Long Wingless Poems
Long Wingless Poems. Below are the most popular long Wingless by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Wingless poems by poem length and keyword.
I, a Red Skin dog, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless we both were as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
I and this swaying ebony sapling, sprung from the roots of my foes tribe.
We talked of the pitiless reality of that life she left behind, of that time
That she has left, far, far behind, like a useless scar
That has toughened over. And made her stronger.
I learned from this daughter of my foes
That true courage is never fearless, but always stronger. Victorious,
Stronger she was by far, to this Red Skin dog
Than the thousand sons who died, in her honor. So they say. Ridiculous,
But I have heard the balance of their sins.
And for all the tales I have heard from those angry young men, and their vengeful fathers
Her horror was a thousand times more sinister. A thousand times more callous.
Horror took up residence in her home but never in her heart.
But for others, I cannot speak.
“…splinters and bursting fragments…in my mind
Ai! Tearing! Memory of tearing flesh, swallowing tears and mucus, blood and bile
…bruising and ripping garments…off my body
…filthy, familiar hands tearing at my dress…
…my legs split and broken like a wild pig slaughter, my screams smashed from my lips,
With the butt of a rifle, just used to kill a Red Skin dog…
Aieee! Clean this floor mama, mop up this spew!
It cannot be mine!
This child is not mine!
It is not mine! It is the devils own creation born in hell fire!
Born in my death!
Aieee! I am dead, I cannot be alive.
I am dead and the Red Skin dogs have eaten my corpse.
Those spirits in their wingless chariot flew over the land and sea, to rescue me?
Rescue me from that black devil who said he was like Jesus to me.
I thought you were my uncle-brother…
Who else could have found us here?
Hidden away from the Red Skins and their Wingless Angels.
Only you my uncle-brother
Only you could have found us
Only you could have killed us.
And now the progeny of your evil deed suckles at my breasts
As I lie dead in the home of those Red Skin dogs you fought.”
One day—
The sea will be my backyard
Every morning, standing upon the deck
Of the one called Going Numb
A “Greatest Dad” mug in one hand
My last vice burning orange in the other
I will watch the sun rise like the formidable Phoenix
Warming the blue green sea with her touch
As tender fingers of a salty breeze
Run through my silvery hair
A time worn wharf will serve as my threshold
Warped planks and crusted pilings
Proffering a story of victories against the storms of sea
Aromas of fish and diesel oil
Making promises of resilience yet seen
Seagulls as nameless neighbors
Charmingly silent until beckoned
By day old bread and salty crackers
Perched upon the strakes of the Going Numb
Black eyes praising me as they wait
To devour the next gratis morsel
A galley will greet any wingless visitors
Who happen by
Barstools for three, plus me
Wait obediently before the coffee-stained counter
A toaster and tea kettle from yesteryear
A hidden bottle of rum
Is all this old man will need
With but a few steps, travel with me astern
Over the worn colorless carpet
Past the curtain of puka shells
Hung by stranger before I knew her
A sturdy cot with too many pillows
Serves as my nighttime rest
Where the sea’s gentle waves
Lull away loneliness
And Adele whispers love songs to my soul
Between the galley and my humble nest
A room where I attempt to do my best
A small writing table with pad and pencil
A beige shaded lamp provides the rest
Nostalgic bookshelves of cinder blocks and planks
Against the portside wall
A stage for those who have inspired—
Hemingway, Atwood, Tolkien, and Plath
King James and Lewis as bookends
Hold it all together
Three windows each, port and starboard
To look out
Or in
One with an untold story
I will never know
Or tell
A stained-glass pane
Cracked and old
Beauty in a way
That will never be told
By prose or poem or
By me
One day—
A new chapter in my life will come
Closing the pages of before
My purpose complete
Children grown
Now with ones to call their own
Having moved from a time of needing
To the days of occasionally calling
The old man on the sea
One day—
I will stand alone
On the deck
Of my new home
With seagulls as chaperones
And briny air in my lungs
I will watch the sunset
Through stained-glass pain
As time flies, so her emotion swiftly fries,
As life frowns to dust, so her affection swiftly drowns to lust,
As love turns to coal, so her smile swiftly runs to the cold,
As sunset sets away, so her truth swiftly upsets the root of likeness, and erects away the boldness of trust,
but her hate doesn't rate me to roasted rat, because her hate is wingless, and no other can make her sweat and melt to hashes like I do.
Damn! I’m damned, if I get soak in her socking beauty,
Damn! I’m damned, if I get stolen by her golden smile,
Damn! I’m damned, if I don’t bench her lioness sex drive, I’ll infinitely feel less, like a quenched man.
Damn! I’m damned, if I merge with her chameleon cries and battalion kisses.
If I give in fully, just for the sake of ‘be a real man’, not 'a steel man',
my life will end up like the life of a North American bug, which inflicts painful bite on love and life.
When I transparently decide to give into love, all I get is:
Vultures smoking cigarette in an uncultured manner,
Kangaroo's doing Michael Jackson’s moonwalk in a live show in Cameroon,
Monkeys ordering for coffee, while wooing female donkeys
Zebras playing golf, with liberal views,
Lizards rearing Afro and trying to reawaken Lazarus from the dead,
Dingo's wearing costly tuxedos in Mexico, and speaking Spanish fluently,
Frogs driving Rang-Rove jeeps, in a foggy weather
Snakes wearing condoms to nibble into snacks,
Female Goats, wearing sexy underpants, to enable them float in a sinking Titanic boat
Bareheaded demons and bears drinking chilled bears together in a beheaded mood and using chilly pepper, to chill down their temper,
Horses babysitting housewives
I trip endlessly!
lost in a confused mood and temper, for she false me, she false me not.
I limp endlessly!
No matter how we try to put souls together to make our love bright and wealthy like the brightened face of Paris and the fat pocket of Las Vegas,
We always end up creating a poverty of love.
I have relentlessly tried praying forcefully for our love,
but I end up noticing that people, who aggressively pray the most for love, end up marrying angry praying-mantis.
I will just have to remain light-footed in love, and let her featherweight affections for me, turn to true feelings, or get carried away, because she false me, she false me not.
poor pity solider
Eager to loose his horrific sight
Though his hope is sweating blood to seek the light
Light that helps him fight, light that kept him tight inside
The light that provides him the moon sight
With his kin at his side.
As candle lit in the sky
White foam starts to clear the sight
He strained his eyes, the eyes
Which saw his captain die
The eyes
Which saw his flesh getting apart from his thigh
The Arm which cries
Leaving Salty red drops to fly to die,
The cruel arm wearing arrogant on
Letting himself cry on and on
Whereas his wingless tears crawling to make him strive
So that they won’t die
Hanging on the prow, thinking about gone
His beats are down.
Secreting red ink On
On the white wall
Having blue patches
Where ever his eyes went on
He became loon for a moment
So loon that even his death would laugh on what he said
“Ho! It feels so fresh between the ice
The ice receiving my live sacrifice
It’s the best place to die, where the dead shell don’t receive file’s”
The ice splits into two, two into three, three into four
As the sharp east orange swords rise and strokes
Thinking about the silent music is his only hope
Which is in the icy slope
He start’s to remember his past, when he chased his children back
“I’m going to get you” he silently says
Pearls from his eyes came again.
The poor solider came out of loop of his past
He sees his Venus at nine, “come to me “she said
Sitting on the air,
And children playing with her hair
The old soldier comes in the form and made
His shoulders move along.
It was just useless as he couldn’t bear his flesh
Coming out, out of his chest, out of his thigh
out of every where in his sight
“It’s the best place to die where no one can cry
I cry for myself, I give my own eulogy
About this tragedy with little sprinkle of comedy”
He prayed for his own funeral
He was the only ruler, only citizen, the only joker of the icy town
With the dead audience all around
He took his last breath
Went to an endless trip
His eager to lose his horrific sight was satisfied
And his blood came out of his hair to close his eyes.
When soft colors of
the amethyst twilight,
dance amongst shadows~
swirling through forlorn forests,
I count sparkling syllables of
pirouetting peridots,
looking for metered refrains
from the emerald empyrean,
while wondering,
what am I but a
speck of astral dust;
garnet silhouette of
desert orchid dusk,
hanging on thin threads
of lilac-laced lines,
seeking sanguine
streaks between
black and white realms,
composed with rhythmic reasons,
that reveal pristine pathways
to still wander,
like a soulful sojourner,
sleepwalking through pilgrims
perfumed with peace,
to attain eternal nirvana,
there, I’ll no longer
be a wingless bird,
but will soar like a golden eagle,
feathered in fragranced faith,
and porcelain-tailed promises.
And as the pink pearl moon
unveils its hyacinth halo,
I twirl to the tamarind tenors
of twinkling topaz,
that fall upon healing hills
thriving with buttercup bliss,
below funeral fogs,
where melanin phases of faces
lurk in sweltering silence,
stimulating my quill to release
pastel pigments of contentment,
like glowing galaxies of gratitude.
Yet, I am an unfinished poem,
completely incomplete,
comfortably rhyme-less,
misplaced in a melancholic
meadow of magnolia metaphors,
too vague for the eye
that sees not beyond
my sun-kissed skin.
While from ethereal verses,
scattered across
seraphic spheres, I strive,
wishing that phrases I weave
across midnight skies,
would calm the soundless storms
beneath lunar-pillowed oceans,
as this glistening ink on
the ceremonial canvas
of life and beyond,
longs to be the epitaph
that immortalizes my voice
amidst ashes and stones,
skeletons and bones,
there I’ll slumber with
light still flowing
through poetic veins,
amidst the
piercing pandemonium
and turmeric tranquility;
yin and yang of existence,
I am both, earth and water;
aura of intuitive seas~
and cathartic currents
mirroring the crestfallen crescent,
soaked in infinite luminescence
from aesthetic lanterns.
listen,
the whispers
of leaves
turn colour
autumn is here.
now that you are gone
who will wake every morn
to lift the sun
unveil the sky
etch in the clouds
who will paint the rainbow?
i had a dream and in the dream i wove you a poem
i used the fiber of my character to create spools of silken thread
dipped in the juices of my passion i dyed them in the colors of my imagination
re-enforced each and every single strand with the strength of my love
touch,
the echoes
of the rain
- waters
- blossoms spring.
now that 'us' is just a word
no longer with you as one
i alone wind up metal toys
cut out paper dolls
the beach swept from under my feet
the child in me flees.
spun spools from the intricacy of my spirit
designed a pattern
to the rhythm
of the music
of my inner thoughts
enamoured in your vision
crystal beads gather on my brow
as i toil your finely bred gift
as i braid every part of me
with every memory
into every sliver of fabric
taste,
uncut
snow shapes
crisp cold
ices the wintertide.
instead now rusted
a fools gold chain of loneliness
hangs around my neck like a noose
mourns a union that once had breath
a twosome that now is dead.
see,
the sand sculptures
paint
rekindle
a childhood summer
past.
sew in the loving glow emits my flawless dreams
with my boiling blood initial my woven piece
my work at an end i awake
you lay there a wingless angel asleep
smiling as if you heard a bell ring
your boundless warmth embraces me
the moon no longer smiles
the stars no longer wink
smell,
seasonal airs
stimulates senses
memories they deliver.
without a touch
barely - i kiss you.
in this
my decade of one
hope is a wickless candle
the night just day without light
in the glee,
hopes and dreams,
in the human spirit,
lives the miracle of life.
magnificent
voices in every pitch
deep and resounding,
the melody of echoes and whispers – uncut.
Jan 4 2017
With Love
Armand
The Question …
I had some questions, I asked a friend,
What is my purpose? Where is the end?
What happens to us when we all die?
Do we turn to ghosts ready to fly?
He smiled at me and nodded his head,
“How stupid you are,” he grinned and said.
Don’t you know that you will turn to dust?
All the laws of science are just and must!
If the light is gone, dark will appear,
Why should the darkness cause the fear?
You are up one day, bashful and gay.
Next day, you are dead, sleeping all day.
I looked at my friend and asked again,
What's the nature of water in rain?
Water in oceans is rough and cold,
It dies into steam when heat is bold.
Rises to clouds, like a wingless bird,
Reborn as rain, which I’m sure you heard.
How do you know that when I am dead,
I do not come back with proof, be said?
He looked at me, glaring, and told me so;
foolishness is bliss; how do you know?
I told him to trust and follow your heart;
go within yourself, but yet depart.
Further and further into your soul,
Sometimes, science is out of control.
I told him about the moth and flame,
how he loves fire, and himself to blame.
He starts like a worm crawling on ground,
then dies in cocoons, round and round.
He will be reborn after he’s dead,
He grows wings and legs, flying instead.
I told him about living and life;
Living and dying, always in strife.
The water in rain moths and weeds;
came all from the steam, worm, and seeds.
One day, I will be drinking the dew,
Drunk in the rainbow, singing adieu.
He started to think of moths and rain,
looked at me, and smiled walked in vain.
He left me and slowly nodded his head;
Thinking of dying once he is dead.
I did not see him ever again,
but heard that he was dancing with rain.
1/20/2016 Haloo
Note: This style of poetry is called "Masnavi"; it is a spiritual or mystical story in the form of couplets. This particular Masnavi consists of nine syllables in each line. Poetrysoup has a great explanation and example of this form of poetry.
Morountodun,
this is the place you'll find me
like the prey of a shrike
choked through by your thorny words
When the chase after Omo Ogun with your heart
Failed to be anything worthy to steal the cheapest glance from his
hammer and anvil
When the waistbeads fails to be the skeleton key
to get all you desire
You will find me.
This is where you'll find me
when the stars you so dreamed of- drifting off my bosom that has never
held anything as precious as dying mother breathing her last
are now but fireflies
stuck in the cobwebs of the black widow.
It is not I Morountodun if the songs that tried to serenade you is
served cold, sour.
The live coals within
my chest will drip down my cheeks.
Looking into my eyes
do you see a flower dancing in the furnace unscathed?
It is you my black woman
for pain will not devour
the faintest wisp of love
in the wildest of fires.
Tell me tales of your miseries
of the lots
casted on your iro and buba to be this tattered
I'll fetch all the cowries
from the goatskin bag in my head
right on this spot
for the crown duely reserved.
No one must ask you why
Why all these fruitless years to make you wail.
Is the soul of man not meant for flight to console this wingless house of flesh?
Is the spirit not cursed to be thirsty for a drink from the fountains
of the deep?
Here you are Morountodun
ripest with penitence.
I am night
you have come with your fool moon
for the scene that's makes our kindred spirits wish for the body of youth.
When you come to the fall off
chasing shadows
you will be welcomed crashing
into my waiting arms obsessed
with pieces of a broken woman
gathered perfectly into the mould
of awe.
This is where you will find me
Upon the earth you buried me with the words;
"Morountodun is a jewel destined for the lions."
There is no dead man with fire
in his belly
My one cry still holds
the great heat
that'll melt the hardest iron of Ogun
where the heart is shielded.
Written: March 2nd, 2024
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Wingbeats on warm whisper wavelength
wasteland, waves of wasabi writhe
with wilting, whimpering, witless wring
whirls and willows whimsically wave.
Emerald pride waves over meadows,
Venetian Barcarole flails and whizz
viridian desires dance onto dales,
Eurydice weeps lost love in auric tears
Dawn draws dwindle, damp dimples.
Of flickering flowers and floating stars
Orpheus, the poet in paint-stained palms
portrays the paradoxes in love,
a roar of zeal and salty air in a blue sky
love stings, even endless moons
In ablaze that seldom strikes
Elysium ethereal elixir of souls.
With such spongy, slippery strokes
soothing serenade in early spring
Thunder rumbles, but cannot shatter
love of Orpheus and Eurydice
Destiny is etched in their stride
as wingless wisps prose sang and swam
Moon loops conflate with wispy vowels
pride is a cornerstone of identity
egos hold a shield of protection
love embraces all they cherish
paired potency, pelt a pound planet.
Akin to operas, rehearsed by singers
their spoof spirals higher in stride
a syzygy of stars in a mellifluous oasis
nurturing nemesis crystals
soar in silky, springy ischemic swings
fetching felicity, as flurry fades
Ignore impulses, let time slip away
still in grip of quintessential propinquity
over a pyre, rainbow Ink swirls
with ethereal wingless, sanguine sighs,
sumptuous zeal stirs the lifeless,
springtide serenades sibyllic sweeps.
As wisteria, spring sequoia, and love slay
weave an aura in vow threads
once serendipity embraces karma
Scarlet moons bleed in a plum sky
still, sustains its sonorous scintilla
at the zenith of wistfulness, uncover bliss
loving endures the rumblings of thunder
hope in its darkest night, never fades
smoothly drifting on brisk wing beats
love is a fruit of tangerine tenacity
love lullaby ignited by stark infatuation.
It is just a dog, a common cur
The scabs, the sore upon the eye.
O the rattled temper
And the garbage bins tottering
Under the mischief of its paws.
It is just a dog, a common cur
And more method to it madness
Than man's dumb logic can ressurect.
Life has chewed on its pedigree
Like leather.
It searches, but never eats. Yet ribs stick out
Like bones suck white against the cruel teeth.
He marks each bin with seminal promptness
As if weaving from his heart some memory
Some hope to find again the heated *****
Among the refuse and waste of man's discard
But the rescue mission tears him hard
He finds no trail in the empty sniffs,
Nothing recognizable
Like the joy of her sullen bark
Teasing him to mark the turf anew.
He use to bark at the moon
For always the shadow on the rock of light
Reminded his loneliness
Of the dog catchers coming.
The firs time they came
The truck moving like a hearse at edge of day
His father went without farewell.
The man wore collar and leash
Symbols tyrranical to freedom.
His mother wore none,
Her penury almost left her naked,
Howled at by wind, spat at by rain
She kept her freedom close to her vein.
The dog catchers came again
And his misery is not abated yet;
The pound swallowed up his son
And mother in almost one breath.
The ***** was analgesic afterwards
For pain that dogged a dog.
With her the future had neither chiarscurro
Nor sulking shadows for schoolboys stones
She was tied to the past
Yesterday's joys is tomorrow's anesthetics
Though he had only known today,
Barren now like an empty house
And dreams withering
Shrivelled raisins of hope
Hard as day against the palate.
This dog has no more gate
To wait. Mongrels are not prized.
Perhaps the flies got her,
He heard them singing in his ears
Wingless words. He bit on time
Took a good dose of it,
Anesthetics or analgesics,
The difference is irrelevant now.
Pedigree is nothing without honour,
Love is poison without trust,
A dog's heart
Turns to its master's whip like a child.