Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
From where did I come from?
From whence did I arrive.
Was I 3, 4, 5, or 6 when my eyes could see things weren't alright.
Did the earth put me here to brings peace?
Does the bird think about its past nest.
Will the sea rise.
The sun explode.
And to where do I put my parents to rest?
Will I regale my children with tales of valor?
Will I curse their existence.
Do I deserve to be alive right now?

The bird does not let its past nest hold it down.
The sea will find a home somewhere else.
And I will be, just here. Breathing deeply, to make sure I'm still alive.
I dunno. Word salad.
There are birds that fly amongst the stars
Owls that whisper twinkling hearts
These feathers, soft on crackled air
Float in wisps of debonair

Feet outstretched to meadows slender
Fall through skies in reverent tones
See that ghost of ancient past
Pluck fresh the blooms of meat and bone

The face of moons that never change
Bare their souls in dullen light
These birds that swim amongst the clouds
True hunters of the night
even though you're gone
the sun shines its brightest
and the birds still sing
Man Feb 24
the dove
labored by his own beak;
the last breathed breath

lungs are filled
with the salt of the sea
**** to the shackled, the non-free
do you care, or is it a play
to see what you can get
breathe in
what's left
of the clean we polluted
divinity diluted
of air cleared, not yet
Payton Feb 24
The moon poured over the
                     and the night-birds
howled                through the wind.
The stars shuddered in their
midnight sky                  and whispered his
name amongst themselves.

He could do nothing but swallow
his tears in her memory.
This poem was written in 2016. It is inspired by Sebastian James Fairfax from Gillian Shield's Immortal series.
Ella Stefan Feb 19
Little doll made of sticks,
his body felt as heavy as bricks.

Even as he lived in the forest,
he always came by a young little florist.

Nobody believed his words, not even all of the blue jay birds.

For the people around him his nose grew,
Even though to him, all he was feeling was blue.
The bird is thankful
For each new day
To fly away.
Again .
To new hights.

Gratitude for the new day
Every day you learn something new
KaZAkers Feb 16
I abandoned
what is called
It turned up a dial
that was already too high.
One can be
too self-aware,
too contemplative,
too analytical,
too observant.
Igniting the central nervous system
driving it off a cliff.
Now I
stare at the ocean,
walk the whitewater,
gaze at the stars,
listen to the birds.
That is pure meditation.

(C) KaZ Akers
Parker Vance Feb 14
Birds of a feather flock together in the sultry atmosphere, whirring in and out of crepuscular clouds as if it were nothing special. feathers more like needles blacked under the godless face of the wind. The cliff's voice clings to their sun-smeared backs, reminds them of his own position on an empty, red planet and they sing back that gravity lament. The sky goes on about the lovely morning air and sunlight marches when all birds want is a place to lie down from that brittle flight, to rest their hollow bones filled with a lost longing.
I wonder what it would be like for birds under a red sun.
Next page