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 men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
Categories:
wingtips, culture, film, women,
Form:
Free verse
"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 of the birdsong
and her chiselled nostrils
smelt the roses I placed in the vase
at her marble feet.
Before I left, I thanked her for watching
over my son as he slept in peace.
Jack Horne
Written 15th June for Constance’s Angels in Cemeteries
Categories:
wingtips, faith
Form:
Free verse
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 –
or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there,
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins,
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –
Categories:
wingtips, humorous, hyperbole, imagery, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
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 the air
soaring with the elements eye to eye.
Naturally nimble, graceful, and spry,
inspiring both audacity and dare
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.
Riding an invisible thermal high
it lifts me until suddenly I’m there
soaring with the elements eye to eye.
Like poetry in motion, wingtips fly
and awed by its beauty, I can but stare.
Soaring with the elements eye to eye,
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.
(Villanelle)
3/7/2015
Categories:
wingtips, beauty, freedom, imagery, nature,
Form:
Villanelle
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 or standing,
not in her purview, goes unnoticed.
Straining to capture a meaningful memento
of her regal essence, if but a quick glance,
token gesture, two or three words spoken
in jest, but, alas, no comely features with
which to attract even a passing stare.
Shriveling in her presence, my net value
laid bare. On my crown, a matted toupee,
a disheveled mound of bristled fibers.
No sterling jewelry to sparkle in her
turquoise eyes. On my wrist, a cheap
sports watch with a plastic band. My
colloquial speech contains no majestic
refrain, her delicate drums to tap, and
no rhythmic cadence, her cochlear bands
to serenade. En-wrapping my taut
form, the trappings of a commoner.
No velvet suit or silk cuffs, her refined
fingers to address; no cashmere
slacks, only a stiff pair of unpleated
Dockers to brush up against her
glimmering, polished legs. But, at
my lowly base, a pair of Dolce &
Gabanna wingtips, exuding a waxy
shine, casting an enthralling glare,
a magical spell with which to cloud
her discerning eyes, and to dissuade
her genteel mind. With one lengthy
stride, I introduce my intentions. Her
condescending eyes now peel away
my pretentious threads, and, with an
outstretched hand, beckons me to
her side, presses me against her
throbbing bosom. The lurid dance
begins, ending only after the darkness
filters the floss of my wingtips from
her dilated eyes.
Categories:
wingtips, fantasy,
Form:
Free verse
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
Categories:
wingtips, nature, october, sky,
Form:
Haiku
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 the sun
Free to embrace the wind
Caressing her wingtips
As she glides
In the open sky
Within the walls of her cage
She is shackled, oppressed
She cannot spread her wings
And freely fly
Untouched by the wind
Unbathed by the glowing sun
The caged bird withers
Till she slowly dies
From her misery
The never ending agony
Forgotten, unremembered
Without knowing
How it feels to be free
Categories:
wingtips, flying, freedom, sorrow,
Form:
Free verse
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 wind their way through crowded city blocks.
Just above a breezy sidewalk café,
sheer fabric wafts a low-loft window sill,
two pair of empty vamps and laces lay,
removed in shameless haste and lustful will.
Beneath the sheets, a naked feet affair,
entwined, aligned, with dreamy souls laid bare.
Michael F. Lewis and Thvia Shetley
3/6/2013
Categories:
wingtips, places, romance, urban, city,
Form:
Sonnet
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 bright orange...
Celery, long stalks, and short,
for the picky and tough eaters.
Simmer and boil, worth the effort,
like friendship and the kitchen sink.
It makes you question,
"Why do good cooks have so many friends?"
The answer plain and apparent.
They know how to roll dough and make bread.
Both having nothing to do with money.
Yet worth more than a fortune,
to all that need to eat,
all who are hungry.
Chicken noodle, turkey steak,
pork chops and wine in a cave,
held by the rich, while the poor starved.
Buying the votes of the country,
(is it for sale? has it already been sold?)
while holding us/it hostage...
for the holidays.
The New Year gives US(a) promises,
maybe no one can keep.
Black-eyed peas are sold out,
at the store,
in case you want more,
than before.
There will be less for all,
if they change the law,
and no president,
will ever be free...
and for the people...
again.
Categories:
wingtips, fishing, inspirational love, patriotic,
Form:
Free verse
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 high.
When we left at Thanksgiving, Michael (Lisa’s dad) had the concierge
service stressed, toting boxes of decorations up from their storage area.
When I waved my goodbyes, he appeared to be wrestling an octopus of
cool-white fairy lights into submission. Now everything glitters pyrite bright.
Our holiday time is limited—and this is our chance to unwind—so we’re
selective about what we decide to embrace. For instance, there was a sale
at Michael Kors where, no big deal, I got a pair of brogues, black
leather wingtips that’ll be straight fire with a little black dress.
The bargains were so good that I decided the store must be a drug front.
Not that I’m complaining. Do I ever complain? Nope, I’m stoic.
Like Eric Adams, the mayor of New York, Lisa and I’ve
been “testing the product” of Manhattan's club scene.
We’re searching diligently for the new and unfamiliar.
When it comes to picking which clubs we want to visit,
Charles, our driver and escort (a retired NYPD cop),
has gone as far as to suggest, we’re “out of our depth,”
and refused to let us even try one or two DJ’d, pop-up clubs
in Queens that were getting a lot of heat and likes.
“Roosevelt Avenue is the new 42nd Street,” he’d said.
What does that even mean??
Indignant silence
Anyway,
I hope Christmas finds you all merry and bright and that
your holidays—whichever you celebrate— are carnivals of food, music,
friendship and love—for those are the luxuries that count the most.
Merry Christmas! Happy Hanukkah! Merry Kwanzaa, Happy Festivus!
.
.
Songs for this:
Absolutely Everybody by Vanessa Amorosi
Rock With You by Traincha
.
.
A Christmas Playlist—because there's 4 days til Christmas
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_28.mp3
Categories:
wingtips, christmas, friendship, fun, holiday,
Form:
Free verse
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 are college grads
And members of the elite
And you know very well where they’re from
Where their minds do dwell
They’re the worse of America
They’re from the pit of hell
They’re giving each other Roman salutes
But not wearing Brown Shirts yet
But I expect they will be real soon
And be marching in Goose Step
They’re all over your city streets
They’re all over your home town
Anger in their excited voices
With faces wearin’ frowns
They don’t love our country
Though they profess they do
They in fact hate with it a passion
For the likes of me and you
And you know very well where they’re from
Where their minds do dwell
They’re the worse of America
They’re from the pit of hell
And they run the gamut
Are old age and very young
And they all walk in darkness
And avoid the shining sun
They’ve infected our country
Are a virus of wanton hate
And if we don’t cure it before to long
It just might be to late
And you know very well where they’re from
Where their minds do dwell
They’re the worse of America
They’re from the pit of hell
Yes if we don’t do something soon
This tyranny forestall
We’ll be headed for their prison camps
Or be pushed up against a wall
And no one will be left to weep for us
Or take account of our strife
Our freedom we once cherished
Will be as dead as our life
And you know very well where they’re from
Where their minds do dwell
They’re the worse of America
They’re from the pit of hell
And you know very well where they’re from
Where their minds do dwell
They’re the worse of America
They’re from the pit of hell
The very pit of hell
Categories:
wingtips, anger, anxiety, depression, political,
Form:
Lyric
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 of parked cars. Several young men, lingering over a last cigarette, checked out the strange car with the out-of-state license plate. When the last one ground out his smoke beneath new wingtips and disappeared into the vestibule, I stepped out of my car to get a better look at the churchyard.
It was much as I remembered it. The giant oak still towered precariously over the narthex. The mulberry bushes and hedging were sprouting seasonally, and faded daffodils clung to overgrown stalks. An atmosphere of unkemptness pervaded the place, but I couldn't quite determine what made it seem so. The sloped slate roof obviously needed attention.
The old whitewashed privies had disappeared, and, in some previous year, an educational wing had been tacked onto the rear of the frame building, brick and businesslike. Essentially, however, it was the same church house I had come to from the day I was born until our family moved away during my first year in high school.
EIGHTH PLACE WINNER
September 21, 2022
Submitted to "Chapter 1 Poetry Contest"
Sponsored by Matt Caliri
Categories:
wingtips, books, imagery, memory, places,
Form:
Narrative
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 men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.
Categories:
wingtips, longing, race, strength,
Form:
Verse
Mister Tom Turkey says gobble gobble
Mrs. Tom Turkey’s head goes wobble wobble
Zig-zaging through yards of grass they meet
Hen teaching her younglings 'bout how to eat
Tom gathers, his tuft dangling from his breast
His wingtips dragging, along with all the rest
Our feathers that we fan out are fabulous
A wattle hanging from our beaks are sabulous
A sign of power, we are just like the omnivores
Our relatives, are the dinosaurs- Buitreraptors
Fierceness and courage are our personality
We stroll about with our plumes, like royalty
Cocks prance ‘round like an Indian Sundance
Our totem spirit animal symbol is abundance
The main stars we are, during the holidays
Butterballs, cooked in many delicious ways
KellyBronze Birds, 16 lbs. are the Rolls-Royce
We are a source of nourishment, for your choice
As you zest us, and massage us use a rind
Of Valencia, naval, or blood orange of a kind
Try a pink, or white coarse salt as a brine
Take a minute with Chablis, a glass of wine
A seasoned cornbread stuffing of Italian sausage,
Golden raisins, walnuts and herbs freshly grown
Stuff us, seal us in foil and into the oven we're 'goin
Uncover us in the last hours until we're bronzed
Golden tan on the outside, then let us cool down
Juicy is our white meat and as tasty as our brown
When you give thanks today and put us on display
Don’t forget to show us gratitude, s'il vous plaît
We are noble birds!
Categories:
wingtips, thanksgiving day, together,
Form:
Rhyme
WINNIPEG FROM 30 000 FEET
Flight over the Lakes - turbulent altogether:
Wingtips alarmingly shaken like sticks.
In the Manitoba prairie’s settled weather
Pilot finds his clear-night city-fix.
Winnipeg’s rarely thought of as pretty;
But now working girl’s out for the night:
On starless ground twinkles diadem city -
A shining shimmering glorious sight.
We glide and gaze at her regal art -
Roads of diamonds in rows enthreaded :
O’er the star-shaped city’s heart -
Royal necklace, black velvet embedded.
Down on earth this girl’s no cutey;
Seen by heaven - she’s a beauty.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
(City of Winnipeg, Manitoba, seen around midnight from a high flying jet.)
Entered in Debbie Guzzi's contest
Categories:
wingtips, urban, , cute,
Form:
Sonnet