Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Feb 2018 alwaystrying
Josh
I'm like a bird, I want to fly away.
Wrapped in a billowing yellow silk scarf
which shines gold in the light of day.

Perched on a tree branch, face the horizon.
Hope and sunlight glimmer reflected in
each determined eye which widens.  

Ruffled feathers are my warm, windswept hair.
I will leap into the sky, stretching high
To glide through the air if I dare.
  
Music from Cape Town, a bird's song my ears
spread their wings and feel the song's lift beneath
and sing sweet as the horizon nears.

I am a  bird and as I fly away
wrapped in my billowing yellow silk scarf
I shine gold in the light of day.
THE KIND OF THINGS POETS THINK/DO

all its little life
the triangle longed to be
a circle

"I want to get around!"
it piped up
in its little Isosceles voice

"It's...it's preposterous!"
screamed his mother Scalenely
"...whoever heard of such a thing!"

"You should be proud of your lines!"
scolded its grandpa
Equilaterally

"A triangle can not be..."
said his Papa in a right angled kind of way
"...anything other than a triangle!"

"I always felt I was a circle
trapped inside
a triangle's body!"

one day a passing poet
eavesdropped in an idle moment
on what the lines were saying

"Why ever not...why
ever not" said the poet
poet chaps tend to think like that

so he erased the brave
little Isosceles
drew him again as a circle

"Wheee!"
laughed the former Isosceles triangle
delighting in its circle-ness

this is the kind of things
poets think of
poets do
reassurence...
                     wrong...
                             reassurance...
    english as a language
       is still (or at least i am:
                  user)
grapling with æ...
much less with œ...
                          perhaps
it's the alphabetical
proximity of a & e...
               perhaps it's
simply the alphabetical
coherence...
worse still it's
      adam & eve siamese:
fabled the myth
who learnt death -
but didn't learn
how to forget -
   constantly stirring
up the dead...
which became
  the modern shadow
of a man:
or the grey mass
                      interlude.
Next page