"corraled" poems - Hello Poetry

Once upon a twilight tingle, under the moonlit stars' twinkle Such a foul fowl, 'tis only a foul owl "What brings you here on this most auspacious night of nights?" I asked The task it brought, I knew not, I merely cowered, as it did growl I, with my guitar in hand, hastely jumped upon the warm sand, tipping, and tripping upon my towel, As the Owl, with it's luminous eyes, began to tread the now seemingly still and chilled soil, The ocean's roar slowly died down t'was not the only sound that began to silence itself even the pestilent winds around us fell idle to the ground My reverberating heartbeat now the only audible sound Fear finally finding sanctum in thoughts of logic Think my man, think strategic, for this is what you now can do Afright, now simple curiousity No necessity was it, t'was a simple question i began to skew, "what is your name, you obnoxious creature you?" The now appearing invisible predator corraled the picture on the back of my guitar and flew, cawwing merely once calmly "Who are you?"

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Feb 15, 2010

Feb 15, 2010 at 12:51 PM UTC

mustufa-raja

Foul Owl (Raven pardoy (Edagar Allen Poe)

Once upon a twilight tingle, under the moonlit stars' twinkle Such a foul fowl, 'tis only a foul owl "What brings you here on this most auspacious night of nights?" I asked The task it brought, I knew not, I merely cowered, as it did growl I, with my guitar in hand, hastely jumped upon the warm sand, tipping, and tripping upon my towel, As the Owl, with it's luminous eyes, began to tread the now seemingly still and chilled soil, The ocean's roar slowly died down t'was not the only sound that began to silence itself even the pestilent winds around us fell idle to the ground My reverberating heartbeat now the only audible sound Fear finally finding sanctum in thoughts of logic Think my man, think strategic, for this is what you now can do Afright, now simple curiousity No necessity was it, t'was a simple question i began to skew, "what is your name, you obnoxious creature you?" The now appearing invisible predator corraled the picture on the back of my guitar and flew, cawwing merely once calmly "Who are you?"

16

On a night of fate, a celestial being manifested, a set of golden optics, Shared a moment with a set of blue. Shaking metacarpus, soft against an elated visage. two minds, two bodies. two souls, two mates. Breaths of desperation, words wrapped around a vascular piece, Forcing them to stay, not to say. No; never to say. the stars are crossed, a with held fate, Forbidden to love, a censored verse, a poet corraled. Began a word of truth, Hold it dear to our souls, and letting go will never be, on a night of fate.

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Feb 23, 2011

Feb 23, 2011 at 8:30 PM UTC

tiffany-bourlet

manifesting celestial

On a night of fate, a celestial being manifested, a set of golden optics, Shared a moment with a set of blue. Shaking metacarpus, soft against an elated visage. two minds, two bodies. two souls, two mates. Breaths of desperation, words wrapped around a vascular piece, Forcing them to stay, not to say. No; never to say. the stars are crossed, a with held fate, Forbidden to love, a censored verse, a poet corraled. Began a word of truth, Hold it dear to our souls, and letting go will never be, on a night of fate.

20

As he arose from the whirlwind of ash, he wondered what it was that had actually happened. The last thing he remembered was that he had fallen off the edge of the frail olive branch, everything covered in flames. As he came plumeting down, he was corraled out of the air by a dove. This dove, with her lush, white feathers glistening above the fire that had engulfed the land, had brought him to her olive branch, but much like his own olive branch, hers too began to split, and combust. It was as though everything that he touched died. He despised it. The dove comforted him, telling him, that they merely havn't found their olive branch. "It's not necessary to be born into the olive branch to which you belong." said she. so they searched on and on. To this day, they search. He had found half of himself, the day the dove came from above, but alas, he has yet to find the other half. For she is Immortal Dove, and he only a mere idea, however every idea may perhaps have the potential to become immortal, depending entirely upon what it is nurtured with, and the perspective behind it.

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Feb 16, 2010

Feb 16, 2010 at 7:07 PM UTC

mustufa-raja

The Loving Idea

As he arose from the whirlwind of ash, he wondered what it was that had actually happened. The last thing he remembered was that he had fallen off the edge of the frail olive branch, everything covered in flames. As he came plumeting down, he was corraled out of the air by a dove. This dove, with her lush, white feathers glistening above the fire that had engulfed the land, had brought him to her olive branch, but much like his own olive branch, hers too began to split, and combust. It was as though everything that he touched died. He despised it. The dove comforted him, telling him, that they merely havn't found their olive branch. "It's not necessary to be born into the olive branch to which you belong." said she. so they searched on and on. To this day, they search. He had found half of himself, the day the dove came from above, but alas, he has yet to find the other half. For she is Immortal Dove, and he only a mere idea, however every idea may perhaps have the potential to become immortal, depending entirely upon what it is nurtured with, and the perspective behind it.

16