Best Wing It Poems
this breathless wind befalls tonight
a whispered voice upon my ear
an angel stands within the light
its wing it spans to catch my tear
my soul it speaks so it can hear
a tale of pain in mind alight
it offers comfort when it's near
then slowly spreads its wings in flight
I get so frustrated with the voices in my head
They seem to tell stories when I'm ready for bed
They sound so amazing I should write this all down
But as soon as I locate a pen I don't hear a sound
Tell me the story repeat it again
I'll write it on paper and share with my friends
I try to remember but to no avail
Papers get crumbled because memory fails
Frustration seeps in I almost give up
The voices are asleep so I'm just out of luck
But then I remember just one little line
The rest I just wing it to make the poem rhyme
Do we read newspapers
Or ignore the world?
Do we vote
Or do we complain?
Do we ask questions of elected officials
Or are we complacent?
Do we right a wrong
Or remain silent?
Do we stay
Or do we go?
Do we sing
Or do we dance?
Do we run or
Do we walk?
Do we study
Or do we wing it?
Do we listen or
Do we yell?
Are our stomachs firm or flabby?
Are we smart
Or are we stupid?
Do we even care?
WRAPPING IT IN PURPLE
-For Prince
Black onyx handsome,
Small is beautiful,
Soft campy creature,
Definite in feature,
All chiseled, boned,
Talents honed,
And used for a king's ransom.
A royal purple mist,
Rained down on fans.
A thousand in the cast,
(He's never going to last).
Sing, Hip hop, do yer dance,
It's really yer last chance;
And maybe you'll be missed.
Let's do! Let's go crazy!
Count sheep, fall asleep,
Red flag, Swag dance, Sweet feet!
Tap it, Rap it, on a side street.
Keepers, weepers, of the dark,
One chance to make yer mark.
Sigh or sing, no time to be lazy!
Speed of light, day or night,
You know time can't be defined.
Check it off, count loves,
Hope you hear the cry of doves.
Yer wanting all yer extra time,
Kiss it in yer billboard climb;
A nanosecond dove in flight.
Burning up your axe,
Ending up an icon,
Pay your ticket, seeum,
In Hollywood's museum.
Paisley is the handle,
Stiff, dripping like a candle,
Just a manikin in wax.
No birthday's, no gray, or wrinkle.
In purple paper, wrap a lost chord!
You float above a cherry moon,
Wing it, sing it, it's your last tune.
Spirit vaporized, name that's canonized,
And all your data to be analyzed.
Precious purple, a periwinkle sprinkle.
Always cry for love, never cry for pain;
Elevé, do rise, caught up, surprised!
Don't stare sleeping there,
Death upon the stair.
No liquor, no last flicker,
No barcode, no heart quicker,
An April snow has left you sleeping in the rain.
By Edlynn Nau
© April 23, 2016
I was board and i needed something to do so i went to work to develop a plan now i am writing poetry for all my fans. I wrote about this i wrote about that i even wrote one about my cat. Most of the time i just wing it being a good poet you got to know how to bring it. So all your fans will like it and will not want to sling it and fling it in the trash or burn it and choke on the ash. Not all poetry is about being happy and having a blast. Some poetry may bring back memories from your past. I was board and needed something to do so i went to work to develop a plan now i am writing poetry for all of you my fans. Most of the time i just wing it just like i did this one. So i hope you don't fling it and sling it in the trash or burn it and choke on the ash.
They call me Mr. Quick Fix.
I’m everywhere, in every school.
Over 400,000 of me in classrooms across the country.
Yet there’s minimal data on my effectiveness.
For this reason, among others, some call me Mr. Quagmire.
Here I am, the “least qualified, lowest paid” providing the “bulk of instruction.”
On top of that, I am rarely supervised, barely trained, and minimally vetted
While at the same time considered the “first, primary, and…only support response” for the student .
My student’s father calls me Mr. Godsend.
Distrusting of the school staff, I am his child’s protector
From any negative judgement bestowed upon the child by peer or adult.
The direct pipeline of communication often goes through me,
Not the head teacher, who sometimes refers to me as Mr. Why Didn’t You Tell Us That Earlier?
Some even call me Mr. Anything. Or Mr. Wing-It.
One day I may work with small groups beyond my assigned student.
Other days I’m creating lesson plans with no oversight.
I try not to question these practices, or lack of policy and procedures with regards to my role.
Everyday is a bit of chaos, and I’m just trying to make it a doable day like everyone else,
Helping wherever I can, however I can.
That’s my job, right? Right?
A Georgia country preacher stayed up to prepare for his sermon all night.
He put the outline on a notecard to eliminate any oversight.
It was going to be a doozy, and he couldn’t wait to preach that morning.
He was on fire for God, his pure heart full of yearning.
He was tingling with anticipation thinking of the day,
And stayed on his knees most of the night to pray.
Sunday morning dawned a day of perfection that God had created.
He headed to church with his wife and children, and felt elated.
God is so good, he thought in awe… he hoped someone would be blessed.
When the time came for his sermon, he pulled the notecard out of his vest.
He wanted to get the show on the road, but then he stopped in his tracks,
For when he set the notecard on the pulpit, it fell down between the cracks.
He had no way to retrieve the card, and he momentarily panicked.
He decided he had to come clean with the congregation, and not be frantic.
He said, “I had a fantastic sermon prepared, but my outline has slipped between this crack,”
“And I have no way of getting it back!”
The congregation roared with side splitting laughter.
The sound could be heard above the rafters.
So he decided to wing it without the notecard,
And poured his heart out before the Lord.
He did an outstanding job, and my Mother was so proud.
She praised God, and shouted aloud.
She told him later, she didn’t know what the congregation enjoyed most,
His sermon that had fallen between the cracks, or a message of which he could boast.
THE BARBERSHOP QUARTET
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
A Capella joviality, with torquing wrists, snapping fingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Dapper in their pinstripe suits, hats — Delmonico brand.
Sweet Adeline, drawn out. My Adeline — peaks, lingers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Choreography matchless with their sugar-cane wands.
One by one they tap and score with lighthearted zingers.
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Bass, lead, baritone and tenor glitz altogether stand,
Impressing the country stage — these polished singers.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand.
Differences overlooked, blend of ringing chords command.
Friendship in angelic voice, grooming of youthful wingers.*
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
Brothers in harmony, gathering precious social sand.
Through time, the dusty chair spins and memories linger.
The barbershop quartet, mustache brushes in hand —
Bristles foaming, silky white and smooth, voices grand.
4/25/2018
*wingers - I am using to describe the new set of kids who
practice “wing it”
Sweet Adeline written by Richard Gerard
Sent down from Heaven, their jobs are sure tough
But they don’t fly away when the going gets rough
They rise to the challenge to bring back wonder and hope
Failure does not happen in their line of work
Cuz’ Angels, no Angels, they don’t sing the blues
Angels sing strong from the high mountain tops
Sometimes it’s a rock song to wake spirits up
Sometimes it’s a ballad when babies must sleep
Or a love song in country that just makes you weep
But Angels, no Angels, don’t sing the blues
They work behind the scenes to enlighten world faith
Always there when you need’em, our Heavenly base
They make house calls to heal another broken heart
Gatekeepers to the soul, they lighten the dark
The sky is the limit as only Angels can know
When times are a troubling, their first on the scene
Not afraid to help out or even dirty their wings
The tune that they dance to, comes from Heaven above
Giving rhythm and gospel to everyone they love
Cuz’ Angels, no Angels, they don’t sing the blues
And you know Angels can’t read music,
but they sure wing it well
As they learn from the Almighty,
Who swings with, the heartbeat of humanity,
From Heavens high hill
Angels sing strong from the high mountain tops
Sometimes it’s a rock song to wake spirits up
Sometimes it’s a ballad when babies must sleep
Or a love song in country that just makes you weep
But Angels, no Angels, don’t sing the blues
They just don’t sing the blues
No, Angels don’t sing the blues
Angels don’t sing the blues
However you understand Love
it is not easy, it takes guts
it takes courage
Love does
It eats you, if you're not careful
you can be love, be loved
love and loved, you can be
You can take it, bring it,
like baggage, but can't wing it
it will test you to your limit
Love will
If you break before the dawn
of wisdom in your head
you lose some but love remains
Constant,
always in all ways
Love is not easy.
The house is quiet again at last,
A week of fun and mayhem past.
Our visitors now are safe at home,
We sit and rest, together, alone.
Our dear friend Val came first,
Always a treat to have as a guest.
Left us a gift, we are still in awe,
Instead of selling, gave us her car.
Daughter Samantha came next,
along with her husband John.
They came in like a fresh breeze,
Settled in quick, soon at their ease.
Their holiday started the very next morn,
We did so much in just seven days,
It seemed like they'd been here always,
Like Val before, they left us in a daze.
Daughter Emma has booked to fly in,
Bringing our grandson Dominic James.
He's our four year old tornado
So in December it's fun and games.
Tracy and Barney not coming, that's a pity
This year they're off to Dublin's fair City.
Next year we pray we are on their list,
A holiday in Cyprus is not to be missed.
Until then we have been given a task,
No sitting on the patio having a bask.
John's left orders that are quite explicit,
Every Wednesday we have to wing it.
Wing It Wednesday, it has to be seen,
We've got to go where we've never been.
New restaurants to eat, new inns to drink,
A very nice challenge to make us think.
So while Hotel Timperley is without a guest.
We shall pick up the baton and take the test.
We have an Island we have not explored,
On Wing It Wednesday, we will not get bored.
© Dave Timperley 11 May 2015.
It's raining like dog gone it outside
I can just see all the mothers say "oh dear"
Happy Mother's Day Moms
You all have done such a great job
rearing your youngs through eighteen
and sometimes even longer
Always willing to lend an ear
and so ready with advice
God didn't give you a book
when He sent us your way
Yet you are able to wing it
And wing it you did
You rear up your youngs according to the way
you think you should
We turn out just
FINE
young and dandy
pompous, forgetful
conceited - yet you love us
We turn out
DECENT
because of you
You give us qualities, traits
that are now part of us
What do you need now?
But to hear from you
You never need anything
ask anything of us
except to love you AND to listen
Haha you got that
Even when we appear not listening
our other ears are perked up
- our inner ears
Yes we are so intuned of what you say
that far after it has been said
we can still hear it
Yes we love you, Mothers
And today we salute you
for getting the troop in gear
for feeding and clothing us
for giving us patience and a willingness to care
for instilling in us what are now inside of us
And that is patience and kind
Virtues that you are the champion of
Happy Mother's Day, MOMS
Okay have a good day
Have a good day because the sun is shining
Have a good day because I am smiling :)
Have a good day because all you've done can't be done
Have a good day because Jack hits the road and never comes back
I mean Jack's a.
Lol
Have a good day because I say so and know so
Do I?
You bet
Have a good day because today is your big day
There is no other day like today
Today is the day you live, breathe, and take on fresh air
Today is the day your money is made and is on its way to the bank
Happy that you are saying it out loud
Happy that you are doing it out loud
Love, live, give
Would love if you can sing it
Would love if you can wing it
Would love if you can spin it
Deliver it, man!
Twing
I met the vampire just as the Sun set
this would be an adventure I just bet;
Fable was already waiting for me
she said ‘This is the start of your journey.
Now how do you think that this will begin?’
‘Well’ I said ‘Maybe I just count to ten.’
I smirked as she just stood there quietly;
Being hateful was fun undoubtedly;
‘There is a little more to it than that.’
Fable snickered ‘Please do not be a brat.’
‘Now come to me and hop into a sprint.
Pardon the pun but fly up and wing it.’
Into a run and suddenly flew high,
I took off into the amethyst sky.
Like a mess of hooting school kids freed for vacation,
They come honking and scolding
Long before you see them they come honking and scolding
Hidden from sight by leafy trees,
They are loudly scolding, urging, bragging,
“Get flapping”. “My turn to lead.” “Your turn to lead. “Let Fergus lead,”
I imagine.
When at last overhead I can see them and they are honking, without rhythm.
Honking, and forming lines;
A long line at first, a perfect line,
Then a splinter slides astride
And two perfect lines form, a skewered vee.
A flying wing it is now, yawing left, and then yawing right,
Sensing the wind’s direction, its velocity,
Looking for a helping wind. Looking for a lift.
And honking and scolding.
They pass behind more leafy trees and they are gone,
Still honking and scolding,
Still searching for the streaming air.
And going southward.