I listen to the wind as it dries my tears
because its flowing current is wiser than all my years.
~ Quote by poet
Wind is never silent, echoing its cries
It sings in the night to stars in celestial skies
Stories are told upon the rushing wind
but in the telling, never does it feel chagrined.
Quicker than a heartbeat, it errantly flies.
Across mountain peaks its music is heard.
In its harmony, I hear every word.
I feel the cold of its temperate sting
and with its beckoning lyrics, I sing.
When its message touches me, I'm stirred.
In a gentle voice through meadows, it talks
I feel like chasing it on morning walks
I'd rise with wildflowers to take flight,
soaring to the moon at its zenith height,
if I had pinion wings like eagles and hawks.
I listen to the wind as it howls without grace,
When it blows waves of saltwater in my face.
It speaks of love in such a solemn breath
In its stillness, I hear it mourning death.
Never, for very long does it stay in one place.
—The Blade of Grass—
I sought no empyrean throne beyond the wheeling blue,
But found one adamantine dewdrop trembling in the grass.
It did not scintillate.
It beheld me.
Then every pinion became articulate flame;
The raven's augury, the blackbird's argent hymn,
Were borne upon one unoriginate Breath I could not name.
I watched the lion heave the primordial wind,
The lamb receive its inviolate ordinance.
Neither litigated Eternity.
Rain descended remembering firmament.
The brook relinquished its mountain,
Yet bore its genesis.
Then desolation entered.
No seraph sundered the stillness.
One mortal hand entered mine.
Its benignity outshone
The constellated treasury of heaven.
That night the firmament exhaled one eternal Breath.
The stars did not descend.
The earth ascended.
The adamantine dewdrop withdrew from the blade of grass.
Since then—
Wherever aught lives—
Or abides—
I have never again encountered a universe bereft of God.
The museum basement smells of ozone and pressed violets. I am cataloging a shipment of Victorian automatons, specifically the clockwork songbirds. Their mechanisms are intricate, tiny gears of brass that mimic a pulse, a heartbeat. They don’t sing, of course—only whir. My job is to ensure the silence of the dead. But last night, one of them turned its head toward the moonlight, a single, sharp click echoing against the concrete, and for a second, I swore the gears were bleeding oil. The curator told me to oil them again.
a small brass pinion
in the palm of my cold hand
starts to tick faster
I listen to the wind as it dries my tears
because its flowing current is wiser than all my years.
~ Quote by poet
Wind is never silent, echoing its cries
Sings in the night to stars in celestial skies
Stories are told upon the rushing wind
but in the telling, never does it feel chagrined.
Quicker than a heartbeat, it errantly flies.
Across mountain peaks its music is heard.
In harmony, I listen to every word.
I feel the cold of its temperate sting
and along with its beckoning lyrics, I sing.
When its message touches me, I am stirred.
In a gentle voice through meadows, it talks
Capturing my attention on morning walks
Inviting me along with flowers to take flight
to soar to the moon. I'd accept the invite
if I had pinion wings like eagles and hawks.
I listen to the wind as it howls without grace,
blows briny waves of saltwater in my face.
It speaks of love in such a solemn breath
In its stillness, sometimes I hear it mourning death.
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
Fear of the unknown
shouldn't pinion your wings;
forge ahead!
Remember this incontrovertible truism:
you're always stronger
than you give yourself credit for!
It never matters
what people you don't know
from a can of paint think of you;
what's infinitely more important
is what you think of yourself.
Believe what you believe...
There's nothing wrong with
stubbornly sticking to your convictions.
You can summit
all of life's mountains
with steadfast self-belief.
Your doubtful mind is
a noose hovering above your head.
It falls to your neck
only if you allow it.
Always entertain high hopes
and possibilities.
It's better to try -- despite risks involved --
than rot in regret's dungeon.
When licked by misfortune's tongue,
cling to your faith
like virgin leaves does to a tree.
It carries you through
every time.
The way Mark does his Campaign,
The way he drinks his champagne,
Manner of smiling at Pain
And what he says after Gain:
Nothing Black: all through ''White''!
Mark's smacked lips he would leave tight...
In Mark's Black life the Whites reign,
All his voiced demands foreign:
The movies he wished he'd seen,
The countries he dreamt he'd been:
In Mark's world "no worthy being";
The Black Girls he'd been seeing...
In Mark's life Black and White fight
And he reasons "White is right"
Black not as bright,neither light;
White arrives and it's Black's flight!
A boss of their Black Union
And White stuffs his arms pinion.
Loosen now his tight valves.
You do nothing by halves
Not like you've bruised his calves
While he's not got what salves...
His tube deflate through valve:
With six-inch nail hit valve,
The air in tube to halve;
When cops into it delve,
Say "A case of mad valve!"
Ask me my opinion:
It's a heart cast- iron:
A daring to pinion
The arms of one's union,
Dues slicing like onion
In Crowned Lion's Union.
Eagle-Rare is The Union,
All her members’ arms pinion,
Not with a from-behind arm twist
But thrills that can dare a long list …
You join her you pray to not leave,
You indiscreetly go ahead to leave,
You never cease to piteously grieve
Or emotive sighs endlessly heave.
But please, in the open say it not:
Still on her white sheet parades a blot
And lives with a touchable problem
Singularly bought her by her cultist emblem:
A pair of squinted eyes,
Whose owners’ broad smiles are lies;
And teeth that can one stagger
Farther than an Arab’s Dagger …
And Alakara isn’t bothered about it,
Wherefore many think it is her dug pit!
With her bright red eyes; yellowish tiny tail-tip,
Pale green wings; greenish yellow-glowing mantle strip;
This golden Oriole has great tales to tell,
Her enchanting feature has great magical spell...
Yellow-orange chest; gray head; silvery slate back,
Bold white pinion poles; pretty eye-strips brownish black;
Large tarsal blotch; scarce and endangered species yet,
If I afford to up-bring, she should be my pet...
Fruits and seeds she eats; sweet nectar and pollen too,
Whether eats flesh or simple herbs - her charm shines through;
Sign of wealth and acceptance; courage and life-skills,
Her advent on courtyards chases away all ills...
Weightless and light, her bewitchment, yet, is grandeur,
The cup-shaped nest she makes is magical wonder;
Her harmoniously mystic songs pull my heart,
Her feature, in itself, is finest of fine art...
11 March 2022
Magical Spell Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Robert James Liguori
Son! You shall bear `Dominion`
The Best of Names ``if you asked my opinion
For loudly announcing Christ’s Religion,
Besides being militarily overwhelming-A legion
Never, therefore, to be sliced like Onion...
And your birth was our anxious ambition,
By this energized with Holy Communion...
Good Son already you are dominion
And shall Demons warring arms often pinion!
In the religion
Of the pigeon
Possessing a feathered pinion
Stands as proof of the opinion
That the pigeon holds dominion
Over all creation
For in the Holy Word
Of this enlightened bird
It is the avian creed,
That not intelligence, but speed
Is the gift that God decreed
For this, His chosen nation.
So in their highest perches
That serve them as their churches
The bird world’s chosen few
Will strut toward their pew
And with bowing neck will coo
In pious adulation.
© Barry Freeman - July 2016
The strength in my curves
If you thought beauty was in me having long hair,
I cut it off to show you that beneath there,
I was strong and that I had no fear,
If you thought that beauty was in my size,
I gained weight so that you would see I was a prize,
Even if I ate McDonald's fries,
If you continue to think that I value your opinion,
Then let me send you this message through a birds pinion,
The way I thought I felt about you needed no mention,
But now I must clear up the confusion,
Your opinion of me lacks wisdom,
And your eyes, your eyes lack luster,
Courage it took me awhile to muster,
Forsaking you now, when I dreamed of no other,
My peace of mind has now gone under,
Because of spoken words, now you may wonder,
How I feel about you, now,
I still have no words,
To describe you, no good verbs,
To give my feelings life, a true meaning,
Just know that what I do from here on out,
I do for me,
One might beg, one may plead,
But still, I'm focused on pleasing me,
Please respect my space,
Don't try to get in between,
My heart, and my mind have now intervened....
Sitting at my Desk Among the Aspen and Pine
David J Walker
The intoxicating scent of
pinion pine
on the mountain
In the rain
I cannot explain
Its rejuvenating qualities
I only know
I am renewed
And the solitude
Of Aspen denuded
In the first snow
Of the season
Defines the reasons
I go
As often as possible
Sitting at my desk
Among the
Aspen and Pine
J-ust
U-nderstand
N-atal
E-xpression's
C-omforting
O-pinion
R-ightfully
R-eading
E-xceptional
A-crostic
Topic: Birthday of June Correa (March 20)
Form: Vertical Monocrostic
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.