collette-wilson - Hello Poetry

I wonder when our cities will be bright enough to drown Orion

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Oct 9, 2013

Oct 9, 2013 at 10:17 PM UTC

I wonder when our cities will be bright enough to drown Orion

Offense is a proud, pretty bird preening her feathers just so, resplendent in attire crested and crowned looking down over the world without warning, the wind dares to tousle her hair-- affection between connected hearts, between friends, between the flier and the flight the bird shrieks at her ruffled feathers, the caring gesture, and the good intent. she broods she resents and she preens when she is ready, the wind does not come. she shrieks at its absence as she did at its presence, but she can't put her pretty feathers to use

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Oct 9, 2013

Oct 9, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC

Offense

Offense is a proud, pretty bird preening her feathers just so, resplendent in attire crested and crowned looking down over the world without warning, the wind dares to tousle her hair-- affection between connected hearts, between friends, between the flier and the flight the bird shrieks at her ruffled feathers, the caring gesture, and the good intent. she broods she resents and she preens when she is ready, the wind does not come. she shrieks at its absence as she did at its presence, but she can't put her pretty feathers to use

24

snowflakes on my tongue I remember younger years in every backyard

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Feb 12, 2013

Feb 12, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC

Untitled

snowflakes on my tongue I remember younger years in every backyard

3

snow in the city— except for the chickadee the air is quiet

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Feb 12, 2013

Feb 12, 2013 at 10:58 AM UTC

Untitled

snow in the city— except for the chickadee the air is quiet

3

one day my feet will just let go of the ground, and I will fall into the sky I will walk without waver hand over hand over hand on the power lines, an act on the electric high wire that this circus won't see because its patrons fail to look up and since nothing is grave without gravity I will sing to the birds a melody they have never heard, a legacy tended by mockingbirds in the lullabies they offer their young and as I tumble on through the sky, I will gaze on this bright planet over a scene reduced to green-blue and the seamless blend of wonder and disaster and I will face the black open arms filling with stars, then I will put on my coat as my mama told me so I'll not catch cold in space

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Aug 8, 2012

Aug 8, 2012 at 8:34 AM UTC

so long!

one day my feet will just let go of the ground, and I will fall into the sky I will walk without waver hand over hand over hand on the power lines, an act on the electric high wire that this circus won't see because its patrons fail to look up and since nothing is grave without gravity I will sing to the birds a melody they have never heard, a legacy tended by mockingbirds in the lullabies they offer their young and as I tumble on through the sky, I will gaze on this bright planet over a scene reduced to green-blue and the seamless blend of wonder and disaster and I will face the black open arms filling with stars, then I will put on my coat as my mama told me so I'll not catch cold in space

26

The sun and the sailors were still asleep when the red women came. They painted the sky scarlet before the first golden rays chased them away and onto the ships. The sailors were aroused by the sound–like a thousand singing sirens had risen out of the sea. Their voices were like the ocean itself. Rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide. The captain appeared with his men, and the world was quiet. The red women took them then, and both men and women of the sea sang–rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide–and the sun fled with the onset of tempest. In the end, there was nothing left. No storm, no ship, no men, and no women. But the sky was painted scarlet and chased away the last golden rays, and now the sailors delight in red nights, but take warning at red mornings.

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Feb 4, 2012

Feb 4, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC

Red Sky At Morning

The sun and the sailors were still asleep when the red women came. They painted the sky scarlet before the first golden rays chased them away and onto the ships. The sailors were aroused by the sound–like a thousand singing sirens had risen out of the sea. Their voices were like the ocean itself. Rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide. The captain appeared with his men, and the world was quiet. The red women took them then, and both men and women of the sea sang–rising, falling, breaking points, high winds, and low tide–and the sun fled with the onset of tempest. In the end, there was nothing left. No storm, no ship, no men, and no women. But the sky was painted scarlet and chased away the last golden rays, and now the sailors delight in red nights, but take warning at red mornings.

1

I haven’t come to rest on your porch just to be accused and then arrested. I just need a rest from the world. As for the rest of you, I don’t suppose you’ve stirred from the comfort of the armrest, though some have surely suffered— cardiac arrest and all. Here’s where life’s symphony rests— a pause between notes— not because it wants to, but this measure calls for it, two beats. I haven’t come to your porch to rest, but I feel the sleep tickling the edges of my eyes with the lack of inertia that plagues the subject at rest.

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Feb 4, 2012

Feb 4, 2012 at 11:10 PM UTC

Rest

I haven’t come to rest on your porch just to be accused and then arrested. I just need a rest from the world. As for the rest of you, I don’t suppose you’ve stirred from the comfort of the armrest, though some have surely suffered— cardiac arrest and all. Here’s where life’s symphony rests— a pause between notes— not because it wants to, but this measure calls for it, two beats. I haven’t come to your porch to rest, but I feel the sleep tickling the edges of my eyes with the lack of inertia that plagues the subject at rest.

23

She's stark raving mad they tell me. But I think of a wild-eyed dreamer, hands to the heavens, splayed, longing with long fingers to entice those lights into moonlight sonatas that would make Beethoven proud. And I decide it might not be so bad to be star-craving mad.

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Jan 8, 2012

Jan 8, 2012 at 10:01 AM UTC

Mad

She's stark raving mad they tell me. But I think of a wild-eyed dreamer, hands to the heavens, splayed, longing with long fingers to entice those lights into moonlight sonatas that would make Beethoven proud. And I decide it might not be so bad to be star-craving mad.

11

The first arctic blast is startling in the last of summer because we hoped some things were forever. It whispers snow into the trees– and suddenly, the common ground that was once so fertile stiffens. The leaves change at the first sign of trouble, not brave enough for winter, but aflame before they go out. I am disappointed– I thought they were better than that. In bed, you turn your shoulders against me, sharpened like ice, and it seems there will be no more growing this season.

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Jan 5, 2012

Jan 5, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC

Hard Frost

The first arctic blast is startling in the last of summer because we hoped some things were forever. It whispers snow into the trees– and suddenly, the common ground that was once so fertile stiffens. The leaves change at the first sign of trouble, not brave enough for winter, but aflame before they go out. I am disappointed– I thought they were better than that. In bed, you turn your shoulders against me, sharpened like ice, and it seems there will be no more growing this season.

19

I. sometimes my thoughts are like dead dandelions fragile delicate and it only takes a breath to lose them. II. sometimes my thoughts are like dead dandelions fertile intricate and it only takes a breath to use them.

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Jan 5, 2012

Jan 5, 2012 at 8:17 PM UTC

Dead Dandelions

I. sometimes my thoughts are like dead dandelions fragile delicate and it only takes a breath to lose them. II. sometimes my thoughts are like dead dandelions fertile intricate and it only takes a breath to use them.

14