That We Can Be Broken - A Bird Spirit Speaks Of Beginnings
.
Citizen! What have they done with all the air? - Victor Serge
1
I began
a bird flown down a chimney,
an empty house hidden in a
mountain valley, a night time
fire upon surrounding hills,
a moonshine still's signal flame,
a bootlegger's warning,
a silent spirit conjuring
drip by drip
metal and grain.
No blue fire therein.
Suddenly spun,
some beckoning thing
wings between night's crumbled
brick and rusted tin,
white rock and
a wide sky,
braced by
a
closed
encircling valley.
2
Here
is a Presence
beyond illicit fires
bearing witness to evidence found,
remains of flight, contrived escapes
stopped by panes,
walls striped in ramming panic,
of ritual and a broken neck,
petrified wings displaced.
Now remote is the open space
they once could range.
3
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal
for what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in un-storied astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.
4
There are uses for wings -
thoughts,
ramming walls,
and panes,
earnest though
contrived escapes.
At first midnight in stillness,
wait.
A white rock,
wings,
a still,
ignorant fires,
illicit spirits
lean into changes.
5
In arms
we carried It
as one does
a child
yet it was
He who carried us,
both bird and man,
who cried
openly
on the way
for our presence
solid in his arms,
he who did not care
who saw his tears shed,
head down,
beneath spring blossoms,
living presences
within bestowing
strength,
order
from
stone and remnant wings.
6
How all this will turn.
I do not burn to know.
I only yearn here,
air and more,
of air now air
all the more
in sustained
moments
without height.
Something returns
or turns inward
that may be climbed
to rest upon
or fall again to
some chimney
life to be found,
itself a winged burden.
.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Uses For Wings - Variations From 'We Can Be Broken' & Other Discarded Poems
.
'It means so much that we can be broken.' - from an early poem,1978
For Tien Ho, departed,
and Michael R.
carving the empty space
of her leaving still
*
Here is a Presence beyond
illicit fires bearing witness
to evidence, remains of flight,
contrived escapes blocked by panes,
walls striped in ramming panic,
of ritual and a broken neck,
petrified wings placed in open
spaces they once could range.
*
I began
a bird flown down a chimney
dying in an empty house,
a hidden mountain valley,
night time fires upon surrounding
hills, moonshine stills signaling
flame warnings, bootleggers' silent
spirits conjuring drip by drip
metal and grain.
*
Here are uses for wings:
something returning,
or turning inward
eventually climbed,
rested upon,
or fallen to some chimney life.
*
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal
for what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men,
as present as God. My own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones
are only creases for once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.
*
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Our Mutual Confession Invisibly Drawn - Pentecostal Church Ruins
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal,
what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in un-storied astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Two Poems, Remembering Barnardsville Days, Blue Ridge Mountains, North Carolina
1
Uses For Wings - Variations From 'We Can Be Broken' & Other Discarded Poems
'It means so much that we can be broken.' - from an early poem,1978
for Tien Ho, departed,
and Michael carving
the empty space
of her leaving still
*
Here is a Presence beyond
illicit fires bearing witness
to evidence, remains of flight,
contrived escapes blocked by panes,
walls striped in ramming panic,
of ritual and a broken neck,
petrified wings placed in open
spaces they once could range.
*
I began
a bird flown down a chimney
dying in an empty house,
a hidden mountain valley,
night time fires upon surrounding
hills, moonshine stills signaling
flame warnings, bootleggers' silent
spirits conjuring drip by drip
metal and grain.
*
Here are uses for wings:
something returning,
or turning inward
eventually climbed,
rested upon,
or fallen to some chimney life.
*
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal,
what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men,
as present as God. My own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones
are only creases for once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,
leaning into changes.
2
What Is Revealed Side-By-Side
....recalling Barnardsville days
in the Blue Ridge, North Carolina
1
Silent, side-by-side, reading.
An occasional 'hear this then. '
Read aloud, words, bread, jam;
familiar tarnished knives spreading;
wedding set, grandmother's, all hands
forget intent on feeding, reading to each
gathered mouth.
Heads nod agreement.
Backs of hands and books
as napkins. Smiles all
around.
2 - What Is Read Out Loud
Beneath witnessed wheels
dancing stars gather stones at dusk,
pockets fill climbing World Tree to
apogee
then downward turn,
stones flung low to dawn,
that largest sun stumbles
alone to blue, screaming,
I WANT A WOMAN
heat enough to reveal morning's dove-blind croon,
burnt crow, having no use for light, missing
a leg, perches hard against solar winds.
Sun's call, different as bird and star, discloses.
3
What is revealed:
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole.
how the serpent's tail shimmers when tossed
out the door -
BE GONE
how one has learned to shake the sheet,
the pants, the socks, the heel-worn boots
before the getting-into, the putting on,
for even a snake loves a warm bed,
a pillow for its head - found once a
skin shed on my flower patterned
pillowcase, fleecy lambs forever silently
bleat as the cloth thins slowly slowly
from head wear, dream wear
because I was once a sleeping man.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unexpected Fire, A Son's Cycle
for my father,
Major Warren Falcon, Sr.
Of Childhood Lamenting - Song of Experience
Might I sing it then?
How many stones he hauled
Not bidden but rough forced
Hand by hand from coagulate soil,
A boy's red wagon rusting
Full of spilled tumble-stones -
Unyielding stars between the rows, silent.
Brooding father with
His hoe to weed or ridge
To row or brow to strike
Made of a boy a mule and plow
At Earth's farthest Edge
Too ill-tilled to nurture
But more to fracture.
Land and the boy turned by his
Father's bad blood to waste.
Both boy and corn obedient
To his And Greater Hand grew tall.
He hid there late summers in
Fateful stalks, grew small on
Shadowed afternoons reading of
Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores
More, native born and slave, driven
From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall
Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.
He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand,
Or a God's, to haul him or throw,
But it was his father's.
I often stare now at my own to know the difference...
*
Adolescence - Praising.
Cleaning Fish On Good Friday,1966
Fate, then, heavy in a boy's hand
hoists dead weight to a nail on a tree.
His knife scores firm flesh yielding
beneath freshly limp gills - there is an
instrument made just for this, pincher-pliers
for catfish skin - he grips and tears,
uses his weight down-stripping smoothly
bare to such luscence little ribs of roseate flesh.
Only the overly large head, the ugly face
whiskered within gilded monstrance,
remain pure to form, thin-lipped and
mocking, restrained by depth pressures,
sustained on surface trash, dead things
that sink down it's treasures.
Tenderly sing, then, to a nail
a boy's blood catechism -
hands, minds, meant to be stained,
mercy's quality unstrained
neither by will nor gill.
Scavenging flocks gladly fill their
gullets inhaling entrails tossed
in supplicant bins.
In unison Gregorian they scream:
There is a nail for me
plain, a chorus of barks** -
splintered lips
punctuated surprise,
glossolalia of rivers
now given weight.
One can only will
praise to 'The End',
and spill, after pliers,
one's silken guts in offering.
**A catfish when brought to shore barks, a rasping, barking discharge of air.
*
Middle Age - Awareness of Mortality Sure
Our Mutual Confession
Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal
for what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.
A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in unstoried astonishment.
Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fire,
leaning into changes.
*
Middle-Age - Acceptance - Forgiveness
Repose Of Needles
For Sanju,
If you need to stand or lie
in the shade for awhile then
do so as farmers do, as does
my father who farms his despair
in hot sun then lays beneath
pines in cooler shade to rest,
to dream that activity between
dirt and sky means some lasting
thing in its doing even though
his ruined life cannot make
it right between clouds and
his obsession with weeds.
Between the garden and the
un-tilled woods he rests,
repose of needles and bark,
mid-day sun insisting its
question slowly. Night dawning
he at last in darkness stands
returned from day, a practical
vision of green shoots to come
from blistered hands.
Up hill to the colder house,
he wills himself to life enough,
speaks some words to wife,
arcs widely around silent wary
children and lives to be old.
His loss of memory leaves it
for others to forgive, to live on
in the rich rot of that ongoing
question which nurtures his
memory haltingly, gracefully, on.
Astonished, I have arrived at
love for him who hurt me most,
have learned to obey the odor
of decaying things compelling
hands to dirt. Within the dream
of staying, the tendril and the heart,
my aging body takes on my
father's form; I, too, like him,
am a farmer when I note how
it moves in its winding reach,
rooting, rising, giving horizon.
*
Reconciliation - Radiance:
Psalm
What can I bring to harvest but these
bruised hands, these cracked stones?
Praise to the fruit tree long untended
beneath mendicant stars.
A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full,
Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.
Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend,
My most loving curse,
A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -
Look.
From unexpected fire
comes frail, brief blossoms.
*William Shakespeare
**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.
The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Totem Last Night With Us Walked - A Verbal Sculpture
.
In arms we carried It as
one does a child yet it
was He who carried us
both bird and man who
cried openly along the
way entire for our presence
was solid in His arms.
He did not care who saw
these shed tears, head down
beneath spring blossoms -
Dogon warrior standing tall
with his staff and carved horn.
poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
On Silent Wings
(t. j. white, j. ralston)
Producer: trevor horn
Album: wildest dreams (96)
Special guest: sting
There was a time when I would have followed you
To the end of the earth
I was willing to share it all with you
The love, the hurt
Ive seen you when your dreams were falling in the dust
But I never stopped believing in you
I always thought our love was strong enough
One you could hold on to
You never see it coming
You just let it fly
On silent wings, silent wings
You cant hide what you you feel inside
And the fire has left your eyes
On silent wings
I see us in our dreams and were dancing
I can almost hear the song
But the prayers, they go unanswered
But we both know, were just hanging on
I feel ashamed, but Ill never know the reason why
The rug was pulled so gently from under my feet
I only know that something good has died
Between you and me, oh its just a memory
You never see it coming
You just go separate ways
On silent wings, silent wings
Theres no more promises to break
Or our love has slipped away
On silent wings
You never see it coming
But you know it has to end
On silent wings, silent wings
I will never be the same again
I feel the whisper of the wind
On silent wings
song performed by by Tina Turner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Rock In The Sea
Think of our blindness where the water burned!
Are we so certain that those wings, returned
And turning, we had half discerned
Before our dazzled eyes had surely seen
The bird aloft there, did not mean?—
Our hearts so seized upon the sign!
Think how we sailed up-wind, the brine
Tasting of daphne, the enormous wave
Thundering in the water cave—
Thunder in stone. And how we beached the skiff
And climbed the coral of that iron cliff
And found what only in our hearts we’d heard—
The silver screaming of that one, white bird:
The fabulous wings, the crimson beak
That opened, red as blood, to shriek
And clamor in that world of stone,
No voice to answer but its own.
What certainty, hidden in our hearts before,
Found in the bird its metaphor?
poem by Archibald MacLeish
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Octavio 3
'We pursue modernity
in her incessant metamorphoses
yet we never manage to trap her.
She always escapes:
each encounter ends in flight.
We embrace her and
she disappears
immediately:
it was just a little air.
It is the instant,
that bird that is everywhere
and nowhere.
We want to trap it alive
but it flaps its wings
and vanishes
in the form of a handful
of syllables.
We are left empty-handed.
Then the doors of perception open slightly
and the other time appears,
the real one we were searching for
without knowing it:
the present,
the presence.'
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Those moments
as you begin
you make decisions that end
a certain moment
something escapes like a bird from your hand
but that is what it is going to be
wings are always wings
and the hands and palms are but what you claim you have
there is a satisfaction
of flight for those destined to fly
in the same manner there is more to a home
as it is too destined to stay
there is no gauge to all these but the heart that sings
during those moments of cold rain
there is no point of return
for one who has finally decided to be just oneself
a home a sofa and a window that you close
because finally it is dark ....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Wings Of The Night
Wings of the night
Shimmering light
Passes over the moon.
Like some silent
Spiritual tune.
That ballerina
Of my soul
Pirouettes
Across the stage.
Lit by the sleeping rage
Of the sun.
Was this
How love begun.
Wings of the night
Fluttering white.
Against blue canvas
Of eternal sky.
Only angels
Fly so high.
Lending smiles
To stars that cry.
Heaven's candles
Burning low.
Is this
What fate did throw
Into a swirling
Midnight show.
Wings of the night
Fanned out.
Coloured bright.
Glide
On glacier white
Dawn.
When love's hope is reborn.
Watch the skies.
For that elusive sprite.
Magic flies
On the wings of the night.
poem by Kevin East
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Icarus
Early in the morning sunlight
Soaring on the wings of dawn
Here I'll live and die with my wings in the sky
And I won't come down no more
Higher than a bird I'm flying
Crimson skies of ice and fire
Borne on wings of steel I have so much to feel
And I won't come down no more
Sail on, sail on, I will rise each day to meet the dawn
So high, so high
I've climbed the mountains of the sky
Without my wings you know I'd surely die
I found my freedom flyin' high
I've climbed the mountains of the sky
Floating on a cloud of amber
Searching for the rainbow's end
Earth so far below me,
I'm here alone, free
I can't come down no more
song performed by by Kansas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Icarus - Borne On Wings Of Steel
Early in the morning sunlight
Soaring on the wings of dawn
Here I'll live and die with my wings in the sky
And I won't come down no more
Higher than a bird I'm flying
Crimson skies of ice and fire
Borne on wings of steel I have so much to feel
And I won't come down no more
Sail on, sail on, I will rise each day to meet the dawn
So high, so high
I've climbed the mountains of the sky
Without my wings you know I'd surely die
I found my freedom flyin' high
I've climbed the mountains of the sky
Floating on a cloud of amber
Searching for the rainbow's end
Earth so far below me,
I'm here alone, free
I can't come down no more
song performed by by Kansas
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Rise From The Ashes
Sent to the earth In the open light
White soul delivered out from the dark
Guardian of a pure heart, run in innocent blood
Owned the spirit like a young phoenix learn to fly
Underneath the skin it binds, fears existence denied
But when the sun loose it's crown at the dark night
Mist of fear shadowing all visible roads
Suffering without heat to breathe cold
Consuming air from this atmosphere
Holding soul in frozen blood, away from frozen heart
Taking over sanity to absorb all energy of living
Numb all the strength till wings lost the last flames
The glory now fade away soon to disappear
All broken, burned by this cold fear just in one night
And released spirit moved out as despaired soot
Force the soul to vapor above the ashes crude
Left the rest wait to collapse on the ground
Hopes estranged, decayed in the ashes
Purified soul levitates between the earth and the sky
Like a mass of white cotton, now it keeps growing
Filtering air to embrace all scattering black dust
The spirit particles, to not gone in black space
Emerge In anew constitution, an invisible union,
Unison for two, back as a whole one again
Sown by lightning, ties them together
In a mega black cloud above the ashes
A restoration of fearless,
Mission to save the life grace
A shiny drop, hit the ground
The purest ardor in the gem of soul
Return to the ashes as a brave dew
A spark was created, life ignited
Drizzle bring more, in every drip drop
Bring the heats, poured as the rain fall
Towering fires, Igniting sensation
Celebrating of new rising life
The return of the soul and spirit
For the heart lend the pulses again
Breathing confident
To raise the flamed wings again
Behind the limb
Like burning fires
Like a phoenix reclaim dreams
From lost life in earth and return again
After one more time delivered from dark
To seek the open light brighter than the sun rise
Cause after all what we found a lesson to be wise
..............................
poem by Unwritten Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Eggs Of The Blue Bird On The Nest
the blue bird
takes care of its nest
all the white eggs
warm beneath its feathers
all those nights
and even cold days
and then when the eggs hatch
the fledgelings
prematurely spread their wings
fall off from the branch
where the nest hangs
on the following morning
you see the ants feasting on their flesh
ah! the blue bird sings again
readies itself for the rain
it escapes away from its sorrows
and flies away...far, far away
far, far away....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unable To Fly
I was once like a little bird
Caught by your hidden trap
Surrender unto you like a prey
Bleeding weakly with fright
Brought me to your home with pride
All day and night you cared
Healed those wounds beneath my wings
Built me a cage made of gold
Awaken me with the pat of love
Taught me how to sing of thanks
Many days have passed
I’ve been a joy in your life
And so you forgot who I was
Who I am and what I long outside
Forgotten that I’m prisoner of love
Though you treated me so kind
I want to be free, a bird of flight
I am eager to try if I can fly
Use my wings under the golden light
Soar into the blue sky, I will arise
And from my cage you let me free
But with claws so weak to grip
With wings unrehearsed to fly
I fainted in this frightful flight
So I find way back to your arms
I don’t know if I’ll be mad at you
Cease to sing to make you blue
‘Cause you deprived my right to fly
All my life I will be a parasite
For without you I cannot survive
poem by Rose de Ramar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Ruined Homestead
White birds, frightened from silver grass,
whose blood-rose breasts and wings are thrown
like petals settling down the pass,
flower the ruined homestead’s stone.
Rise from the fallen walls and scream,
crested, from the stark dead gum;
shatter the crystal of the morning’s dream
where I, across your landscape, come.
Roofless, the broken stonework frames
red arid hills, a valley where
the ghost-gums writhe like whitened flames
and desert-oaks droop their dark hair.
And when, in the crucible of the hills
the molten day has died, there stands
under the blaze of stars that fills
its night, a house not made with hands.
poem by Roland Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The White Bird In My Hand
I LOST A bird,
it is a bird with white wings,
i shape those wings,
and give it strength,
in the wink of an eye
it flies away,
it never sings for me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Heart Of Stone
A broken wing, and a broken bone
Of a bird, that met a stone
Lied helpless And was bit despair
Looked above If god was there.
Short of food And short of breath
Was silently waiting For his death
Asked his wings If they could fly.
Yes they said why don't you try
He gathered his strength and wiped his tears.
And soon he stood Without his fears
His eyes stared at the Dark blue sky
But just then when he was about to fly
they grabbed his neck they grabbed it hard
with all his strength he could move a yard
and yes those hands did hurt his bone
he had met a heart of stone
some ugly hands and a beautiful bird.
He cried for help But no one heard.
His wings were flawed And his muscles were stiff.
He begged them to throw him off a cliff
oh dumb bird, don't you get,
look at you, it's a stone you met.
To this, the half dead bird replied
So what, if I die
Just for once I ll meet the air.
And also see if god was there.
Stories of wisdom, that were once told
But now this world had been so cold.
He wished if those blind eyes could see.
The bird was dead though his soul was free.
poem by Kanav Justa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
An Allegory Of Our Sinless Meeting....
beyond our two flesh
i hang on
to the twig of the
divine
i am the black bird
with a wide
span of wings
i am heavier
than a stone on your
neck
but i carry on
like a cliffhanger
i will let my body fall
and i shall not use
my wings
i trust the sea
and i am a friend of the
full moon.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Having Wings
Having wings
I have wings
Wings so white
Wings that let me fly like a kite
Having wings is such a spontaneous
Why to say to say hey, I made it that way
Made it to graduation and made it to a promotion.
made it all over this nation
But now having wings makes me want to cry
Cry so hard ill probably drown in my tears
Ill cry because I know we didn’t say are last good- bye and
are final hug and kiss good- night
I dedicate this to my grandfather
poem by Marrissa Vera
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!