation
where continents perchance merge
where paradise erupts in appetites
that must be satiated
with every breath
life triumphs in its growth
the delicate morsel in the heaven of lips
where roses have no fear of lingering
love always asks
can i tarry here but a moment more
can this kiss become eternity
can this embrace meld
into the infinity of longing come true
one more moment of your lips
one more moment with the lavender rose
in your eyes
it is behind that veil we will learn
moments are forever
OKC 7/22
Sixty thousand pounds
One hundred sixty horses
Snorting like leviathan
On uncharted courses
Eleven feet of width
Thirty-two of reach
Tank-like tracks that crush the rock
With a metallic screech
Carving up the hillside
With the greatest ease
Playing toss with boulders
Plucking up huge trees
A tree that falls is heard
Some even make a sigh
A sound that makes me wince
I will not tell a lie
Progress can be brutal
On nature, we intrude
We like to make an entrance
Loud and brash and rude
I tell myself the openings
Make room for trees to grow
Or so I justify;
I’m pretty good, you know
Deftly flicking boulders
Smoothing out the dirt
Yard by yard he moves along
Master craft at work
It’s not for the timid
Or the faint of heart
Carving trails on mountainsides
Truly is an art
We’ve started every morning
Briefly, with a prayer
For Shawn and for his safety
And for God’s presence there
Hard to juxtapose
Stewardship, dominion:
The beauty there down in the vale,
Diesel-powered pinions
In time, the forest will forget
And cover up our scars
For now, I walk His wooded trail
At night, beneath His stars.
I always said that when I die,
I would love to return as a butterfly.
One with yellow, velvet dominions,
Fragile and lofty pinions.
I confused freedom of flight,
With a more placid folly of delight.
I fancied a short life of absurdity,
Rather than one of conformity.
Now I cherish longevity,
Grounded within ancient philosophy.
To satisfy the quench of survival,
Claim a primal, self-powered revival.
A fierce passion for more depth,
The precious treasure of breath.
Stamina and vigor from inner domination,
So I value every moment of creation.
Oh! The prehistoric sagacity,
Exempt from conceited desparity.
Replaced with the confidence to lurk,
And love obscurity's dark murk.
And still adore butterfly's romance,
Though not as a victim of happenstance.
Should the winged one wish to not feed her fears,
She can drink from years of crocodile tears.
“Wake to the chirping of birds, get elated by their songs, allow the music to settle in your heart and dismiss all defeatist thoughts. Instead of burrowing like a mole, fly high like a bird” ~ By Poet
Oh! Lovely little bird, soaring and swirling,
Sliding and sweeping, making the sky your pathway,
Possessing the poet’s soul, you make me cheerful,
With songs mellifluous and melodious.
You dive and glide through cotton candy clouds,
With dizzy spells and a spirit so buoyant.
You roam and ride through air, trusting on your wings.
You are out on an odyssey to cross a thousand seas.
With black and beady eyes, you spot everything,
And watch the world from up above.
You wear a dazzling robe of vivid bluish hues.
You have rainbow pinions and a beak so sleek.
You chirpy friend, as you sing in tuneful voice from above,
Your songs fall in my ears as midnight choir from afar.
As you warble in sweet rhythm and lovely cadence,
You tell me that sweet spring of beauty and bliss is here.
As it all once again repeats,
Retreating my soul
Into my reminiscences;
Back into my echoing laments,
I once again try to avoid it all,
I try to elude myself,
But realize that it all again
Grasps me back to the mystified beginning,
I search and search
For the “happy” past I thought I had,
For the moments I thought would sympathize,
But now it all made it seem that,
I’m living in disguise,
It all might live within me,
It all now is a part of me,
Esoteric though, to some
People it might be,
……………
Now that I know
That one’s shadow only fades
When it’s intended not to be seen,
I always close my eyes
And try to dream,
And…
Here I am right now,
Staring outside my kitchen’s balcony,
Contemplating all these birds
Flutter their pinions in
And out of an enormous tree…
It all made me smile,
It all made me leave the balcony
And go run around that tree…
Like all these birds,
It all made me flutter my pinions,
And fly…
I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Become the crimson flash, the whispered call,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
In morning mist, a pulse—my spirit's dare,
The chill of bark beneath, the dawn’s bright thrall.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
My fingers melt to pinions, fine and fair,
A beak, a crown of red, where shadows fall,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
I leave behind the weight that humans bear,
To soar above the pines at sparrow’s call.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
The world below recedes—no sorrow there,
Just wind and sun and endless sky enthrall
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
So if you glimpse a flash of scarlet flare,
Know once my heart was human, after all.
I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
‘Sankofa’ In 'Safranbolu'
This bird from Ghana’s legends flies forward looking backward
In the Twi language twinned with indigenous souls and wisdom
the feathered friend suggests to go back and get it and I suppose
some fly backwards while looking ahead but then life is not only
Chronos but 'Kairos' with the meter entwined and composed
At this precise moment not alone in this moving instant it waves
and oscillates conjoining what was and will be when the present
is the past in a flash and one cannot step into the same river again
yet the future is shaped by the past the here and now a 'Kairometer'
transcending artefacts and boundaries into ‘truths’ and reality
The bird flies and time flows back and beyond near and far
further on wings and pinions with roots at heart
In ‘Safranbolu’ the ancient Ottoman town on the Black Sea Coast
and thus close to Ghana in real time place and connection
the old man had been tending the clock in the tower both man and
the turret free standing and wise still present and one
‘Seventy years’ as he explained pendulum hands and the wheels
What memories pride mechanics precision preserved aspiration and
dignity flying into the face of the clock and the distortions of time
Mustafa had climbed those steps so often had rung the bell
oiled the time keeper had not forgotten a day of his duties
had become one with the time piece and stood still many times
in awe of monument and pacing the sleepy old town yet
he flew forward so peacefully looking back in retrospect and respect
He has watched birds history duration impermanence imprinting the
meaning of a life worthy of living in honour of what is the present
20th November in all past and future revisited
Soaring above the bushfire's flames,
astounded crows, blacker than charred
tree trunks, flap spectral wings.
Numb with loss, no caws drone out.
Wind rushes in updrafts from
the smoky heat: to rise as a vengeful spirit,
to hammer at fleeing pinions,
to witness aimless circles above coal black trees,
now absent of rough stick nests.
Suzanne Delaney
Like a tumbleweed aimlessly blowing in the wind
across infinitely open and wide prairie home companion land
(which wasteland famously epitomized by T.S. Elliot)
a barren vista ravages metaphorical landscape
of one measly mortal malcontent male
bumping and scraping along accursed habiliment
just barely avoiding and dodging diabolical demons
mercilessly and unrelentingly ready
to seduce this somewhat sanguine Simian
who finds himself amidst the pitfalls
of a tortured and twisted existence
racked with pinions describe bing
a demonic dragon filled dungeon
damp, dark, demented domains –
a veritable no man’s land
impossible to escape no matter how fast I -
as a foo fighter flee
from the fearful, fierce-some phantasmagoric forms
figments of my imagination seemingly real
tangible as bone and flesh
who haunt sacred crowded house of slumber
transmogrify me into a loathsome madman
ranting raving senseless gibberish and sic gobbledygook
perceived as metaphysically n philosophically insane
as soundgarden syllabification
from one womanly World Wide Web wayfarer
which virtual vagabond venerates vowels
and possesses means and tees to till verse
akin to a sorceress who waves a magic wand
to produce supreme sentences
weaves tantalizing terrific tweed topographic tundra’s
that this admirer of her artful and colorful poetic endeavors
prompts me to accompany my mindscape
as a thought-provoking troubadour
amidst the information super byways and highways
along winding labyrinths of critical thinking
or simply stepping o'er rolling stones
of silly rhymes without wing less reason
all the while giving subtle egress
into that chamber of secrets
long kept shut tight to maintain
that sure footed stance of solitude
whose only entities happened
to constitute trappings of literary lugubriousness
those tombs of largesse identified
as great works and masterpieces of literature
yet careful to avoid complete intimacy
lest that cherished solitude shattered
and a heart rent asunder
twin tower ring inferno imp perils of loss that provide
an understandable cautionary tale
to the author of this rambling missive
a most profoundly perceptive acute Ape man
touched to the quick with a bit of angel dust
aware that this agonized and angst riddled arboreal beast
contents himself with the confines of cyberspace!
"Plenitude"
a full circle
centre point
the dream, it
swiftly approaches
through storms
walking on oceans
like devotion
bare feet take
glass surfaces
breaking
the vigil
for the mirror bleed
part of the waking
vessel displacement
passing over rough seas
through fiery
St Elmo tempest
glides Witchfire
on the wings
of an albatross angel
like mariner mystery
delivered
through
labyrinthine
forests reflecting
great depth
from the deepening
symbols like music
Hymn believed
to be seen
the way lit
by St David’s
candles
pinions stretched
like great alms
in the genuflect
a swollen offering
the breath billows
to tranquil tempest
leviathan
brought to its knees
gifted in the anointed reprieve
here the feeding
to undertow
inessential
the shallows
dissolving
in higher vibration
a full circle
centre point
the dream closes
a small sleep
then upon
mortal coil shuffling
the scales
weighed and shed
a new time of rising
a new time of waking
the fast broken
forget hesitation
take in the lost
words like wafers to host
on tongues never spoken
reprieve
plenitude
peace
the incomplete
complete
the circle not broken
(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)
OH NO! We're all alone again.
No Master to tell us when
or even what we must do
We're all sad and feelin' blue.
Can someone give us a suggestion,
point us in the right direction
in our search for a new boss?
Without one, we Minions are at a loss.
If anyone can hear our voices
please tell us what are our choices.
Come closer, we won't bite
You won't satisfy our appetite.
Would you help in our search?
Don't tell us to look in a church.
That's not the kind of dominion
to find a new leader for a Minion.
We're not telling you lies.
Are you afraid because of our eyes?
Well, you don't have to frown!
Stop it, or we'll smack you down!
Kevin said, No. It's not good to be bad
like our old masters who were mad.
No more naughty corner for us, boys.
No more evil masters treating us like toys.
We may be little and yellow
but that's no reason to abuse a fellow.
Time to find a good Master.
One who won't make us create disaster.
YES! Let's go tell the other Minions
we've greased our brain pinions.
We'll not be 'impish guys."
Maybe those bananas made Stuart wise.
*********
They're still roaming all about
seeking a Master who isn't a lout.
Good luck, Minions; when you've found the one
keep making silly movies and having fun.
I hope the new Master they find
will be good to them, gentle and kind.
It would end their blue depression
and maybe their naughty acts of aggression.
These days those cuties of a single cell,
sometimes still raise a little bit of hell.
The Minions always make me laugh.
Maybe they'll send me their autograph!
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February 17, 2016
Minion Contest by: Silent One
Iridescence and subliminal flow has condensed within your fragrant bower,
a scene of isolated beauty that portrays the essence of all splendour and redeeming
power.
You are repose and renewal to my longing soul
which in hunger for such a sight could have stayed unrequited still!
barren and with plighted role unto my desperate ill.
Now seen suffused in the radiant glow of you, like mirrors
are placed surrounding flowers inset in your resting place or in bunches,
frieze like and still, are coloured floral showers.
They experience no passing hour, in lilac clad repose, you gift this domain
with abundant russet locks a’ spray in a cascade of feral purity
shining vibrant gleams, diaphanous and serenity proclaimed.
You exude ephemeral and delicate majesty in coalescence
with this limpid mystic scene, pure spiritual visions profound combine
with siren-like illusion seen.
Desire calls as from traces etched on heavenly walls,
reflected pinions fan-like show through emerald hued illumination
in subtle sweeps below the surface of this inviolable creation.
© Joe Maverick 21-02-2011
Footnote: I have written this piece for the Reflections contest by Constance La
France. This is a fictional write and I ascribe none of the above attributes to the
scene or character names, these same attributes belonging solely to Yahwah, the
one God manifest as Father, Son and Holy Spirit.