I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Become the crimson flash, the whispered call,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
In morning mist, a pulse—my spirit's dare,
The chill of bark beneath, the dawn’s bright thrall.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
My fingers melt to pinions, fine and fair,
A beak, a crown of red, where shadows fall,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
I leave behind the weight that humans bear,
To soar above the pines at sparrow’s call.
I long to shift my skin and take to air.
The world below recedes—no sorrow there,
Just wind and sun and endless sky enthrall
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
So if you glimpse a flash of scarlet flare,
Know once my heart was human, after all.
I long to shift my skin and take to air,
Wings stretched in freedom, feathered, light, and rare.
The vigor of lemons heals the soul. Squeeze the sun,
and be taken for a wild ride through space and time.
—Poet
The Lemonade of the Sun
By clouds, meditation may be solemn,
but in fizzy of quenching rays, awesome.
Squeeze the lemonade of the sun, Sugar!
Not a bouquet, but a single blossom.
Dramatic wings detach; they’re on your spine.
Pink, red, orange and yellow; so divine.
The panorama of bittersweet juice.
You’re ready for liftoff; look at your shine!
In zero gravity suit; grass rises
to meet your boots. Life’s filled with surprises.
A royal purple and steel blue pitcher
poured into the dawn; drink energizes.
You walk on the water of space and time.
Your pinions strong, and feathers - soft, sublime.
Why dally on the earth; you want to fly.
An artist and poet - oh, how you climb!
the fierce facade is false mosaic
pinions holding candy ginger
with apologies to Poe and Baum
Seventeen feathers*
is all that I need
to become a raven
instead of a crow.
A raven is majestic,
a crow just a crow~
they invade the cornfield
just to spite the scarecrow,
who cries out in despair:
it's a murder I fear,
please have a heart!
* The large primary flight feathers on the wing are called pinions; Ravens have 17 pinions while Crows have 16.
“Wake to the chirping of birds, get elated by their songs, allow the music to settle in your heart and dismiss all defeatist thoughts. Instead of burrowing like a mole, fly high like a bird” ~ By Poet
Oh! Lovely little bird, soaring and swirling,
Sliding and sweeping, making the sky your pathway,
Possessing the poet’s soul, you make me cheerful,
With songs mellifluous and melodious.
You dive and glide through cotton candy clouds,
With dizzy spells and a spirit so buoyant.
You roam and ride through air, trusting on your wings.
You are out on an odyssey to cross a thousand seas.
With black and beady eyes, you spot everything,
And watch the world from up above.
You wear a dazzling robe of vivid bluish hues.
You have rainbow pinions and a beak so sleek.
You chirpy friend, as you sing in tuneful voice from above,
Your songs fall in my ears as midnight choir from afar.
As you warble in sweet rhythm and lovely cadence,
You tell me that sweet spring of beauty and bliss is here.
like a miserable cockroach he wriggled
through wreckage in the sump of his life
bottle in hand and at delirious mouth
in a macabre rehearsal of final strides
what had once been a passionate waltz
had become a legless inebriated pirouette
moribund madness personified
liquified insanity stumbling to hell
with wings of destruction in overdrive
it was a sink hole leap towards the abyss
each jump digging deeper and faster
into the rock bottom of body mind and soul
eventually all music and heart stopped
yet he remembered cacophonous decrescendo
enough to wake up from self-inflicted catatonia
like a phoenix and still tarred and feathered by booze
he decided to rise again whatever the cost
the rest is a miracle and sober blessing and still
he knows that Icarus had pinions of wax
therefore he stayed close to new foundations
of hard-won truths and the reality of his privilege
I hear your call; I call you back
On raven wings we soar as one –
We fly midnight between the suns
The gift of madness on our tongues
From perches steeple high we rise
And take our protest to the sky
And to the evening, as we dive;
We surface and our tears are dry –
With flaming wings that torch the sun
We heave the stone and let it lie
And at the mast, ourselves untied,
We grieve the siren where it dies
Oh, light that shines on pinions black!
I hear your call; I’m coming back –
Written: February 05, 2024
_____________________________________________
On twilit roads as dusk falls,
from rivers to towers and walls,
when lilting rhythms call,
a gleaming steed sailed.
on pearl-grey pinions, and held,
as the aroma of willow draws.
tumble toward the ground.
through warm beams.
and anodyne smell.
Under the mast of a rusting ship,
over a dazzling web of water and light,
I'm excited to charter out of the bay,
In a silver chariot,
on chrysolite mirrors and carried,
where cinnabar vapor entices,
float gently to the ground,
with cheerful smiles,
and sensual breath,
bright polish—sun fell,
busters grab and break boards.
And tempests rumble and thunder,
In an iron chariot, ferried,
on clods of lava, and carried,
where cinnabar vapor beguiles,
swinging unpretentious,
with savage smiles,
and smoldering breath.
Dawn chirps a melody
Birds of promise beckon me
High-fliers inspire emulators
to flap our wings, become creators
Ahead lies adventure
sunlight, the perfect mentor
In my pinions, the day awaits
rise and shine, tempt the fates
When sun sets and the deepening shadows creep
When most birds go to roost under the canopy of the woods
It is then I start my nocturnal odyssey,
Flying through still air on pinions, foraging food.
I have a heart shaped face with eerie round eyes,
Positioned like two peridots fixed on a concave disc.
My claws are as sharp as razor knives.
With gyrating moves and cavorting glides
With eyes fixated, searching and observing,
With a swish and a swoop, I subdue my prey.
I love the golden sunset but hate the blushing morn.
My weird hoots rupture the stillness of the night.
Send chills down the spine of the young and the old,
Many see me as a bird of ill omen,
A harbinger of death and bad luck,
But some say, ‘there’s nothing foul about the owl’.
Autumnal 9-26-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Autumnal
Autumn spreads autumnal wings
Between sun and celestial
And soars into hues of dusky blue vaults,
When leaves drip in shades of ochre crimson,
Gliding through boughs on pinions
Of splendor, robed in aubergine,
Leaving marigold feathers to flutter on fields
Like the scent of umber down.
Autumnal guardian fans out majestic plumes,
Steward of golden magenta glory
Drifts on a soft plumage of harvest serenades
When golden love notes sail above grandeur -
Quiver as summer dances into slumber
On amber brewed scarlet currents -
Wings that never weary trail orange tides
Into harbingers of violet vernal vitality.
~Autumn spreads autumnal wings~
Contest: Eight Words Sponsor: Emile Pinet 6-16-23
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eight Words
WISTFUL FEELINGS,
An expression of MELANCHOLY DEPRESSION,
Wake in winsome gloom of a GLOOMY sheath
Cluttered with roving remnants
Of GRIM recollections
That SHROUD an anguished woundedness
In WITHDRAWN silence
To bind my sores with loneliness,
With isolation’s balm,
Untouchable.
My world gone topsy-turvy
Turns to the melody of living sonatas
In chiming morningtide psalms
And eventide’s bell songs
To leave behind the bondage
Of this shattered shell,
This tattered cocoon of silken sutures.
Beyond the pensive dreamscape
This realm of gloom fades,
Screeches back into midnight’s stronghold,
Forgotten in azure morning shadows,
When resplendent neon pinions
Unfold kaleidoscopic
Into giddy, gliding joy.
I heard them call before dawn's light
Avian flocks filling the sky
Time for annual migration
On pinions they rose to great height
For a shift in weather was nigh
Keeping their V-shaped formation
Observing them was a delight
How swiftly they took wing to fly
Towards a warmer location
Nature gave them the keen foresight
A journey they dare not belie
For months of Winter's duration
Innate sense of seasonal change
'cross miles of geographic range
June 13, 2023
Trilonnet Contest ~ Image #4
Sponsor: Joseph May
Tools: rhymzone and howmanysyllables
I feel like a rusty key
that cant open any door
You waylaid my cloudy kingdom
Your butter knife
cut through my land
Through a secret glade
between the hope and dust
I detest what I've become
I painted my dreams
and waited to see
This sloth what I've become
is driven by a hearse
amongst the heavy pinions
King of the Sky
Mighty bird of heaven,
wing strokes like mighty, matched gales.
Flies through Sky World,
like motion incarnate.
Air king your feathers ruffling,
in flight.
Raucous cry,
like thunder splits the sky.
Through blue heaven he sails,
mountains his flight can not abate.
Nowhere is a more magnificent sight,
soaring amid fleecy clouds.
Then his prey he spies,
in wild silent plummet his wings fold in pagan prayer.
Dark shining eye alight,
he falls from the great height.
Talons grip his meal,
in deadly surprise.
One brief squeal,
a drop of red.
Pinions sweep down,
he rises from the ground.
Sailing against the rising wind,
he again obtains the Heights,
To find a branch,
where can consume his food.
I watch rooted to the ground,
Dedicated to Green Peace and the Sierra Club
my small plea © Dec '22, Terence Cummings Smith
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