The Secretary - Bird
Out of the air it lands
with wings flapping
before the snake can stop it.
Out of the air it lands
strikes deadly at the poisonous adder
with a razor sharp beak that injures,
out of the air it lands
with wings flapping.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Related quotes
Peace Everywhere
Peace, everywhere, peace today!
Peace in lands of scruffy trees and pine,
Peace in lands of olives and wine,
Peace in lands where peaks are white,
Peace in lands where fields are bright.
Peace in lands of oasis and sand,
Peace in lands where people band,
Peace in lands where children play,
Peace in lands where people pray,
Peace in lands in the thick of the fight,
Peace in lands ruled by force and might.
Everywhere, everywhere, peace this day!
Pray that all world leaders lead the way,
Encouraging moral people to stand proud and tall,
No government too great, no nation too small.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Flapping Sails Of The White Winds
let us
let us all be
white sails blown by the wind in one direction
flapping, flapping winds, flapping wings of a white bird towards the endless sea.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Wings of Time
The wings of time
Never stop flapping!
I left no words
Of where I had gone
Or where I was going
Or what I was to become...
Watching the time of day
Carry me away Into infinity!
In constant motion,
I plead for patience
But time ceases
For no one...
At least of all
My subsequent will
Who kneels
In humble submission
To divine law...
The rhythms of nature
Are the instructors
And implements of genius
When no one before has told
or discovered that the World,
Not you, is really old
Because the wings of time
Keep flapping ending-less!
©All Rights Reserved-2012
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Yellow Butterfly.
Gently flapping it's thin wings,
A butterfly lands upon my fingers,
And upon a soft breeze it leaves,
Yet it's delicate presence lingers.
Sunny yellow rimmed it's wings.
With dark daffodil yellow rings,
Pure coal black traced it's veins,
It's image - in my mind - remains.
Such a soft and delicate brush,
Of a butterflies wings, so plush,
The softest touch of it's tiny legs,
Lifted my spirits - well, the dregs.
That butterfly, that passed me by,
The messenger between land and sky,
Has stayed lodged in my mind,
I'll never meet another of it's kind,
A single butterfly, while I was alone,
Came to me and my world was thrown,
But I'll never forget that yellow butterfly,
That left me when I let out a soft sigh,
A soft sigh that came from me,
Swept my butterfly, set it free,
This is my butterfly that I'll remember,
My butterfly from last September.
poem by Rayne Goddard
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In Love Again
I stepped
away
my feet
leaving
light prints;
my hands
sweeping to my side
trailing rainbow arcs;
my eyes
dripping
gold dust;
my angel wings
flapping;
white wings flapping
gently in the breeze
spreading
wing perfume
and lightly
ever so lightly
I feel my breasts
rise
gently
in free fall;
In love again
I thought.
So nice.
My natural state.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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The Love Of Light....
upon the window of trees
i rest my weary eyes, the aches dissipate on the leaves
my forehead rests on the hands of the wind,
i lean upon the walls of this house
the comfort zone of the mind
the roof beats like a heart and opens its breast
to the soft touches of the clouds
happier in blue
and then the black birds come with the sweeter sounds
of the flapping of their wings
how happy is this state
of my soul
sitting upon the friendly bone of my body
the light of the sun
lands upon my hair
i am as always and will always be
its respecter and
friend.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Purple Dragonfly
A purple dragonfly, just caught my eye.
A sharp contrast to the clear blue sky.
He lands on a twig to rest his wings,
Unmindful of danger, and all other things.
As I approach he takes to flight.
Those gossamer wings are a delight.
A purple blur in the twilight gloom,
Up, up, and away, listen to the zoom.
8/10/10 Alton Texas
poem by Juan Olivarez
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Lightnin Hopkins
When I lay myself to sleep pray that I dont go too deep
Lightnin won lightnin won
Because its cold down gold down there, crow!
Flat lands low lands on the track
Shows the water pan the track
Lightnin won lightnin won
Close up hands to silhouette, crow!
Lightnin won, lightnin won
Hound bark on the track
Hound crow hold onto your hat
Lightnin won lightnin won
Low lands timberlands bad lands bird lands
song performed by by REM
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tainted Wings
On wings of silver and gold, I soar
across the field of many lands
seeking out the love
I once held in my hands.
Like a newborn butterfly,
stretching its wings to fly
my love stretched her wings
and flew far away.
Now with newborn freedom
I to take to the sky and fly
searching for the love
I once held in my hand.
Above tempest and raging seas,
I search for her everywhere
hoping one day I’ll find
my angel with tainted wings.
17 October 2009
poem by David Harris
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Flight
When the sacred kingfisher is flying,
It is frantically flapping its wings to
The sand of the sea,
In a form of a deep curve as a rainbow.
Its flight is most like a deep, steady wing beat
To fly higher and higher.
Its wing seemingly bites the air.
So skilled at flying
Is the sacred kingfisher
And so naturally suited to the sky
That it can frantically flap its wings to
The sand of the sea.
In a form of a deep curve as a rainbow.
From that deep curve comes its screaming
And the white bleeding rain,
While the bird is frantically flapping its wings to
The sea water
To eat its silent prey
And to become a broken winged bird,
That cannot fly
Any longer.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Dawn
The immortal spirit hath no bars
To circumscribe its dwelling place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars
Upon the meadow-lands of space.
My mind and ear at times have caught,
From realms beyond our mortal reach,
The utterance of Eternal Thought
Of which all nature is the speech.
And high above the seas and lands,
On peaks just tipped with morning light,
My dauntless spirit mutely stands
With eagle wings outspread for flight.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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226
what the white owl does besides flapping its wings
The white owl flaps its wings
Deep in the night
Hovers on the trees
I think the leaves
I hear the sparrows chirping
In the morning
Some dead feathers are falling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I want to fly!
yes, you do.
where do you want to go?
i am looking for a new home
how does one grow wings?
i want to fly...
it is the most quiet conversation.
the man begs to understand
why the mouth he is blest with does not take the shape of a beak.
the bird sings of many lands
the man has not yet been to
the little brown bird's heart is a ray of sun
but the man does not know
inside the wars are all in the making
outside it is still calm
the bird and the man kiss
the bird flies
the man falls asleep
the man flies
the bird is dead.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Panther With Red Wings
from childhood
the mind
gives you a black panther
with red wings
piano music
flies like white doves in the air
alone in a faraway island
you stroll
no tree for a shade
the black panther with red wings
lands
on the spot of your solitude
staring at you
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Free
Fly like a bird for you are free.
Soar high because that is where you will be going.
For although you are still at the ground your wings will get you higher.
So don't be afraid to take your very first steps and fly out and experience a new world.
You will face obstacles but that is how life works but just keep flapping your wings until you are high.
High above the clouds where the amazing things are.
poem by Christina J. Williams
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The Crow
I have sat the wily beast
rode in the darkest night
eaten from the trough
of death;
lay down
and kissed
Evil's Lips.
Found myself screeching at night
distended hopes
lying all around;
and witch-like
cackles all in my ear
coming from
my own throat.
I rely upon
artifice
dark clothing
and obscured intent
to pluck weaknesses
from other's heart
upon which
I then feast.
You can hear the flapping
of my Crow's Wings
as I light
upon the next house
in the dead of night
silent, skulking
as my eyes pierce
chimney down
to see
just who is home
and who is gone.
And then
I drop
my cargo;
it lands inside the fireplace
to burn like incense
to infest the house;
but suddenly
my throat
runs dry
my Crows eyes fog
I dropp down
dead;
killed by
by laughter
below
and a Christmas Tree
which lit me aflame.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Pride
pride settles for many words
words that stab back like the knives of the knaves
shimmering and sharp and shaking
pride flying without wings
scaling the heights of mountains
hollow body without bones
feathered without flesh
pride too light for wisdom
too heavy with reasons less
pride jumps out of the cliff
lands on the the sharp stones
curses and crushes upon itself
bloody and shattered and pierced
mourns for no other
but itself unto itself losing
all upon itself knowing pretending
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Afternoon While Relaxing At The Porch
i see a little bird
coming out
from its nest
a fledgling
wanting to fly
testing the power
of its young wings
flapping
and flapping
feeling
the wind
keeping
it does not manage
after a brief stint
it falls on the ground
now limping &
limping
mother-bird tries
to rescue
diving
wanting to save
the
fledgling
but to no avail
she cannot carry
it back
high on that tree
it is heavy
a cat
comes along the way
and swallows
little birdie
for dinner
predator-prey -world
this is
nothing sentimental
nothing personal
just a matter of survival
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Shadowlands
The Shadow-lands are here about,
hidden from even the most devout.
There those who were, then ceased to be,
enjoy post mortem revelry.
Their ghostly visage sight unseen
by downcast kin that sob and keen.
They linger but a moment, then.
they head off to the shadow-lands.
There they are young and strong and free,
much more than simple memories.
When their earthy foibles are recalled
they laugh hardest of us all.
They’re close whenever called to mind;
The shadow folk are calm and kind.
For they who were, then ceased to be,
well know what mortals fail to see.
Only they can understand
who’ve traveled to the shadow-lands.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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When the prophet, a complacent fat man
When the prophet, a complacent fat man,
Arrived at the mountain-top,
He cried: "Woe to my knowledge!
I intended to see good white lands
And bad black lands,
But the scene is grey."
poem by Stephen Crane
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