Classics
Members
M
"Ars longa/Vita brevis". Art is long, life is short.
A seventeen year old girl, just trying to find herself. I love writing. I use poetry as an outlet. Not just any outlet, I use …
27/F/Pacific Northwest, USA
traveling with a suitcase of words! i'm never in one place too long, and always chipping away at a sea of drafts. thanks for being …
Poems
James Bradley McCallum Nov 2011
The Lark Ascends
James Bradley McCallum
Nov 2011
The lark ascends
on light wings
Taking flight toward
a heavenly home
It lingered here
but a short while
Certain of the course
she must go
A delicate beauty
and playful grace
Her twittering eyes
revealed
Deep trust for love
and sturdy branch
Of her verdant
earthly home
We reveled in her
abundant joy
She fed our spirits
and fondest hopes
Her gossamer wings
a fragrant breath
Her heart angels
hath divinely blessed
The lark is light!
The lark is life!
Her song forever young
The lark is kind
The lark is Thine
The lark is winging home
LAP
Godspeed Beloved
12/20/08
on light wings
Taking flight toward
a heavenly home
It lingered here
but a short while
Certain of the course
she must go
A delicate beauty
and playful grace
Her twittering eyes
revealed
Deep trust for love
and sturdy branch
Of her verdant
earthly home
We reveled in her
abundant joy
She fed our spirits
and fondest hopes
Her gossamer wings
a fragrant breath
Her heart angels
hath divinely blessed
The lark is light!
The lark is life!
Her song forever young
The lark is kind
The lark is Thine
The lark is winging home
LAP
Godspeed Beloved
12/20/08
Pyrrha
Jan 2019
He didn't know the love she had
Buried beneath her skin
Held behind the bars of her rib cage
Her heart was there, burning with desire
Beating within was the song of love sung by a lark
Alas, he couldn't hear it
From the surface he only saw an expressionless doll
He never listened to her when she tried to sing to him
That deafening sound that refused to please him
So instead of being left with a song
Destined to drive her to madness
She released the lark within
But that boy couldn't let her go
Tortured by the thoughts of her
Haunted by the memory of her
He defiled their trust
She could no longer stay silent as she planned
So she opened her mouth and told him
He was not a man
She hurt his pride and didn't mind
Her lark returned
But that pretty bird was consumed by rage
Her heart now burned with a different flame
Buried beneath her skin
Held behind the bars of her rib cage
Her heart was there, burning with desire
Beating within was the song of love sung by a lark
Alas, he couldn't hear it
From the surface he only saw an expressionless doll
He never listened to her when she tried to sing to him
That deafening sound that refused to please him
So instead of being left with a song
Destined to drive her to madness
She released the lark within
But that boy couldn't let her go
Tortured by the thoughts of her
Haunted by the memory of her
He defiled their trust
She could no longer stay silent as she planned
So she opened her mouth and told him
He was not a man
She hurt his pride and didn't mind
Her lark returned
But that pretty bird was consumed by rage
Her heart now burned with a different flame
Abner Ros Nov 2020
The Lark's Pail
Abner Ros
Nov 2020
The pail hurriedly fills to its brim
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.
‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.
Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.
The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’
Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.
Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.
‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.
‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,
Now it rests
Neither full nor empty.
From a gushing river, pure and deep.
Unsullied by the chrysanthemums and lilies
Which encircle the babbling brook.
‘Almost full!’ proclaims the Lark
Perched atop an aged oak,
As the wet trickles down the bail,
‘Soon, soon, soon’ he sings his song.
Down flutters the Owl with a hoot,
‘What say you, Lark?’
‘With your songs so sweet and pail bursting,’
Feathered talons grasp the neighbouring birch.
The tinkling warble resumes,
‘Not yet full!’ the Lark weeps,
In a melodic trill.
‘Still. More must be filled.’
Amidst the river stones and collapsed trunks,
The pail sits, engulfed in the serene.
O'er the vessel the Owl hovers,
As talons clutch the sopping bail.
Suddenly, the jaws separate, delivering a soft hoot;
‘To be bursting is no more complete than to be hollow’,
Warns the venerable Owl with its warm,
Serrated feathers surrounding its pale face.
‘Well, when shall I quit?’ asks the Lark in a daze,
Raising its beak to the Heavens.
‘You shan’t quit. For we all strive to be full.’
Asserts the Owl, bathed in divine light,
‘The water shall forever drip in this stream, as it shall drip in you.’
As he ascends in a flurry, the pail too flies,
Splashing upon the adjacent foliage,
Now it rests
Neither full nor empty.