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beneath the rowan
a red kite
broken
Kyle Oct 2020
Even if I'm swept away;
I will always find a way.
I'll accept the challenges;
With bravery and courage.
I
Love
You more
Than you think
I need you more than
You can ever imagine or dream
It's like a disease without a known cure, a drug that's so addictive
I can't do without you
Life's complete
With you
And
I
I think it looks like a kite
JEG325 Jun 2020
you look at the sky with longing
dreaming of the day you will rise
your colorful design flitting around
like a butterfly in disguise

perhaps you think it unfair
that birds can soar with such ease
and you ask why you were not given
wings to fly upon the breeze

you exist for your own reason
to bring smiles to a child's day
as she tries to get you airborne
hear the sounds of laughter & play

I watch the kite complete its calling
rising high aloft, a free spirit
carrying its special cargo
of happiness along with it!
Has anyone asked how a kite feels?
Rebekah Walker Apr 2020
A kite with faded colors
and unwoven threads,
once made with care,
now not much more than shreds.

It hovered with sorrow
longing to fly free,
but found it was held fast
by an unwavering string.

The cord was not much to look at,
most people would say.
But it was charming to the kite
in its own humble way.

It was vulnerable in places
and had a knot here and there,
but it never once faltered.
In its task, it took care.
It held the kite tightly
and made sure it stayed.
Otherwise, the high aiming kite
would surely float away.

Although the twine was secure,
gripping the helpless kite,
without the kite’s grasp,
the string would never take flight.
The able piece of rope would’ve
spent all its days
lying dormant on the dust,
never to be raised.
The kite helped it dream,
to see the sky and clouds,
and the string made sure
they both stayed near the ground.

The kite had seen other ropes,
crafted more tasteful and long.
They were appealing on the surface,
but never as strong.
They always broke off,
not steady enough to stay,
but this plain, simple cord
was there day after day.

The kite learned to love it,
saw beauty out and inside.
They weren’t sure if they’d make it,
but they’d undoubtedly try
to hold each other in place
until the end of their time.

A simple, sound string
and a half-broken kite.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
Southern Icarus
by Michael R. Burch

Windborne, lover of heights,
unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace
you climb, skittish kite ...

What do you know of the world’s despair,
gliding in vast solitariness there
so that all that remains is to
                                              fall?

Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs;
you stall
spread-eagled as the canvas snaps

and ***** its white rebellious wings,
and all
the houses watch with baffled eyes.

Originally published by Poetry Porch. Keywords/Tags: Icarus, flight, flying, hang-gliding, kite, glider, wind, canvas, South, southern, truck, unspooled



Note: The following poem unites Icarus with Tom O'Bedlam in a final, magical quest ...

Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch

I.
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand

and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands

where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting

and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting

and all I remember
—upon awaking—

is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking

one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,

forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.

II.
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!

To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking

rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle...

Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle...

Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!

I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.

III.
To Sleep, that is Bliss
in Love’s recursive Dream,

for the Night has Wings
pallid as moonbeams—

they will flit me to Life,
like a huge-eyed Phoenix

fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.

IV.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished

rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.

To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,

soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.

V.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,

Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.

Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,

we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.

VI.
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—

I’ll Live in the There,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.

Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,

so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.

I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,

though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
nishta Apr 2020
tethered to a string
it flies,
ever free
into the early hours of dusk.
the blue and purple triangles
merging as one.  

the times of what has passed,
stolen sweets and mirthful eyes
crinkle in the sunlight.
mindless chatter fills the abyss
as the torrent sea laps at the feet
of the storyteller and the lamb.

little boy, alight with glee
turns to his father
but there,
encompassing the boundless expanse
on the empty field,
not a flower sways.

the sea once turbulent, whispers in his wake.
a story, a tradition between two individuals.
Brian Yule Mar 2020
Red kite's graceful arc
Grateful swoop for kitchen scraps
Suburban garden
Em Glass Feb 2020
But don't you get tired
of being the kite?
whipped around on high,
to be sixteen again, to look
down and see nothing
but still be waiting
for the fall, to lean in
familiar for a human kiss
and step back to see
a glass eye.
If you killed me,
I would die.
Now listen well and hear this tale
Of a sixteen year old lad
Who with his wit and flying skill
Made two great countries glad

The chasm was eight hundred feet
Across Niagara Falls
The travelers could not get across
The steep and spray soaked walls

“We need a bridge”, cried engineers
A modern thoroughfare
But how to reach the other side?
We cannot build on air

A rocket or an arrow? No.
But what about a kite?
Let’s have a contest for the youth
We’d have a start, though slight

The people came with kites prepared
For fame and a reward
And Homan Walsh was very first
To span the gorge with cord

A string, then ropes, then cables spanned
And soon the bridge was done
The mighty falls could now be crossed
With string it was begun

And every great accomplishment
Began with something small
Remember Homan and his kite
That bridged Niagara Falls
This is prosperity poem 28. You can see this poem on a background at http://prosperitypoems.com/delivery28TheBalladOfHomanWalsh.html
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