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Saksham Garg Sep 2014
A bluebird flew..
More bluebirds followed..  
And another.

Swings, slides and merry go rounds creaked,
Empty playgrounds called their little friends to come play,
As none came but the chilling wind,
Blowing leaves in mornings bleak.  

So the bluebirds flew,
Bluebirds flew South,
And another..

She was kind to kids,
He was overwhelmed by their chatter,
She'd swing em around in her arms,
He'd give em rides on his back all day.
They weren't there either,
Cause they came for the children,
Who were away on vacation,

Above the bluebirds flew,
Invisible against the sky,
And another...

Snowflakes fell, scant and slow,
Trees became whiter and sun shone brighter,
Parks were deserted, no school buses were seen,
Nor an ice-cream truck in sight, only a white hazy sheen,
For December had arrived and in its wake the people had fled,
To beaches in tropics and islands alike..

Where the bluebirds flew,
The bluebirds flew there to,
And another..

It wasn't chance, it was merely unfair,
Which is why it was this way,
They didn't go to church, But merely walked in arms,
Never praying but forever wishing, for a little luck to come their way,

Bluebirds afar flew,
Bluebirds flew to lands far away,
And another...

Soon the earth spun, and seasons changed,
The parks they filled, the buses they plied,
Running all over the city, for ice-cream they once again cried,
All came back that evening in the park,  all but one,
Their favorite one..

Bluebirds chirped,
Back North the bluebirds returned,
And another..

Wondering what had happened,
They rushed to find out,
Tried his place, it was locked,
Couldn't find him at school nor in parks,
The Cityhall and even the church they tried
A tiny red haired girl, nowhere they could find,
And then they got the news,
Her parents had been lost at sea,
Leaving the little one all alone behind,

The Bluebirds flew in circles,
Them Bluebirds couldn't fly,
But another..

How'd the earth spun, they never did realize,
Oceans in their aftermath had left something behind,
A wish for them, closure of a kind,
But a bus came, for a foster home that night,
He only got the news the next morning,
All day next and the night thereafter she cried,

The Bluebirds swayed in the winds,
Braced the gust the bluebirds did,
Another tried...

For it showed them a way, twisted although it was,
They'd get their wish, something they never had,
A child of their own and guardians for the poor child,
Solace for all, but yet the world argued,
Morality, fate and blasphemy they called it,
The Other Bluebird simply called it divine.

And so the Bluebirds fly,
Bluebirds seen flying by,
Yes, another..
clysh Sep 2018
bluebirds
bluebirds bluebirds
the sky is full of bluebirds
bluebirds fly
the clouds are not
there
?
bluebirds
no more bluebirds
the clouds hid them
rambling thoughts...
what are the bluebirds?
i like to watch the bluebirds flying in the sky
along the cliffs of dover standing oh so high
singing out there song as happy as can be
singing all together in perfect harmony.

such a lovely tune with a lovely melody
flying all around happy and wild an free
i like to watch the bluebirds its something i adore
oneday i will return to here them sing once more.
i sat and watched the bluebirds high up in the sky
flying all in unison as they went flying bye
landing on the cliffs with its big white face
standing in a row not one out of place.

then they began to sing such a lovely tune
i sat there and listened as they began to croon
a lovely little song filled with so much love
singing all together on the cliffs above.

when there song was finished of they flew once more
all around the cliffs of the Dover shore
i wont forget that day the bluebirds sang to me
such a lovely song that made me feel so free.
A child learns to walk
his way to becoming a man.
A man learns to sit down, shut up
and listen to the master plan.
Seems kinda backwards 
to a guy like me,
so I'll keep walkin' on,
keep bein' free.
They say the grass is greener
on life's other side
so I took a trip,
I went for the ride.
I arrived and I saw
a new point of view,
I showed up refreshed,
feelin' somethin' new.
So I decided
that I'd stay for a while.
Got better reacquainted
with my inner child.
I spent my youth workin' hard
tryin' to grow up,
at twenty years of life I realized
that I hadn't lived enough.
So I opened up my heart and mind,
started trustin' everyone
except those who won't accept me,
those relationships are done.
Peace and love
and all that other good stuff
too many other people
just don't look for it enough.
But I started to accept it
once I opened my mind,
once I broke on through
to the other side.
Trap me in a room
with some normal populace
I'll be antisocial
in my head makin' lists,
'cause I wanna be sure
I don't end up like them.
My life, mind and time ain't as simple
as the suit and tie men.
But put me in a place
with people dyin' to be free
I'll have a smile on my face
and a reason to be me.
I'll enjoy myself,
I'll dance, laugh and love
and know Gods smilin' down on me
up from above.
He didn't give us life
to fill with work, stress and tears,
he never expected us
to face all our fears.
He loves us and he wants us
to be happy and free
like bluebirds in the sky
doin' whatever they please.
3 & 1/2 years later: I wrote this, but never really lived it at the time. I feel I'm much closer to this now than I ever could've hoped to have been when it was written.

How silly that it's one of my most read pieces...
r May 2017
Time is a witness
to the mark of the moth
in my hair, and I swear
the nights are getting longer

I keep putting it off
hoping I would discover
a star no one knew was there

and I can only wonder why
the bluebirds die
on the power lines singing

if god had a heart
he'd take me instead
and put a thirty ought six
straight through my chest

just for believing
that somewhere there's a nest
with my name on it.
i took a little trip to dover where the bluebirds fly

all around the cliffs very tall and high

there i saw the bluebirds as happy as can be

flying all around singing songs to me.



like a great big choir singing up above

singing all in harmony singing songs of love

a lovely melody as gentle as can be

it made me feel so happy made me feel so free



i will return again to the dover shore

then i will see the bluebirds as they sing again once more
when the bluebirds fly its a sign of love
high up in the sky they sing their songs of love
flying  in formation shaping like a heart
its a sign to tell you loves about to  start.

singing all in tune not one out of key
such a lovely sound their lovely melody
oneday i will hear them. when love comes to me
then bluebirds overhead i will plainly see
Marian Jan 2013
Cicadas and katydids are calling
Breezes blow in from my open window
Roses are blooming and leaves are falling
The moon's rays hitting my lawn look like snow
Owls are singing from majestic trees
While sweet Bluebirds are sleeping in bushes
Night dances through the softly blowing breeze
And Midnight silently the world hushes
Dewdrops like jewels shine on roses sweet
And the stars twinkle all through the calm night
While the Fairies dance on enchanted feet
And the moon happily shines very bright
And I under my warm covers doth sleep
Until pretty morning brightly doth peep.

*~Marian~
i saw two little bluebirds sitting in a tree
cudddled up together as happy as can be
singing to each other there little song of love
happy and content in the trees above.

a lovely melody filled with so much charm
it made me feel serene made me feel so calm
then they began to kiss it almost made me cry
to see the love they had brought a teardrop to my eye.

then they flew away in the sky so blue
flying side by side with a love so true.
i think about the bluebirds every single day
hoping maybe one day love will come my way.
onetwothree Oct 2013
The subjectivity in the world still scares her
Like a little girl, dwindling in her room,
The vastness outside her drowning out
That meek little voice of hers.

It’s too loud; it’s too much
Her heart cannot swallow all the
World’s anguish
So instead she thrusts forth,
Razorblades at her wrists,
A cosmic determination lining
Her lips.

No, no, today is not the end
It is neither the beginning nor
The start. It is a quixotic trance
And she’s left out there in the cold.

Dank, deep, a sadness that consumes
And in the willows outside her window
All she sees are the bluebirds nesting
They are warm
They are whole
They carry on
William A Poppen Feb 2013
Bluebirds, matching set
Follow along as I hike
Flitting on phone lines
when the bluebirds fly along the dover shore
all around the cliffs as they gently soar
singing songs of love as the go flying bye
reminds of the time when there was you and i

very much in love we walked the dover shore
looking at the tide coming home once more
walking hand and hand holding on to me
these are things i cherish in my memory

we would watch the bluebirds flying up above
you and i together very much in love
singing out there song as they go flying bye
all around the cliffs they would gently fly.

now there just a memory i hold in my heart
when we were together before we had to part
hoping maybe oneday we can love once more
then we can watch the bluebirds fly along the shore

singing out there song flying way up high
as they sing to us there lovely lullaby
in love again once more like we used to be
in my arms again giving love to me.
Darkness Sep 2016
Like a starry night in summer
you passed by
and in a short time
you showed a grown man how to fly
like bluebirds in the sky
Jamie May 2016
Where sleeping buds do lie in wait
where every flower sighs,
the summer breeze comes not too late
as Springs cool chill dies,


Bluebirds in the sky do sing
as down below they dance,
turning lines and in a ring
gives revelry a chance,


Swirling dress and laughter
rings around the wooded grove,
as masks before and after
lie above the skirts they wove,


The dancers in their frenzy
do not realize right from wrong,
as high above the crowded wood
the bluebirds stop their song
JJ Hutton Nov 2010
i'm a nomad gone defective,
heart attack erased, amended.

i'm a dead leaf riding the crest of the wind,
marking time by exs and favorite beverages.

i carry on the bluebird's song,
whisper nothings aside from sweet.

you planted me within your sheets,
green grow the leaves, winter, good luck with your war.

let needle perpetually lock in groove,
white wine nights that turn into levitating sunrises.
Copyright 2010 by J.J. Hutton
Ken Pepiton Dec 2018
Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.
A year in the making honest
Higgs Jul 2014
Record-breaking boats and cars,
That shared a classic name.
Futuristic marvels,
That brought the Campbells fame.
Fifty years ago today, Donald Campbell broke the land speed record in the Bluebird CN7. A few months later, he also claimed the speed record on water in the Bluebird K7. He remains the only man in history to have broken both records in the same year. The Bluebird name had previously been used by his father, Sir Malcolm Campbell, on various record breaking cars. The name is still used today by his nephew Don Wales, who holds records for electric and steam powered vehicles.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-hampshire-28308864

http://www.bluebirdspeedrecords.com/index.php
Lysander Gray Oct 2012
Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Engagement invites
Christening invites
Birthday invites
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
Lifeline.

When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.

Their voices murmur soft
Through catacomb
And underbrush
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
Dreams.
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.

They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Draught
Of truth.
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.

The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Of moonlight,
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.

Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.

Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.

The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.

Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.

Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.

Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.

I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.

It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.

Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.

A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.

Suicidal angst
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.

Our life is but a song
We never hear.

I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
Railing
mounting
wall
decoration
desire
demand
exclamation
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.

I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
distant peak.

They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.

I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.

A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.

There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
             -Regardless they looked the same.

An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.

The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.

Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
     -slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.

The face of another love stares down at me.
I smile.
Yet I know it is not her.
I weep.
A sudden method sparks revival.

Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’

You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.

The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.

Drawn out caricatures,
Paraded intoxication
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.

The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.

In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Her name
“Kali, Kali…”
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.

There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.

The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.
Leah Apr 2013
good, you're starting to get disgusted
and the double life only takes away
from the beauty of the lie.
I think tonight we are dissolving.

I wouldn't want your innocence
I only wanted to share your pain
but where is it anymore?
with nothing left to comfort
I'm filling voids in vain.

who was supposed to end up bitter here?  
because I swear it wasn't me.
Danielle Suzanne Jan 2019
A slow sun
Peeps over the horizon
The golden dawn
Joins the lovers in
Their warmest embrace
Promise of
The most perfect day
Offered with reverence
From God Herself

Before the daydream
Can even begin
A swift hand
Snaps the blind shut
A not so casual escape
Towards the cliff edge
Startling the curious bluebirds
That were beginning to gather

Vanish does the dawn.
With caution
Light fingers trace the earth exposed
Cracked
Repelling all offers of relief
Regret overwhelming
The warmth of the sacred center
Evaporates rapidly

Releasing a sigh
Light and heavy
In every way
She retreats
As once again
She is reminded
That he is not
A morning person
mark john junor May 2014
i met a man upon the road
who carried his mind in a thicket of thorns
bluejays nesting in his thoughts had built it
one thorny troubled thought at a time
untill he staggered as he walked from the weight
of this contraption of the mind
like a drunkard in the backstreets of seaside town
he would sit by the small cafe or coffee house
and sing for young lovers such songs as ballads of old
or ones from folk singers and childhoods fancy
bright songs of good cheer

at the end of the long summer day
as the cafe and coffee shop would shutter their doors
he would gather his coin
and bid the day fare thee well
would climb slowly the flower strewn hill
sit under the great oak tree
and prune his thicket of a mind
with pinking shears and a hacksaw
with a farmer's plow and the beekeepers glove

a thousand fold bluebirds moving as one
with a terrible sound of wings upon the air
a soft beating of wings like a hearts dry thunder
each carrying a twig to add to his thorny thicket
which was now larger than the man himself
he would wrestle with it all the long night
till sleep overtook him there under the great oak tree

so he lingered here by the sea for years
at the whims of romance by lovers in the coffee house by daylight
and the light of the moon that lead him to dance
in a maiden hayfield at night
he would sing ballads to the star light
and to the wisps of clouds flying the night sky

they buried him with his thicket of thorns
at the top of the hill
below the stars that weep even now
he asked me why once
why none helped him be free of his thicket of thorns
why not one took pity and took his hand to at least comfort
and i told him that the world had
in bluebirds that kept him company
in coffee houses that loved his songs
in me that came to know him at long last
not as a man with a thicket of thorns
but as an empire of bluebirds playing in the skies
just at dawns first light
Wass Apr 2014
February is brighter.
It's pale blue
aura juxtaposes
the deep purple
of January.

It stutters
in, reminding us
that the adamant doors
of winter have been closed
to ajar.

Only the thin confetti
of snow now lines
the streets in
it's final celebration.

Blue smoke from the slates
thaw the crystals
and the bluebirds
have returned
to the sycamore tree.
Erin Atkinson Dec 2015
There are bluebirds flying all around
Inside my head
And I am reminded that tomorrow,
I may not hold your hand again
and I may never feel your teeth sink
Into my skin, again
                                      and wasn't that
                                   supposed to be
                              a good thing?

I'm left cleaning up the scraps,
the mess we leave behind
Like it's my responsibility
to carry your heartbreak, too.
                                         wasn't it
                                   supposed to be good
                              when I was with you?

I read somewhere
                       This is where you fire your musket,
              and this is where you fall and die

but I've fired my musket-heart
and I haven't fallen and I'm still dying
for you to look me in the eye
Like you still mean it;
Like there isn't some line in the sand
you have drawn arbitrarily
to measure what has been inside my heart
When you never cared to ask.
Love, those bluebirds are making it hard to see
through all their Pulsing wings,
But in their eclipse,
I'm finding a ring of light.
Shelley Baker , how have you been
My first crush at the tender age of ten
I still see your Brownie uniform
at a distant busstop
When we first sat together my jaw dropped
I watched you giggle with your girlfriends
in the lunch room , knowing full well that our
romance was through
Trees in the old neighborhood still bear
R , W , S and B , chalk on Orly Terrace has long
since disappeared
Two bluebirds reminded me of our tumultuous
two days , sharing candy , simple ways* ..
Copyright February 27 , 2017 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Theodore Bird Feb 2015
let's ***** our romance
     from broken cathedral windows.
I'll kiss your feet
     as they bleed from the shards of cherry wine bottles.
let's carve out our stomachs
     and eat them with coffee and the morning chorus.
I'll watch you make a mess of prostitutes
     so that pink and white clouds at sunrise mean nothing else to me.
let's go and sit by the sea
     or the Seine, I don't mind,
let's drown on parched cobblestone streets.
Shashank Virkud Jan 2015
I won't back out.
What do you want to do?
With a passion
for the fashions of a time passed,
I've forgotten how to analyze:
what makes me a *****?
I've forgotten why
I'm sleeping alone-
I'm dreaming-
alone.
And my dreams
are but mine alone.

But...

I'll rig the smallest ship
and I'll challenge the stars
because the gods live too far away
to deliver me...

when your lips
are the sweetest figs
and I can't see
through the fox-bark mist.

I apologize,
is there any power,
any power behind this?
Priya Patel Jul 2013
A picnic in the park
a leaf with a breeze
hibiscus and vanilla
an afternoon tease
Sweet lemonade
under a shade of oak trees
hummingbird duet
with buzzing bumblebees
Teardrop kisses
a gentle love bite
you and I laughing
what a beautiful site
A few filtered moments
just you and I
spring flowers and bluebirds
under a clear blue sky
i heard a bluebird singing  such a lovely tune
beneath the stars so bright and the silver moon
a lovely melody with such a lovely beat
it filled me up love with and swept me of my feet

every note in time every note in tune
with his gentle voice i began to swoon
it me feel serene and so very calm
a lovely song of love filled with so much charm

then he flew away in to the midnight sky
flapped his wings so gently as he said goodbye
Pride Ed Jul 2014
I loved how hollow the nights were after I crucified them to my walls.

I sing to them when I tap the glass,
my fingerprints smiling on the dust that reminds me of their empty shells.
How many times have I touched their caskets?

My shadowboxes of happiness.
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
For the accountant, the librarian, on this cold day
there is no revelation. He will go his own way
to the roar of the tinnitus in his ears.
About our war what is there to say. Yesterday
a flock of bluebirds was the only color in the woods.
Have they arrived too early for their good?
Of Judith and Inanna I have Korf's fears.

Inanna is generous, Judith is dangerous.
On each the wise elders depend for sustenance,
protection. Agriculture is ******
and wars end when men remember *******.
To savor the young woman's thighs and the old one's food,
to water her womb and cut her wood.
Is this not what's real, the actual, the animal?

The women I have known were bluebirds and crows, such
nuthatches, cardinals, robins, an occasional thrush.
They did not consider their bodies holy,
they found my seduction easy. What good luck
on the bed, in the light of the land, in our youth.
Our enemy eventually becomes our brother,
his misery lifted by coming to her city.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Flings and wings and rings rejected…
Cupid’s arrows fly deflected…
“It clearly is too late” she signed, “to love, adore or pay me mind”

Penciled lines drew cruel conclusions
mocking mirror’s cracked illusions…
Sometimes, in time, I hang awhile, reflected in her parting smile

Drifting wan, below unheeding
worried, wounded suns a’ bleeding…
Struck dumb by night, no way to say “Let’s sound the stars another way”

Shaking sands frame distant smokestacks,
shanty towns, forsaken oak shacks…
Pursuing dusk, collapsed and dyed, the docile dolphin deftly stride
beyond behind the ebbing tide, towards One-Way Ships of sunken pride


Gypsy dreamer in denial…
Sleep and slumber standing trial…
I never really ever slept inside the cryptic walls she kept

Martian moons provoke the oceans…
Strange enchantments stir the potions…
The mutant molten purple skies ignite subconscious fireflies

Voiceless echoes feigning laughter…
Crushing quiet screaming after…
Vague vagaries pretend to sleep, my conscience crumbles in a heap

Startled stars at dawn are slacking…
Still her tempest sail is tacking…
In fractured dreams sere silhouettes blow foghorns, trumpets, clarinets…
Discarded glowing cigarettes tinge One-Way Ships with pale regrets


Cold cathedral clocks upended…
Frozen second hands suspended…
Beneath the gauze of time I try to while away somewhere nearby

Ticking-tocking time’s a’ tolling…
Cruel eternity’s cajoling…
The future, tattered, calls bereft, with nothing but her shadows left

Brigantines skim gated grottos…
Distant divas voice vibratos…
Though eons pass, then intermix, I’m trapped ’tween time’s untallied ticks

Conquered candles flicker faintly…
Braided tresses quiver quaintly…
Demystified, untamed in time, her face is traced in puppet mime…
Amorphous tongues of jangled rhyme hail One-Way Ships that glide sublime


Bolts of lightning flash unkindly…
******, alone, I huddle blindly…
I drain another dram and bray “she’s far too far too far away”

Twisted waterwheels a’ thirsting…
Flaming flower buds a’ bursting…
Adrift, I stagger far below their unchained magic rainbow glow

White crowned wave crests break unbounded…
Shackled seashore sands lie pounded…
Unleashed, beyond the bridled world, her silver sails, cut loose, unfurled

Captive bluebirds nest in baskets…
Morning glories cover caskets…
Wee ballerinas swirl and spin while giant jokers smirk and grin
and, wasted, I withdraw within carved One-Way Ships in flasks of gin


Hungary hounds harangue the highlands,
howl at skies and desert islands…
Below, unfettered carbon crows conceal the parting path she chose

Lighthouse lamps and lanterns lolling…
Mute abandoned fleets are calling…
The shallow shadowed portholes vaunt dim traces of the past that haunt

Curved magnetic curtained faces
yearn contorted brief embraces…
Her fairy-tale like tattoo touch was serpentine but soft as such

Coffee cups and spoons corroding…
Mystic tea leaves, visions boding…
A cabaret calls, standing bare, beneath a splintered footloose stair,
vain vapors drape her vacant chair in One-Way Ships beyond repair


Splattered days are dripping dreary…
Shattered nights are wearing weary…
Without her footfall at my side I steal away within to hide

Fancies flame, persist to flaunt her…
Wanton whispers hiss I want her…
Hyenas, haggard, held at bay, still gnaw on bones of yesterday

Graveled graveyards grey and ghastly…
Apparitions pacing past me…
The answers to my whys and sighs have veiled her limpid pale blue eyes

Lurid figments storm the valleys
****** the helms of spectral galleys…
The coughing phantoms at the wheel, they make it all seem so unreal…
Rebounding cracks of thunder’s peal, shake One-Way Ships while seagulls squeal


Yesterday’s unsung, unspoken…
Bygone paths fold, draped and broken…
The weary winds of winter cling to voiceless nightingales and sting

Desert blossoms growing colder…
Drifting sand dunes pause, enfold her…
An arctic kiss and blush revealed forbidden pipe dreams flung afield

Weeping willows’ wilting snow drops
drip on tips of tiny toe tops…
Their opal fires bleed and fade while suns explode in icy jade

Jagged hours hangin’ heavy…
Footsteps pace the barren levee…
While pros and cons and kings debate, acclaim and blame and fame equate
the ruin’s remnants left to fate with One-Way Ships that fail to wait


Blazing blades of love surrender…
Memories and thoughts transcend her…
The Persian gazer’s crystal shows I’ve truly lost my ruby rose

Buried deep in evening’s embers
dust forgets what flesh remembers…
The bitter taste of farewell’s haste has laid the ****** skies to waste

Ruffled ravaged ravens ranting…
Churlish ancient churchmen chanting
resounding what she told me true “There’s nothing more that you can do”

Trial adjourned by judge and jury…
Freed, she flees, absolved of worry…
Remaining runes and relics burn to feed the ashes of the urn…
Six seers, wiser, soon discern the One-Way Ships of no return
Keith Faherty Jun 2012
and by the way
there are flies in the basement,
no doubt, the
result of passionless blood-letting and
christ-sharp animalistic screams (that scatter across places)
where ingrown genital hairs take presidence over ionized howls of ecstasy-
where flies buzz around and die, worshiping the patchwork
row of halogen lamps
that get so hot as to scorch the hairy legs that spread apart wide just to touch the
sacred flesh of incandescence
-these that ****** reckless photons into the tepid air like rotting meat
and wants them to **** the last drops of electromagnetic ******* from their poems of illumination.  
meanwhile
i can be found numbing myself into comfort and complacency-
the phosphenes of faustian inadequacy taxing my eyes
with the vaporous waking that seeps through the vacant-
but i knew it was real when you pulled down your tattered jeans, exposing your backside to my interpretations of perfection and
allowing me the liberty of *******.
i have seen you scream.
and breathed your sigh of servitude.
these wet ******* and the tangy juices of anticipation dripping down your thighs becomes reality
and reality consumes.
and the world becomes conscious awareness.
and there is nothing to be known except this.
alleviant zero of the cyclic
and the 60-cycle hum of stagnation-
frustration.
we know that tomorrow
the angel-headed hipsters
will be basking in the instagram-induced solar radiation,
supine on the neatly cut grass,
donning their leather jackets and skin-tight corduroys. thick-rimmed-plastic sunglasses
obscure their frail vision and allow them to distance themselves just enough from the sunsoaked oasis to call themselves "cool"
and i would hardly know to recognize you amongst the candorous chatter about humanity and the existence of love
and i would hardly know to call you god
nor to look you in the face and tell you to dream a thought unthreatened by sanity
or to bring you to tears by means of dexterity.
i like my body for what its worth
but i did not try to stop them when they bound and ***** the waitress.
i stood and watched as those gentle agnostics tore apart her lacy blouse
and pushed thumbtacks through her ******* just to watch her scream
and she liked it.
when they held onto her skeleton ribs and hipless hips
and she liked it,
they tasted the *** with cinnamon tongues,
received the grace of an angel as pierced ******* and clitoral stimulation
listless yelps filled the tender air like howling phantoms-
little ms. misanthropy
with her
disposable epiphany
self-proclaimed teenage sage
with mistakes to make her wise
i try not to understand
and then i dreamt of forgiveness.
my days of holding grudges and killing mice are over
and when we don’t kiss
i can smile.
and did you want me to define you through destruction?
-martyrdom and madness?
her bracelet and studded pieces to decorate
only obliteration of expectation
gives my finger the feel of tendinitis
i have come to love things less
how i long to just let bay, my leaning lip
my wrist bent back, asks, how much more can be done here?
i guess it's a little too late to walk away.
endless mind-numbing repetition,
was it for the retribution?
or perhaps reassurance or the infliction of pain.
misdirected meaning-
bluebirds.
and blue-black bruises on your arms.
wrinkles.
from falling feathers and
do you hear the echoes of chains rattling in the cellar,
or was it just a love song gone wrong
alivient zero.
why do we have to be beautiful rebels
we leaned to love with our shoes on.
listening to the stereo silence-  
runaway gems, poetic outcasts
leaderless young lovers
she was a young poet
but her tv ran out of new channels
idols were made here, dreams shattered, and promises left unbroken
but her *******, not left untouched

unblessed
i can taste it in your tears
i can hear it in your voice

bless these tiny fingertips and her lips are soft.
her skin is a whisper.
i will leave no inch of flesh-

unsacrificed.


her wounds bled with the words,

*you begin
to
understand-
all of me
i went across to dover to see the bluebirds fly
singing out there song as they were flying bye
a lovely melody to take your heart away
singing all in tune across the dover bay

flying overhead singing songs to me
singing out there song flying wild and free
every one in tune everyone in key
flying overhead happy as can be

i will go again to the dover shore
listen to the bluebirds sing again once more
singing out there song singing just for me
flying over head flying wild and free

— The End —