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IncholPoem Jan 10
Today  is  tomorrow's  
fourth night.

Believe  it  or
Yesterday   has  had
flowers   to  gift  you.

      Hence   the  coming
           season   of  February
would  be   very


       Believe   it  or  

Tomorrow's   tomorrow
would   be my
first   guest.

  Let  him  permit
to  fly   winter-kites
on   Indian  sky.
George Jan 3
As a child, against a strong wind, I flew my kite.
It went so high,
into its own place,
above it all,
where I really wanted to be.

I met a man once,
he said he walked away from success,
of the greatest kind,
all of it, for his wife and daughter.
He then polished his pool cue.
Sipped a warm beer.
In the glow of his happiness,
he played a hopeless game of pool.
I was better than him.
At pool.

I spoke to a lively lady last year,
in her background,
on a busy mantelpiece,
was a photo of her son.
He had died so many years ago.

I knew of a man,
who went back home,
to be with his mother,
during her final days.
He never came back.
I heard he was happy,
in that small town,
where he was born.

I held my own child's hand yesterday,
walking home,
a swirling mixture of darkness, green and breeze,
all framed against the night,
that had arrived many hours ago.
Pagan Paul Jan 1
The string trails away down
I tug it with all of my might,
I am the hue of setting suns,
I am a sporting red kite.

I wanted someone with scissors
to so deftly cut the strings,
transform into a real Red Kite
with eyes and feathers and wings.

Floating free upon the winds,
and marvelling at all that I spy,
swooping and diving at high play,
the flying master of the sky.

But now something has changed,
a strange and different feeling,
I think I'd like to be grounded,
for someone to start in-reeling.

I would like to feel so treasured,
a possession of the hearts cry.
Wishing to be the real Red Kite,
the pleasure in someone else's sky.

© Pagan Paul (30/12/18)
LolaPark Sep 2018
I saw a girl playing alone
many of her toys scattered around
there was only one she bothered to pick up.

A paper kite that was broken
with edges folded and pieces fallen
she tried to fly it but it was for nothing.

I didn't see how long she tried to fly it
but I prayed she won't become crestfallen
when most things in the world seem broken.
Andrew Nov 2017
I take flight
With all my might
To be your kite
Following you wherever you go
To be part of your ebb and flow
People think I ingested the wrong pill
Because up here I can't see the roadkill
And float over the pitch black oil spills
From the end of your string
I become king

There is an approaching storm
As you deviate from the norm
And discontinue acting warm
Your lightning strikes
My metal pike
Electricity tears through my thin fabric
As I dream of a tranquil casket
And you want to grant me my death wish
I guess that's why they call me Icarish
For flying to close to the rain
Only to constantly feel pain
To distract me from the shame
From those with unknown names
But familiar bigoted flames
To me you both are the same
Once I go against the grain
You tell me to stay in my lane
High above the gravelly ground
Where you can't hear my sounds
Of impaling wailing
Because you're bailing
Letting go of the string
You become king

I am a kite floating
Spending night noting
All my many mistakes
That caused these breaks
But despite trying my very best
The wind provides a difficult test
After I am battered into tatters
My hopes couldn't be flatter
So I start to feel it doesn't matter
When my dreams came true then shattered
The wind solemnly sings
Of distant powerful kings
But I cannot fly anymore
In my broken kite form
KM Hanslik Jul 2018
I always fall apart with
such finesse, like maybe if my hands weren’t so cold
I could begin to understand the ways you led me through
each crash-course on learning how to undo my expectations;
I always think these words
will build stronger walls and these hands will be still
long enough to pour sense into what I’m saying, like maybe
calming my nerves will be enough to hold me over until tomorrow;
maybe you were right all along, maybe we don’t get to choose
who we sign our hearts off to in the end;

but I think maybe we’ve all just been
tossed out of the **** a little too early,
choking on the pollution before our lungs
were strong enough to breathe it in.
The way the sun kisses our skins has become a long-lost remedy for
old cleaning habits (we’re all keeping skeletons behind our doors)
& maybe paper kites fly higher when
you let them go, but it’s hard when oxygen gathers
close to the ground & your hands are always chafed raw from
trying to decide.
rd Jul 2018
Like a kite is my mind..
Sometimes it soars high in the sky,
Sometimes it struggles to fly..
Poetic T Jun 2018
Their the glue
          holding my thoughts
solid through the hard times.

I would never fly a kite
            in a storm of depression,
            worried of being struck down.

But when I fly it with them,
the clouds disperse and my kite
                flies high with the love of all.

Every breath pushing my affection higher,
                                   I'll always fly this kite
           as long as there love breathes upon it.
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