Long Feathering Poems
Long Feathering Poems. Below are the most popular long Feathering by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Feathering poems by poem length and keyword.
to black bear
to black bear, cub, or lair
i really dont care
nobody likes days of dawn
being treated like a pawn
you do see
so lovingly
only your point of view
and not the minority, or of the few
who's voices do make sense
but your afraid to see, hence
your darkening tunnel
with a widening funnel
your bricks in a wall
taking a tumbling fall
you need to think
and not blink
at voices that do make sense
and not refute such as nonsense
your words feathering his nest
very classic at best
i say no to the games you play
like pawns on a board you slay
like the back stab with what you did to me
where i was suppressed with no voice to plea
connie pachecho
1/15/17
More often, this soul stretches
farther than the breath of a moon....
and through jaded eyes,
I saunter on the ledge of woodland,
past time's curfew and sharp lacerations
from kin's betrayal : a wanton walk
glazes the ripeness of cherries----
that such pageant from susurrus of woods
weaves a new , disparate tune.
I twirl along pebbles and sand,
kindling night's liniment
glorious as the slow climb of dusk...
this shard of pain spewing a wanton blaze
--radiant like a celestial star rising
from chambers, healing my ache
and waking pewter stones
while I half- slumber in a lull...
and I wrap my navel in soft linen,
the flickering, feathering night
differently cloaked in such nourished balm.
--I must be changed, my world honoring piety,
a lesson on life's lesion imbued through
the fragrant balm of my long , journey's song.
Some say Love is everything
Some say love is nothing
Of course, if one has never been loved,
never felt such warmth from another;
absent the caring nearness of a dear
mother, father, sister or pal-of-a-brother
not been taught by nurturing family
but, in fact – of love deprived
then, before lived,
to one's buried heart
love has already died…
It is not, necessarily, that one’s heart
has never sincerely desired though not tried,
but the painting of his world
his experience has so lied
any chance for developing
empathetic features --
his nature has been cruelly
deprived –
therefore,
before the feathering brushwork of him,
his portrait of love
has already cracked, peeled,
unrecognizable~ dried….
Sometimes things lost
are never found: that sand-castle
on beach, adult, sunny, encouraging
faces, painted by the sun
like a silly made-up clown --
Somethings lost, are never found
Some couples meant to be
are never joyfully bound
by faith in cherished sacrament
of marriage...Cupid and his trusty
bow left sadly to disparage.
God has His
Heaven, and the Devil
our misguided low-some hell
before learning to soar~ man fell
the joy of loving stopped
before started – and the Spirit of
Love, yet brokenhearted….
First light’s cracking, night still grips,
to the blacktop rider's gleaming wings.
Wipers thumping the old two-by-two beat,
Tyres hissing down rain-slick street.
I’m breathing deep, holding on tight,
Shocks are pumping; the ride's just right—
Every curve’s whipping like a river bend,
When will snake tail flipping ever end?
Tail-lights ahead bleed a molten red line,
In the white-line channel, headlights shine.
Breathing steady, but knuckles are white,
Shocks are screaming, pumping with delight.
Feathering the brakes to tame the slide,
Drifting close to head-ons on other side.
Cones like ghosts go spinning wide—
Can’t avoid them; I'm cutting them aside.
Highway in the rain.
Rolling where the wheels guide me.
Highway in the rain.
Rolling on the ride inside me.
On the highway in the rain.
Signs flash past, dripping neon gold.
Like credits in movies of old retold.
Bridges vault up like rolling swells.
With shrill rings of whistles and bells.
Raindrops whip streamers, across the windscreen.
I squint to see through the glare and the sheen.
Diesels thunder and rattle the air,
As headlights flare up, then disappear.
The hills crowd close; the darkness hums,
Engine sings as the blacktop ride drums.
Somewhere out there, dawn will break,
The silver sky will make its jailbreak.
Till then I’m riding the storm’s cold embrace,
Chasing my deadline with a relentless pace—
Every road I've pounded with grit and grind.
Is curled up asleep, somewhere in my mind.
Highway in the rain.
Rolling where the wheels guide me.
Highway in the rain.
Rolling on the ride inside me.
Highway in the rain.
Every mile’s a wave I ride,
As clouds chase from side to side—
On the highway in the rain.
On the highway in the rain.
_______________
(PoetrySoup Format)
_______________
. . . when days hold doubt, distracting with distance,
and feathering through darkness has become a challenge
~ remember me dear friend,
and these moments t r u e ~
because we are b e t t e r
together
---------------------------
sunshine with smiles,
they lift me while lifting you
---------------
simple thoughts from the heart
* friendship grows stronger, when helpful and honest *
The 90’s were not easy, but my spouse and I got by.
Both our children, grown, soon were on their own.
The syndrome known as “empty nest” didn’t even touch us.
If anything, those wings of mine spread splendidly
as I ascended, full of hope, into a new Millennial sky.
In 2000, my age was 45, and definitely, I was in my prime.
Having taken up guitar, I strummed to songs I sang for just myself.
I belly-danced, lifted weights, did boxing and aerobics.
Reading up on fitness tips, and eating for my blood type,
I was at my best. “Aerodynamic,” this bird could fly;
even years of therapy on a painful neck were starting to pay off!
Around this time, I also took three fascinating trips,
first seeing the Big Apple for my very first time.
Also I basked in the sun and in the fun of a great Bahamas cruise.
Later, with a friend, I enjoyed a glorious week in Rio de Janeiro.
Of all the things feathering my not-so-empty nest,
one stood out, which later would define the woman I’ve become today.
Embracing the muse I’d abandoned in my youth, I learned to soar with poetry!
Today, twelve years later, I fly through skies much too often gloomy,
recalling a time before our world went mad - the time when skies were bright.
Written by Andrea Dietrich, Jan. 6, 2012
For nette onclaud's....AT THIS AGE Poetry Contest
Peeling splintered wood,
rust and creeper.
When pushed, it dragged on the ground,
opening a gap just enough for a boy
to slip through.
Inside, only foundations and rubble
partly mulched newspapers,
their edges still dry enough
to flap in the wind.
Dead pigeon smudged into rot,
desiccated wings
trembled by feathering gusts.
Bacon rinds and coffee grinds
among the weeds;
a jumble of parasitic shadows.
Then a real find;
a plastic pen with a lady on it.
If you turned it upside down
her clothes fell off!
Alone, looking at the naked pen-lady,
the boy seeing her more as a doorway
than any plaything. A threshold
to curiously push against.
I'm primarily known for my poetry
inked in cerebral colors of abstract thoughts.
Yet, there is a complexity concealed within me.
My totality runs surprisingly deep.
You must meticulously disassemble and examine
all my puzzling parts to understand me.
I'm a dreamer, awake in a dream called life;
an optimist and a self-doubter, I know I'm not always right.
But I love to fledge my poetic thoughts,
feathering their wings with witty words.
My heart reveals hidden hurts buried deep
to appease my conscience and oblige reality!
Yet compassion underlies my every breath,
weighing life's wrongs on the scales of injustice.
Draining dreams tear by tear, year after year,
frustration has not yet emptied me of hope.
But, if I am to be defined by anything,
let it be by the gift fate endowed my muse;
and the Karma my poems have generated,
illuminating my pathway to now
and guiding me toward tomorrow.
Deep inside the hollow tree lives the humble bumble bee,
making honey all day long with its busy buzzy song.
Up above within the leaves the energetic weaver weaves,
snatching twigs and leaves with zest feathering the bestest nest.
As squirrel watches from his den filled right up with nuts again,
all is done for the winter spell no more hurry scurry now.
Down below amongst the roots badger hunts for shoots and fruites,
digging fiercely and with cause with his handy four clawed paws.
With Mr fox roaming round ears pricked waiting each found sound,
knowing that he always can find his lunch in the land of man.
Who watches from his window view at the tree he grew anew,
soothed by sounds above the breeze of the humble bumble bees.
She sat at the small circular table
the grain now strained
from smears of spilled liquids
a newly placed cup
mist clouds of heat feathering upwards
her gaze darted to the windows
as a glare flicked its tongue against the glass
mocca waves as she gently
blew then sipped at its warmth
the slight clink of cup and saucer
bringing her eyes back to the battle ground
her attention enthused
in a single drop that rolled down the outside
a cough from before the onslaught
she interlocked her fingers
giving her a sembelance of peace
she slowly tiltled her head
her eyes focused and still
her tongue gently misting her lips
her simple lips now pursed
a growl giving birth to her utterance...