Best Wingtips Poems

The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black...

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"I heard an angel speak last night and he said "write"  
Elizabeth Barrett Browning



Did those lichen covered lips really smile?
Was it simply my imagination, 
or were her eyes following me?

Her wingtips twitched slightly
and I knew it was true:
those stone ears could hear 
every note...

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Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in 
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth –...

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A peregrine falcon masters the sky
its wings majestically arched with flair
soaring with the elements eye to eye.

In a flurry of speed, it flashes by 
serenely aloof, untethered and rare
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.

Sunlight gilds feathers as soft as a sigh
and flickering flecks ignite in...

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Standing in the wings, on the periphery

of her cultivated world, inhibited only by

station and space, my head slowly spins

into her orbit, my eye lids twitter nervously,

my titillated ears vibrate, my hands tremble,

inner being disassembles, kneeling in deep

contrition, my flattering pose, covered by

plebeian skin, without merit...

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An ordinary young man in his twenties
Working by day, alone by night
Routine lulls him to feel forever serene

Never a new dream or fantasy
Living an obligation
Making his parents proud yet nothing causes him to become too loud

Drab clothes
Make him an easy target for his many foes
Friends...

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October Sky – three haiku


#1

lightning strobes hearts
thunder uncoiling whips crack
eye stinging terror




#2

frosted exodus
wingtips warming on the fly
suns iced crystal glare





#3

cold hoar frost rainbow
saddened cornucopia
tears of failing sun




John G. Lawless
8/19/2015...

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After all of these years


This is my spot, just outside these green coffee house doors,
my piece of sidewalk, my place in this world
A small square of concrete where I try to bring smiles
to those in a hurry, hustling past, chasing their lives

Opening the case, I...

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When the caged bird sings
It tells of her story
The song will be sad
Like a dirge
A lamentation
For her plight
Of her bondage

When the caged bird sings
It tells of her longing
To be free
To spread her wings
And fly away
To freedom land
That has no walls

There she is free
To fly towards...

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Cornices, and Gargoyles with eyes turned low,
hold fast the passing in a frozen stare
as slow vapor rising from vents below
is churned by soles into thick city air.
 
Undeterred, the well-heeled leather bottom
wingtips fly past sandaled sloths at crosswalks
while clicking heels kick dead leaves of autumn
and...

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The Carcass

The best part of the meal, 
the bones, the things others throw away. 
The wingtips, the neck, the gizzard, the lizard...
a fowl needs to be cooked and stewed. 

A bit of broth, a giant onion, scallions if you have them. 
Carrots because they are...

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If you’re looking for yuletide cynicism here,
you’re shopping in the wrong place.

This is New York City’s time of year.
It’s stood the test of time and it fairly sparkles,
proving that the ordinary can be extraordinary.
With the right lighting.

Lisa’s (parent’s) apartment glitters like our promised heaven on...

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FROM THE PIT OF HELL
By R. A. Merritt

The KKK has got a new name 
But they don’t wear a robe and hood
They’re alternative right and are often polite 
Like decent people should

Yeah they wear suits and ties
And have wingtips on their feet
And many of them...

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A chilly mist hung in the air that Sunday morning in April when I pulled up in front of Harpers Grove Community Church. The gravel parking lot was rapidly filling up, and folks, nodding cordially to each other, were threading their way through neat rows...

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The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black...

Continue reading...