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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
Pyrrha Apr 26
Abusing his kindness
Is like giving a child a kite
Then cutting the string
fiachra breac Apr 23
soaring peacefully,
far above our heads.

you keen and dive,
move and shake,
you dance.

careful now -
don't let go,
keep the string firm in your grasp

she is strong,
and she pulls hard -
lifting us up from our feet.

o! to be a ribbon,
fluttering in your breeze,
swirling and twirling beneath
your gaze.

o! to feel the tug
of that thin white line,
wrenching us forward,
dragging us on -

tied to the pit of my stomach,
you yank what's left of my insides out
1    
     Go fly a kite!
     High!
     (&
     i'll fly
     It with yoU!)

2
     a long-distance throw;
     frizzbee flies
     like a UFO;
     clear blue skies;
     a tic-tac-toe
     of them trails
     called chem trails;
     nano-aliens hatch;
     he makes the catch!
Erian Apr 9
When I'm with you
My worries
My cares
My wounds
Blows away
Gone like a kite
With its string held
In your grasp
Aspen Welsch Feb 24
I might get caught up in your mind
I might unwind my string
and outstretch my being
to float with you, to let you fill up
my paper wings, my origami heart
I might take flight and let you
fly this kite, if only
you pull me in easy, keep me steady
I might follow where you lead
if you give me the freedom I need
to be colored beautiful
against a high, blue sky
to be me, shaped perfectly for you to see
Tommy Randell Feb 21
Cross-legged
But serious and still
In an upstairs curtained room
I balance two slender shafts of Light
One in each upturned palm

Kites resemble Poets                   Poets resemble Kites
Because they fly                                            Enthralled
Only to be held                                By upturned Faces
By outreaching Hands

It could have been the other way round.
But, as a matter of Fact
Flying this Kite today
Seems to be a matter of touch
And hardly a dangerous thing to do

Is touching Knowing finally do you think?

I close my eyes against the light
And steer the Sun
By heat alone

Seeking the purity of something

About to take place
A wonderful moment of meditative connection
IncholPoem Jan 10
Today  is  tomorrow's  
fourth night.



Believe  it  or
    not
Yesterday   has  had
flowers   to  gift  you.




      Hence   the  coming
           season   of  February
would  be   very

    nasty!



       Believe   it  or  

                  not
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)
.
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