Wingtips Poems | Examples

devil in a suit

crisp shirt and silk tie
freshly polished black wingtips
dapper gentleman

he fools the naïve
manners are impeccable
hiding his evil

Melvin Purvis do you have a light

Purvis you captured me doing taxes in my parking lot catering to my panty drawer looking for cigarettes I never smoked silence abodes over the treasury department lunch break wingtips flew in and carried my lipstick case back to the source Elliot ness I craved you beneath the score on Rush street the theater where John Dillinger blood ran fast through the fire hydrant waters above the cities streams where scores nestled down over mosticholli noodles I called you in the silence of my rapture unseen unfelt unmeasured an yet you counted every heart beat finally the match lit it all up

Sky Paths

geese are arriving or going
straight lines crisscross the sky
a history of contrails
in a blue honking yonder

under
a brightly birthed daylight
eyesight cannot settle
but dazzles
upon fleeting wingtips

geese continue to fly
through gaps in time
ghost planes still roar
over unseen horizons

a peddle bike and hunched rider
whoosh past me
a streetlamp sprints
around my eyes

whichever way I go
the sky gets there before me
only to redraw the shape
of what has only just now -
occurred

Bone Saw Trifecta

He chose to play the cheater’s hand.
The stakes were worth his manhood.
He perished in his paddock boots
Like Wild Bill did in Deadwood.

The edge of the assassin’s blade
Was cold and unforgiving.
The dead get stripped of dignity.
The spoils go to the living.

The hitman shut the stable door,
A bone saw in his hand, 
The blood drops on his wingtips?
Just the jockey’s reprimand.

A More Beautiful Shell

Some way from the Firth of Forth
A shoal of glittering mackerel
Swirls and sways 
Swells with the sea from silver to black 
Flashes white and back to silver and grey

A humpback whale
Juddering its leathery jaws together
With a throatful of panicked fish
For a moment it bobs in place
Then sinks down slowly again 
To await its next prey

But some fish get away
Dash, dash, dash
Gannets with wingtips a-black
In fizzing copper-green dive bomb 
Pinning their wings back
Weaving, spiral bubbles rising
They spear the blank-eyed fish
And paddle away

In the tidal pools by the beach 
Where the tiny sea herds crawl
Hermit crabs pick at morsels 
Washed up by the tide
Snipping with their pincers 
To nibble mackerel tails
They ward off competitors with their giant claws

Crabby-crawl tiny sea herds
Squabble in the pools of the micro-sea
But steal when you can the more beautiful shell
Of a crab that is greater than thee.

Where Does Poetry Begin

Poetry often starts outside
of one's self – on a distant hill or near
greenhouse shelf; our-cultivations
as the consideration of a grafted rose
goes; the meandering, dripping of a stream
or nose; submerging of our toes in 
chilling clarity – we see to the bottom,
sometimes fooled by depth – 

or that of a winged flight, wingtips tossing
sparks of light, dipping and scooping
winged ladles of air, unseen but yet
we see them there, pouring out there, 
back into our fanciful sky, our fanciful
eye -- in a heart's invested sigh -- up
high in the atmosphere, sighted unseen
spirit -- looking and listening for the echo
of angels -- turning us more inward, where
deeper observation and motion begins, 
the pen is lifted, and the paper stained 
finally, fondly into lyrical submission –

Daydreaming On Gossamer's Gondoliers - Dk

Gossamer winged gondolier airships
sail on feathered wax-clad wingtips 
travelling blue transparent skies
probing boundaries transfixed on a prize 

dashing darting greeting parting
flirting flurried partners charting 
amplify dumbstruck daydreams with flair
animation takes wing to air

tails fly and tales spin
spotlights quarantine chagrin
vibrations brandish a two-edged sword 
horizons are vistas explored 

steel eyes of flint and mahogany  
mirror no clouded cacophony
daydream disciples design
the silk purse 
from rubble the blind decline



B310J

Tears of a Phoenix

I have always run with a Phoenix 
Don’t try and tell me how to fly 
Smoked passion singed wingtips 

You never saw the fire in my eyes 
But you lit a match and watched it burn
Every single time you made me cry

Tears of a Phoenix take a magical turn 
Every nightmare keeps on intensifying  
Edge of death is a welcome rebirth 

Scream, howl, leave me shattering
Tears of a Phoenix they heal anything.

Dreams and Journeys

Gossamer winged gondolier airships
sail on feathered wax-clad wingtips 
travelling blue transparent skies
probing boundaries transfixed on a prize 

dashing darting greeting parting
flirting flurried partners charting 
amplify daydreams with flair
animation takes wing to the air

tails fly and tales spin
spotlights quarantine chagrin
vibrations brandish a two-edged sword 
horizons are vistas explored 

steel eyes of flint and mahogany  
mirror no clouded cacophony
daydream disciples design the silk purse 
from rubble the blind decline

Angel Visits - 2-

Angel Visits (2)

(1)

Rosebud pink dancers endome apricot flushed sky,
Arc'd feathering wingtips exult cirrus high,
Love's pleasured shades delight this thank full eye.

Fright held burden, released in healing long,
Freed heart sings anew, childhood's lost song.

Fierce joy streamers swirl, angels light this temple day.
Blossom hued fliers frolic in gladdest play,
Applaud a soul bravely facing acts hard to say.


(2)

We roast beneath violent radiation storm,

                  then above, though between,

draped arms outstretched, elegant graceful form

                 can be seen!

Sun's power becomes pastel rainbow streams,

                 clouds are called

Iridescent halo's, charge electric blue beams

                 we stand entralled

Our savior solar sylph!



Written 15 August 2018
For Emile Pinet Contest;  New Rhyming poem on Angels.

Both true instances. However, the last image was captured on film.  It has been enlarged and forms a focal point in main home area - reminding me of how close our other dimensional help always is.  Now uploaded as my avatar.

No Words

no words
tame me
love
fell
in
a
welding rod bucket
mental love puppets
parrots flopping down
mockingbirds drowned
last canary got shoved
gas chamber
cage loved
feathers sucking flames
watching wingtips dancing on fires remains
?

October Sky - Three Haiku

October Sky – three haiku


#1

lightning strobes hearts
thunder uncoiling whips crack
eye stinging terror




#2

frosted exodus
wingtips warming on the fly
suns iced crystal glare





#3

cold hoar frost rainbow
saddened cornucopia
tears of failing sun




John G. Lawless
8/19/2015

A Peregrine Falcon

A peregrine falcon masters the sky
its wings majestically arched with flair
soaring with the elements eye to eye.

In a flurry of speed, it flashes by 
serenely aloof, untethered and rare
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.

Sunlight gilds feathers as soft as a sigh
and flickering flecks ignite in the air
soaring with the elements eye to eye.

Naturally nimble, graceful, and spry,
inspiring both audacity and dare
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.

Riding an invisible thermal high
it lifts me until suddenly I’m there
soaring with the elements eye to eye.

Like poetry in motion, wingtips fly
and awed by its beauty, I can but stare.
Soaring with the elements eye to eye,
a peregrine falcon masters the sky.


(Villanelle)


3/7/2015

The Song of the Caged Bird

When the caged bird sings
It tells of her story
The song will be sad
Like a dirge
A lamentation
For her plight
Of her bondage

When the caged bird sings
It tells of her longing
To be free
To spread her wings
And fly away
To freedom land
That has no walls

There she is free
To fly towards the sun
Free to embrace the wind
Caressing her wingtips
As she glides
In the open sky

Within the walls of her cage
She is shackled, oppressed
She cannot spread her wings
And freely fly
Untouched by the wind
Unbathed by the glowing sun
The caged bird withers
Till she slowly dies
From her misery
The never ending agony
Forgotten, unremembered
Without knowing
How it feels to be free

The Color Purplish

The man on the porch looks out
over his property and towards his daughter.
Nervousness seeps through her plum-dark flesh.
Each eye contact signposts a wicked meditation.
Women are voiceless in those days, yielding to
males and manipulated Bible verses.
Poverty and childbirth loiters the screen.
White men protect segregation and Black men protect pride.
Are there no advocates or women’s lib
in that part of the South? Does anyone care about the mistreated?
Even the animals are sinister, and the young babes.
Horses burdened with stuff amble the pasture.
Fried ham wafts from kerosene stoves.
All the outspoken women are rebellious and prostitutes.
They wear thigh-high skirts, halters, and ruddy rouge.
Men swagger about in cut-price suits, wingtips, and thin-band ties.
They sweat into juke-joints or atop a squeaky bedframe
while records scratch against a dusty needle.
The girl in the front yard runs through hanging sheets
and swings bound books against Mister’s groin.
Her eyes are watery, her hair wild as those purple flowers.
She peers down at her attacker twisted on the red clay
and she shrieks.
Nobody shows up to save her.
She runs off into nothing.

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