Long Falcon Poems
Long Falcon Poems. Below are the most popular long Falcon by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Falcon poems by poem length and keyword.
WHEN STATURE IS A FORM OF GRACE
Red hair,
skin sweet apple,
Her face like a geisha
quiet yet armed with falcon eyes
You'll see.
His nose:
sharp like a knife.
Alone, she has no friend,
was this the way she's meant to be
shadowed?
Lonely
with hurt anew
she sighs deep like furnace
with only a dolesome ballad
to sing.
For she
was different,
demure in every way,
stature becomes a form of grace
within.
She chafe
folks that bore her,
their slanderous tongues.
Have they no grace nor some respect
to care?
Actions
where life pulsates
demands each to play roles
yet still, when silence roars, hear
echoes.
Truth ~ lies
all mixed in one,
baffling the people,
leading the narrow minds astray,
wonky!
__________________________________________________
Inspired by: Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879
__Olive Eloisa D. Guillermo__
4:26 pm, January 19, 2015
Soft spoken, the small grey dove,
far below the raptor’s eye,
flew low by a naked cliff-face
and thought it good to fly
and ride the rising winds,
forever looking down
at the world beneath her gentle wings,
unaware of falcon’s frown.
Then death came stooping down
at the pale bird far below -
the fastest thing alive -
prepared the killing blow.
For to cast into the wind
the feathers of his prey,
this fleshy missile on folded wings -
another death another day.
But the dove was much too canny
and swerved above a rock
at the very final moment,
falcon hit the earth in shock.
Instant death and gladly dealt
for between these birds, no love.
The falcon’s feathers blew that day
and the blow came from the dove.
You’ve been on a long flight, dear falcon, a spirit I chased through the dead of night.
Your feathers were meant for a joyful spring, but you gave me a dream of a sharper thing.
All I ever meant was to watch you fly.
The way you rise from the seabed with a heavy sigh —
a beautiful thing with no mercy left to give.
Where the ugly and the divine are forced to compromise,
you remind me of what it costs to live.
To remind us that nature is a violent sphere,
I watched you strike the water, tearing the fish I love.
My heart bled and screamed to intervene,
but I just stood there and let it happen.
Because to truly see you, to know what you mean,
is to put myself through hell.
I know how it feels to wear a merciless beak,
to carry the weight of a maker who built you to break at sunrise.
A silent suffering, the agony they call a gift,
the wretchedness of enduring the spark stolen from a sleeping god.
You carry the titan’s curse upon your wings,
punished for soaring where the holy trod.
Dragging our tired ambitions through these ugly realms,
I forget it all over and again.
In your wings unfurled I saw a solitude I crave to know.
Teach me half the wildness that your brain must know.
I would gather your lightless feathers and jump from the edge.
Such aliveness would flow from my lungs —
even if I knew it would kill me to fall,
I would wait for you, astonished and ruined.
You are alive in a way I will never be good enough to feel.
Oh, lovely mighty falcon, scorner of the ground,
all I ever meant was to see the flight you never made it through
I am the wind-blown falcon hanging high above the bending pines
with olives ranked upon the rocks and crags, deep shadowed in the steep inclines.
Hung high and braced against clear air my quivered pinions hold me there
above the dome and whitewashed walls and bell tower on the Puig de Missa.
And then I swing with windsweep flow to hide from men my mastered show
while summer's midday heat shimmers over billowed sails and distant crystal sea.
And man reposed makes his retreat to dine in lower comfort seat below a wind-flapped canopy, cooler breezed and heavy eyed, at ease, while I again compose my hanging glide with searching eyes that see his close, I see it all below me.
Anxious and stressed and unable to breath
your heart is pumping for the peace that you need
take yourself right away for the whole of the day to a place
of solitude
of peace
and of calm
where you gaze at the birds some so rare and unheard
through a pair of binoculars held in your palm
an owl
a falcon
or maybe a skylark
the perfect panacea, respite for your heart and mind
your symmetry restored you no longer feel entwined
written 25th April 2019
HONORABLE MENTION
Contest APRIL 2019 PREMIER 9,ANY THEME,ANY FORM,UPTO A MAX OF 14
Sponsor Brian Strand
Honorable Mention
That Indian farm laborer,
Plowing, like bulls; his body bare;
Bearing heat, that burns like fire,
From tireless toils never retire...
That lady, like a skeleton,
Nation's great victim of famine;
Collecting food like a falcon
For her hunger-anchored children...
That small boy who cycles around,
Vending things for minute amount;
To see his siblings laurel crowned,
Who, like him, feel orphaned and drowned...
That little girl, like birds, awakes,
Uncaring her physical aches;
In severe sun joyfully bakes,
Sickly mother-sake her health breaks...
Thus, teachers, in life, are endless,
The truths they teach are so trend-less;
Midst universities countless,
Their simple wisdom is boundless...!
28 October 2021
Eidolon, eigne, eirenicon.
Message of peace to read at dawn.
Battlefield, fallen weaponry.
O wasp and hornet, sting swiftly.
Sciomancer, silent shades, sly.
Scissure, red fissure, scorify.
Melt down to slag and fragment fast.
Difficult? Drag it home, good ghast.
Scutiform, scruple, scrivello.
Elephant, lower tusk and go.
Aim at the vital regions? Choice.
Lachrymose legions, raise thy voice.
Prisoner, panopticon. Doom.
Volcanic lava, foul thy fume.
Inferno, corner and hem in!
Tornado, typhoon, terrapin!
Butyric, byre? Buteonine?
Bring on the buzzards. Rain, O rhine.
Rhinoceros, radicolous?
Roots fair to floss? Fain. Glitter gloss.
Katabothron, thy channels vast.
Deep underground resounds the blast.
Explosives kept beneath the soil.
O witches' cauldron, hot thy boil.
Blackening soot, blackberries sweet.
Crumble away, earth, 'neath our feet.
Fortune and Fate, the falcon flew.
Entropy, chaos, discord, due.
Mycelial bodies, mushroom.
Thunderbolt, sound the hand of doom.
Oddities here and curios.
Sweltering sun ray, how heat flows.
Very strange is the world we're in.
Weird to the ear, the eye, the skin.
Faces in pictures, half deranged.
From God and reason both, estranged.
^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
We are at the junction of the Little River and the Ottawa River,
journeying into the Canadian wilderness by canoe, the
paddles stroke slowly into the water, paddles heavily incised
with vines and flowers, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
Spirit, is a native man in a crisp white shirt, his head shaved
but for one braid with feathers, his blue leggings enthrall
me, intricate beaded moccasins are sublime, his leather
pouch and glass jewelry lovely, I think I love him . . .
Falcon, a beautiful man with raven hair falling down his back,
his feathers are fluttering in the wind, he has dangling earrings,
a red cape edged with gold threads, his beads are exquisite,
and he is telling me stories and smiling at me . . .
I could love him, and I am dipping my hair into the deep blue.
O, how can this Ojibwa girl choose, I love them both . . .
I truly do, but luckily for me this is a dream and I can love both.
^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^ ^^
_____________________
December 10, 2012
Poetry/Narrative/A Dream Comes Floating
Copyright Protected, ID 12-441-915-10
All Rights Reserved, 2012, Constance La France
Today I caught a little green lizard
He was the best one I have ever seen.
I caught him in my lizard-catching net,
He was poised, confident, polite and clean.
His vocabulary was amazing.
He used words like falcon, asinine, and verbose.
His manners were impeccable,
They would astound you coast-to-coast.
His stories caught us by our guts,
And threw our feelings in the air,
They made us laugh and chuckle
Brother Lee fell off his chair.
Tomorrow I will get him licensed,
Purchase him a red-silk-lined top hat and cape,
I will get him certified and tattooed,
The best pet I have had since Homer, my pet ape.
Today I caught a little green lizard,
I will enjoy his exotic stories day by day,
Having a pet is expensive, and wearing,
But worth it in every kind of way.
SAID THE RABBIT TO THE FALCON
****************. Aug. 31, 2020
Oh, falcon, why are you scowling? As you are
Heraldic, so majestic flying beneath the clouds,
Why do I stir you so? I am but a countryside rabbit.
Surely, it’s not because of our mouths? For
Mine is a plain, pink cross; yet
Yours has the contour artists admire as
Showing a form to meet intent in an exquisite arc.
And, it can’t be our ears, because mine
Are whimsical, admired for their flop,
Alert to the ground, while
Yours can hear the tiniest of mice lick a toe.
And, of course, it’s not our speed:
I might be thought languishing, taking
Often merely nearly a yard with each leap, while
You will swoop and consume in the half-instant
Another just like me has half-blinked!
Perhaps, your sharpened glare shoots at
Me, because you need always hunt or seek,
Dreading any rest that may find
You imperfect...thus, hungry;
Still, I may eat along any garden’s row
Or even on a tasty weed while half-asleep.
(Please note, voracious falcon,
that I said, ‘half-asleep.’)
If...if only God had made you
To crave lettuce, happy, simply, in the garden...
******************. *****************
(C) Sally Young Eslinger 2020