"falcons" poems
Moored to the same ring:
The hour, the darkness and I,
Our compasses hooded like falcons.
Now the memory of you comes aching in
With a wash of broken bits which never left port
In which once we planned voyages,
They come knocking like hearts asking:
What departures on this tide?
Breath of land, warm breath,
You tighten the cold around the navel,
Though all shores but the first have been foreign,
And the first was not home until left behind.
Our choice is ours but we have not made it,
Containing as it does, our destination
Circled with loss as with coral, and
A destination only until attained.
I have left you my hope to remember me by,
Though now there is little resemblance.
At this moment I could believe in no change,
The mast perpetually
Vacillating between the same constellations,
The night never withdrawing its dark virtue
>From the harbor shaped as a heart,
The sea pulsing as a heart,
The sky vaulted as a heart,
Where I know the light will shatter like a cry
Above a discovery:
"Emptiness.
Emptiness! Look!"
Look. This is the morning.
8.4k
Is it left or is it right?
Should I go there or should I hide?
Is it true or is it false?
was it love or just an impulse?
In the day or in the night
into darkness or into light
I will go with no return
I have had my lesson learned
In the deep sea or up there high
where fearless falcons fly
You will find me there free
smiling to my destiny
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 11:42 AM UTC
The Atlanta Falcons , defender of the city in a sport of the passionate ! A longtime cold weather tradition of the Peanut State with youth , high school and university alike ......Memories that conjure Van Brocklin , Nobis , Humphrey , Van Note , Bartkowski and Ryan . Fall is for dark green numbered fields , pageantry , struggle as tactician , athlete and opponent mired in battle , bestowing honor , emotion , and pride in the warriors of yesteryear , locked in the spirit of competition , sportsmanship and Georgia folklore !...
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
Why in Baste Eyes my Form checks expect
Yet cast my Security for his Expense
Which, I suppose, that Report I prefect
Was a File un-welcomed for my Good Sense
Though, I assure, was all to contribute
For his Sweets added to his Nationed Chest
That, to chillax, take Tidbits absolute
And brisk the New Day for his Talent's Best
Now this, resolved to wax Slime and Conflict
Thus put my Loyalty to Terms reset
More fruitful, more pruned, from Pride's Tome inflict
Then this Orrery - strike Rocks to Sky's bet.
In turn perhaps recover from this Fling
On Muted Clouds do those Falcons still Sing.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 3:18 AM UTC
i love to watch the falcon flying in the sky
hovering on the wind has he passes by
to watch him swooping down gives me a thrill
gently dropping down as he makes his ****
holds it in talons then gently flies away
takes it to his nest so he can eat his prey
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 10:44 AM UTC
Earlier today,
I laid outside atop the snow,
A feat that I haven't tried
Since life's true colors showed.
The frost numbed my body,
I'm sure red flushed into my cheeks;
I stared speculatively at the sky,
My eyes searched and seeked.
I wanted to understand the beauty,
That nature offers so readily, the solace,
That it blankets us in even on cold days;
I wanted to understand beauty that is flawless.
My tired eyes embraced small, soaring figures
That coursed through the air with grace;
Content to go their own paths,
Not engaged in a petty race.
The figures were falcons,
That spiraled and sailed on wind above me,
Probably heading south,
For warmth to set them free.
But in that moment I compared them
To man-produced ashes;
Gray soot that courses through the air
Dashes, in varying directions,
As fire burns.
In that moment, the birds drifted through the air
So aimlessly, like the ashes do,
Landing faraway,
Wherever they flew.
Nature itself could be ashes,
If people continue on this path;
This destruction ought to incur
Some sort-of wrath.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 11:43 PM UTC
(Dad returned this to me tonight, apparently I wrote it in the 90s and he found it and saved it for almost 20 years)
Love hides in the moon,
Where lies and deceit hide too.
But you don't want what you got,
'Cause I'm just an astronaut.
God hides in the manic eyes
Of the maniacs you despise.
And if I'm just a man on the moon
Well then I'm still part of you.
If it will take a tragedy,
For you to see the truth,
Then I just hope I'm still here for you.
All things are fleeting,
And soon I'll be gone.
Gone sailing on ethereal seas
Of forgotten songs.
Joking 'bout my wrongs
With time's tides of traitorous throngs.
Laughing while the ones I love
Chase Maltese Falcons,
And society sinks shaking in withdrawal
From the loss of knowledge
That god is eminent
Throughout the body of existence.
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:20 PM UTC
...Short partings do best, though: time wears out affections,
The absent love fades, a new one takes its place.
With Menelaus away, Helen's disinclination for sleeping
Alone led her into her guest's
Warm bed at night. Were you crazy, Menelaus?
Why go off leaving your wife
With a stranger in the house? Do you trust doves to falcons,
Full sheepfolds to mountain wolves?
Here Helen's not at fault, the adulterer's blameless -
He did no more than you, or any man else,
Would do yourself. By providing place and occasion
You precipitated the act. What else did she do
But act on your clear advice? Husband gone; this stylish stranger
Here on the spot; too scared to sleep alone -
Oh, Helen wins my acquittal, the blame's her husband's:
All she did was take advantage of a man's
Human complaisance. And yet, more savage than the tawny
Boar in his rage, as he tosses the maddened dogs
On lightening tusks, or a lioness suckling her unweaned
Cubs, or the tiny adder crushed
By some careless foot, is a woman's wrath, when some rival
Is caught in the bed she shares. Her feelings show
On her face. Decorum's flung to the wind, a maenadic
Frenzy grips her, she rushes headlong off
After fire and steel... .
3.4k
falcons flying way up high. in surrounding circles in the sky.hovering there while in flight. looking for prey within his sight.hovers till hes almost still then swoops down for the killhe takes his prey held in his grip held so tightly it cant sliphe does it all with so much pace full of elegance and so much grace as you watch him use his skill watching falcons is such a thrill
Feb 21, 2010
Feb 21, 2010 at 7:00 AM UTC
Spirits come wearing feathers
guides watching for our changes
teaching our spirits to fly and soar
despairing of those who fade
Five peregrins flew over our head
two parents cutting the still water with speeding wings
three young trying to mimic
two fly straight up the cliff face
the young left right splitting
knowing they have to learn
but still afraid
knew what that meant sure enough
saw a peregrine take a big crow in flight
off Tresillian cove
the crow desperately fought for its life
they both crashed into the sea
the falcon flew up and away
the crow was drowning
upside down
I was praying
one supreme effort and it got airborne
flew to the shore
I am still trying
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 4:49 PM UTC
Life is all entertainment , just like a psychedelic theater, our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation.
I roam in and out my worldless kingdom
Freedom's reserved for the wild and untamed.
For who cares to know, we could fly our way out as falcons , or swim our way in as whales. It will never really matter because it's all entertainment , while we patiently wait for the emanations.
Expectations emerge from preconceived notions and blocks the transmissions entitled to all sentient beings.
Like a collective prophet and a magnet , we learn to filter the commands to percieve the matrix. Finally to redefine and recreate a convenient path that is real.
Our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation, i chose my fun as transmutation, life is recreational.
Words Of Harfouchism
Apr 29, 2021
Apr 29, 2021 at 5:12 AM UTC
Like Falcons, Kestrels and Hawks
They swoop low to look and stalk
Holding breath for silence sakes
Looking for gullible easy prey
Talons around the throats of the genteel and shy
Uncaring of flowing tears, they make them cry
Recalling a sunny day so bright
When clawed and swooped in delight
Not knowing the heart that would break
That day, piercing ties did penetrate
Learning others spirits would wound
As the Falcon made his way around the night for doom
As his blackness did loom
All were hurt, tears were shed
Face after face he did skim
Heart rending cries that were abhor
For them no tears no more
Never spoken to again, they might
the evil kin do they despise
Torment and cruelty they do throw'
Gnashing one's teeth thinking about ado,
Bruises of blue they carry, bleeding of heart
A cold sweat trickling down the spine, apart.
Take away the face oh please
leave life alone, let all be in peace
Pain and heartache that created, O' bemoan
Saying and caring, oh no just want to be left alone ...
For the uninitiated, lonely hearts
Lending tears of sorrow, leaving soul debased
Romance here, a wild goose chase
Holds so many as the Falcons swoop again ...
Debbie Brooks 2014
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 7:49 PM UTC
The Blue Falcon, cross the spire,
Waits in the gables of the white
House. Wounded in youth by crush
Of air, spent, a wisp perched
In the aerie dark with a view of mountains
Blue as ice under glacier. The wooden
Church from the other side clutches
The sky but the Falcon blue is lost
In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never
Kills. On this strike he is sheathed in stealth
The dull talons slip as they dry
In the tented air, the songbirds at play
In the high-ground underneath warble
And chide but the Falcon cannot hear
The Falcon near. His heart is soft
And muted in the breast, his ears
Are dumb to their tickling-songs.
Before the Falcons time, over
The tilling fields, dropped his world
In the spoils where splendour burst in green,
Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods,
A banquet of game, were bounty's breach
Fording blue currents he was
A fisher in the sun, but the sun
Sank in his drowning sky no store
From plateau to quarry the drought of days
Moved a castle felled in the dancing
Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered
Eye of the sun and etched his form
Into grey silhouette.
Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered
In the branches of the rooted air
Above the yellowed grass, under the pines
And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid
Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron
Of the attic in the white house
A throw of stones crossways from
The sacred yews of the steeple spire.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
*A Farewell.
Part two.*
Sun nearly forgiving of summer.
I save my whole spectrum of emotions
For gratitude.
How can air be this clean?
Atmosphere..?
All there is, is me.
And a cat that hasn't given a
Whimper in complaint
Since then.
I see something like a sun;
Only brighter, throw; no -hurl-
Herself in my face, screaming:
*"I love you, you crazy Norwegian
Brute of an imbecile
Viking Poet!
Now be with me! I will admire
You living your every dream
From as far away
As you wish me
To,"* new love
Emerging like a mad phoenix
From the ashes of my sorrow,
Shining through feather tips
As I see crows the size
Of falcons part and
Reveal her singing to me:
*"I will not breathe, my lord,
Until you share this fireside
Bed with me yet... oh, yet
Again."*
I have been given
So much
Gold.
I will treasure
It.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 12:51 PM UTC
*A Farewell.
Part One.*
Sun nearly angry with summer.
Silence echoes itself under
The dome of blue. Clouds so
Elaborate you'd think they were
Animated;
Giant. Few. Above the collapsed
Barn wall, where shreds of tarp
Dance in slow motion, I see crows
The size of falcons glide; high; barely
Visible.
After the storm settles in your little
Glass, you see how well the pieces
Fit anew. Two crows apart.
I have been given so much sky.
I will fly in it.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
I awoke just as the dark clouds gathered above the coffee shop .
Two months without rain had parched the once green grass where
Cows and Bulls once grazed ,
their land now a slave to the clouds shedding even more rain .
Rolling thunder clipped the trees and their branches fell hitting the yellow grass as if the heavens wept for what was about to happen ..
A Falcon swept into my nest and soon my chick had gone .
How many more like tax collectors collecting their dew ,
Yet without them we would fall prey to a far greater evil ,
as to what lies beneath!
On Falcons wings we climb above rocks are left to die ,
to some Falcons nest we lie ,
always for the greater good .
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
The Blue Falcon, cross the spire,
Waits in the gables of the white
House. Wounded in youth by crush
Of air, spent, a wisp perched
In the aerie dark with a view of mountains
Blue as ice under glacier. The wooden
Church from the other side clutches
The sky but the Falcon blue is lost
In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never
Kills. On this strike he is sheathed in stealth
The dull talons slip as they dry
In the tented air, the songbirds at play
In the high-ground underneath warble
And chide but the Falcon cannot hear
The Falcon near. His heart is soft
And muted in the breast, his ears
Are dumb to their tickling-songs.
Before the Falcons time, over
The tilling fields, dropped his world
In the spoils where splendour burst in green,
Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods,
A banquet of game, were bounty's breach
Fording blue currents he was
A fisher in the sun, but the sun
Sank in his drowning sky no store
From plateau to quarry the drought of days
Moved a castle felled in the dancing
Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered
Eye of the sun and etched his form
Into grey silhouette.
Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered
In the branches of the rooted air
Above the yellowed grass, under the pines
And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid
Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron
Of the attic in the white house
A throw of stones crossways from
The sacred yews of the steeple spire.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 11:31 AM UTC
I want to know—
What only lips can know,
I want to see—
What only Falcons vision,
When they stoop from the heavens,
I want to preen and lord—
As only Jaguars can, regal,
In the tangles of purple jungle sun,
I will climb these ancient steps
Holy and of forbidden stone,
If only, you would
Surrender,
Love.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 2:24 PM UTC
I, round the brae of Howth in chalky light,
Lamented my lot more spent in sport than play.
There, land appeared disinterested and sight
Was a teary well. Cold was the shivering day,
And my frame, a ghost of shadow, was erased,
It receded like the fog. Just then, overhead
I saw brave birds engaged, a raptor traced
A mourning dove’s faltering flight, how it fed
Its own shining sense of purpose, for not
Wanton sport or lordly state do falcons
So hunt, nor did the bird in peril belabour
His reason, rather he tried avoiding those talons.
A question answered itself within my breadth,
Survival resides in a pageantry of death.
Aug 10, 2012
Aug 10, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
I see new growth emerging from an old tree's heart.
A new sapling sapping strength from what would enrich generic soil,
contributes something unknown to an unassigned
Future
Instead this exacting branch emerges to claim the universe for itself.
No longer can this unnoticed, rotting stump contribute to the greater good
but feed instead, a unique life so it may one day
die and have the chance to fill the old soul’s soles.
The unlabeled, non enumerated vagaries of our world
cowardly whinge in the background
while the assertive actions of the flowers
and falcons shout out loud for their own preservation.
Food chains serve as feeding trays for those cells
who have bound together with that joie de vivre
necessary to drive the generic engine of nature
in their direction. This predilection
to protect the potent and powerful
among us is not simple chance
but a predetermined proclamation
from our divine protectorate pushing
the proper paupers forward until they find
themselves ensconced in the holy foliage of nature's glory.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I want to know—
What only lips can know,
I want to see—
What only Falcons vision,
When they stoop from the heavens,
I want to preen and lord—
As only Jaguars can, regal,
In the tangles of purple jungle sun,
I will climb these ancient steps
Holy and of forbidden stone,
If only, you would
Surrender,
Love.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:01 PM UTC
I dreamt a wonderful dream last night,
of falcons flying above me.
Their wings were huge,
and trapped in them
were feathers that gave wishes for free.
The falcons said:
"Do not pretend, let not the wishes go in vain."
I took the feather,
and closed my eyes.
I wished to climb a mountain.
On top I'd go,
and down I'd see,
what's lost of the world,
and of me.
On top,
I'd see the birds fly by
and kiss the stars at night.
Or perhaps wake up
to touch the clouds,
and again look down with a sigh,
at the boundaries that surround the world,
and oh the hatred that I'd see!
I opened my eyes and blew the feather,
with a gush of wind it flew.
up in the sky it went,
as if to touch a mountain the falcons knew.
I woke up this morning,
with a sigh again.
The dream I had was lost.
If only falcons flew above me,
and feathers granted wishes for free,
I'd surely climb a mountain top to find out,
what's lost of the world,
and of me.
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 6:21 AM UTC
The Blue Falcon, cross the spire,
Waits in the gables of the white
House. Wounded in youth by crush
Of air, spent, a wisp perched
In the aerie dark with a view of mountains
Blue as ice under glacier. The wooden
Church from the other side clutches
The sky but the Falcon blue is lost
In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never
Kills. On this strike he is sheathed in stealth
The dull talons slip as they dry
In the tented air, the songbirds at play
In the high-ground underneath warble
And chide but the Falcon cannot hear
The Falcon near. His heart is soft
And muted in the breast, his ears
Are dumb to their tickling-songs.
Before the Falcons time, over
The tilling fields, dropped his world
In the spoils where splendour burst in green,
Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods,
A banquet of game, were bounty's breach
Fording blue currents he was
A fisher in the sun, but the sun
Sank in his drowning sky no store
From plateau to quarry the drought of days
Moved a castle felled in the dancing
Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered
Eye of the sun and etched his form
Into grey silhouette.
Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered
In the branches of the rooted air
Above the yellowed grass, under the pines
And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid
Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron
Of the attic in the white house
A throw of stones crossways from
The sacred yews of the steeple spire.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Before we parted, on Shanganagh cliffs—
And crashed in sweet Éire, without word, all views
And burned down in the sun by a california rift,
We gleamed like new falcons in a wood-view mews.
Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC