"fletching" poems - Hello Poetry

I thought I heard Canadian slang from the opposite bed-side Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face. Inner space bleeding outward, deep red, a nosebleed, angled points on white of The Maple Jack. A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel. Grab your runners and toque, it's warm, but not forever and these legs are sore. Polar bears on the sweater you wore in the Fall-- Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws. Awoke and wanted warmth lacking. I thought I heard Canadian slang. I thought I heard "it'll be okay" from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling. they whisper and screams sink deep behind eyelids closing. A sentence unfinished, sinking in flesh in time sinking in snow and ice sinking in water in Summer sinking in memory. I thought I heard plans being made and shy laughter. I heard it 5 times. Didn't I? Days fade, ears dull* Walking on streets, in the cold towards her home I thought I heard laughter-- heard something like laughter-- I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water. I thought I heard laughter. I thought I heard wax melt. I thought I smelled fairness. I thought you wanting more time to bleed and blur tenses. I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring their battle cries-- --asserting their presence. I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime and late March walk along bridges. I could swear I heard something Like Canadian slang, sweet water light laughter. Something.

0

Jun 28, 2018

Jun 28, 2018 at 1:28 PM UTC

kyle-kulseth

Canadian Slang

I thought I heard Canadian slang from the opposite bed-side Like it's 2009, rub some lines off my face. Inner space bleeding outward, deep red, a nosebleed, angled points on white of The Maple Jack. A Nip at the Sal's on Esplanade-Riel. Grab your runners and toque, it's warm, but not forever and these legs are sore. Polar bears on the sweater you wore in the Fall-- Churchill, Manitoba, the streets are full of teeth and claws. Awoke and wanted warmth lacking. I thought I heard Canadian slang. I thought I heard "it'll be okay" from the voices of feathers fletching arrows falling. they whisper and screams sink deep behind eyelids closing. A sentence unfinished, sinking in flesh in time sinking in snow and ice sinking in water in Summer sinking in memory. I thought I heard plans being made and shy laughter. I heard it 5 times. Didn't I? Days fade, ears dull* Walking on streets, in the cold towards her home I thought I heard laughter-- heard something like laughter-- I thought I heard rain, as the Lodgepoles drank water. I thought I heard laughter. I thought I heard wax melt. I thought I smelled fairness. I thought you wanting more time to bleed and blur tenses. I thought I heard rivers rushing and roaring their battle cries-- --asserting their presence. I thought I heard cars pass and sounds of the daytime and late March walk along bridges. I could swear I heard something Like Canadian slang, sweet water light laughter. Something.

57

Mongst the salacious ferns of Artemis requested in the land of the handsome labyris women wealing and weaving Vulcans shrewd hearts of jasper and chalcendony, governess Hulda cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones fletching mandrakes philtre whetting hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace intercessorial unto volcanic pious virtues haranguing loves cataract dashing herewith demotic enditements distempered of ludic ordination; forging a year and a day halest cledonomancies volley of truths bequeathing privity of Heavens prismatic trajectory. ELEETE J MUIR.

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Nov 8, 2013

Nov 8, 2013 at 9:25 PM UTC

eleete-j-muir

Rainbow Darts.

Mongst the salacious ferns of Artemis requested in the land of the handsome labyris women wealing and weaving Vulcans shrewd hearts of jasper and chalcendony, governess Hulda cleaves Muspellsheims yew bones fletching mandrakes philtre whetting hie Cupids perfuse herb of grace intercessorial unto volcanic pious virtues haranguing loves cataract dashing herewith demotic enditements distempered of ludic ordination; forging a year and a day halest cledonomancies volley of truths bequeathing privity of Heavens prismatic trajectory. ELEETE J MUIR.

18

Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine Slurps cigarette like mosquito Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander, Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling We plaster and pine for an out, Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin, Thatcher’s the black lung paradise, ******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle, The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals, Clutches the sick theistic ********** Cuddle those bruise licked hips Give God the gross percent, Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks and God’s in the ******* kick, Suckling bout the American tip The Christian capitol, Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream, Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour, Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult, Cough the crutch of contagion greed And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve, Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight, Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine, Thatcher does as Thatcher please, Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds, And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend, Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic, Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out, Bandaged baby girls, The teenage horror show, Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away, Desensitize the humanize, Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff, Thatcher’s content to satisfy, Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick, Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips, Albino plumes clotting and unfolding, Thatcher clicks back the cartridge Filter and cigarette, Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz, Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs, Hums the western creed Laughs fickle with God at his need, Thatcher’s the true American dream

0

Apr 23, 2013

Apr 23, 2013 at 5:17 PM UTC

devon-baker

Cancer, the American Made

Thatcher vacuum seals nicotine Slurps cigarette like mosquito Ravenous lungs gnaw and grind for the slow pander, Thatcher’s just another name for the labeling We plaster and pine for an out, Stitch that finite lie beneath squeamish child skin, Thatcher’s the black lung paradise, ******* infancy coddling cigarette stifle, The caloric crack of his canines fletching out lust and sickly groove As he’s scopes out fiend and vexed vandals, Clutches the sick theistic ********** Cuddle those bruise licked hips Give God the gross percent, Cause heaven’s in those greenbacks and God’s in the ******* kick, Suckling bout the American tip The Christian capitol, Seething on shadow puppet ****** and American dream, Gods got nothing to do with the slickened crinkle of gain and glamour, Thatcher’s just the candy man give and cult, Cough the crutch of contagion greed And clutch the cuff of your porcelain sleeve, Thatcher gleans your blackest suite tight, Struts raven blade shoulders perched on American made spine, Thatcher does as Thatcher please, Thatcher thinks as Thatcher bleeds, And Thatcher bleeds venereal blend, Gout with the American veneer of broken girl and scabbed moral traumatic, Trauma tastes as the hollow pixies give out the get out, Bandaged baby girls, The teenage horror show, Just another blazoned hit of one two take the hand me down generic give away, Desensitize the humanize, Girls got to get the days glossy puff and sniff, Thatcher’s content to satisfy, Callous coroner a spectator suckling Marlboro lick, Lodging thick smoke and toxin between spittle slick lips, Albino plumes clotting and unfolding, Thatcher clicks back the cartridge Filter and cigarette, Thatcher gulps back the need because brain’s got a favoring kink for the buzz, Thatcher sings with the screaming in his straggling lungs, Hums the western creed Laughs fickle with God at his need, Thatcher’s the true American dream

45

you are strapped to the chair blinding lights beckoning the sweat from you a briny stream burning your eyes your hands are not cuffed though clasped as if in desperate prayer the questions fly at you like fiery arrows piercing the armor you struggled vainly to build the archer sees all, knows all, asks for all, and of all your locked hands cannot fend the queries off your answers slow the shafts only long enough for you to see their flaming fletching the louder your screams, the deeper the points penetrate the more resolute your responses, the greater the number of arrows eventually, your vessel is riddled with holes, hoping for holy, with your blood flooding the floor, like sacred paint on a deep black altar of truth

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Dec 14, 2013

Dec 14, 2013 at 4:01 PM UTC

spysgrandson

the most skeptical interrogation

you are strapped to the chair blinding lights beckoning the sweat from you a briny stream burning your eyes your hands are not cuffed though clasped as if in desperate prayer the questions fly at you like fiery arrows piercing the armor you struggled vainly to build the archer sees all, knows all, asks for all, and of all your locked hands cannot fend the queries off your answers slow the shafts only long enough for you to see their flaming fletching the louder your screams, the deeper the points penetrate the more resolute your responses, the greater the number of arrows eventually, your vessel is riddled with holes, hoping for holy, with your blood flooding the floor, like sacred paint on a deep black altar of truth

21

We are the- Unattainable Lampshades--flickering On and off- In-and-out With And without. --And her skin Is all I can breathe. I write in cartilage Memoirs just to feel Unfeeling. But we love unfairly Until digging nails Into walls-- Becomes beautiful We-the-unreachable

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Sep 15, 2014

Sep 15, 2014 at 7:45 AM UTC

Strataic

Ghost-Fletching

We are the- Unattainable Lampshades--flickering On and off- In-and-out With And without. --And her skin Is all I can breathe. I write in cartilage Memoirs just to feel Unfeeling. But we love unfairly Until digging nails Into walls-- Becomes beautiful We-the-unreachable

17

shielding emotion with every arrow that slips through my chest i would rather pull it from its fletching, ripping through my arteries and ventricles, as my blood waters the seeds you tried to plant for us, before i lose control again and trust me, i'm dying inside but my face holds a smile as cherry red trickles from my mouth because at least i didn't fall in love with you ©L.F.

0

Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 1:22 AM UTC

lillyf

don't fall

shielding emotion with every arrow that slips through my chest i would rather pull it from its fletching, ripping through my arteries and ventricles, as my blood waters the seeds you tried to plant for us, before i lose control again and trust me, i'm dying inside but my face holds a smile as cherry red trickles from my mouth because at least i didn't fall in love with you ©L.F.

9

The night is dark and full of terrors, Demons waking in the shadows, Armed with claws and fletching teeth, Spreading loneliness and fear.

0

Dec 6, 2019

Dec 6, 2019 at 4:13 PM UTC

Chris2701

Terrors of Night

The night is dark and full of terrors, Demons waking in the shadows, Armed with claws and fletching teeth, Spreading loneliness and fear.

4

I wish I had an arrow to befriend A slender beauty with veinlets etched in gold In which tales flowed of battles unresolved— songs of wars that it had never fought Bearing a blade forged from flames envied by the crescent that rips its way through the dark I would choose it out the nameless others patient in the quiver and show it off to the winds Watch the sly sun kiss it’s carvings her nimble fingers swirling about —it’s rich purple sepals and their unwavering grace I would let it touch the worn-out bow that, voiceless, had words to scream in vales, and in dens levelling its fletching with the callous string I would pull — oh, moors ahed, and moors behind moors beneath, and all inside— It’s unblemished tip smirking up the yonder Slaying all voids in the way — oh, born an icy weapon unborn still I wish I had an arrow to befriend I would let free the trapped string impatient, always, to flea and watch the moon lurking beneath the day Watch him brutal, — watch him cold As if expecting lightening to sprout out of my eyes Utter a silent curse I would Knowing I could not add to his bruises I would feel a star burning by the edge of my eye My bird soaring towards its doom and into the moors, I would sublime — I close my eyes against the sun grasping for the bright of my blood that lurks, lurks beneath the shadows of my gaze— grasping, and grasping still— I wish I had an arrow to befriend

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Apr 10, 2021

Apr 10, 2021 at 4:31 AM UTC

Ayesha

The bright of my blood

I wish I had an arrow to befriend A slender beauty with veinlets etched in gold In which tales flowed of battles unresolved— songs of wars that it had never fought Bearing a blade forged from flames envied by the crescent that rips its way through the dark I would choose it out the nameless others patient in the quiver and show it off to the winds Watch the sly sun kiss it’s carvings her nimble fingers swirling about —it’s rich purple sepals and their unwavering grace I would let it touch the worn-out bow that, voiceless, had words to scream in vales, and in dens levelling its fletching with the callous string I would pull — oh, moors ahed, and moors behind moors beneath, and all inside— It’s unblemished tip smirking up the yonder Slaying all voids in the way — oh, born an icy weapon unborn still I wish I had an arrow to befriend I would let free the trapped string impatient, always, to flea and watch the moon lurking beneath the day Watch him brutal, — watch him cold As if expecting lightening to sprout out of my eyes Utter a silent curse I would Knowing I could not add to his bruises I would feel a star burning by the edge of my eye My bird soaring towards its doom and into the moors, I would sublime — I close my eyes against the sun grasping for the bright of my blood that lurks, lurks beneath the shadows of my gaze— grasping, and grasping still— I wish I had an arrow to befriend

52

The night silence screams in my ears after I startle awake. Another nightmare. The crying whistle of iron, wood and fletching echoes in the night Memories of a dead mother sinking in a sea of vibrant autumn leaves dead eyes commanding me to run but I don't run The girl needs me. Tanya, child of chains, of blood, of regret, of sin, of... hope. She taught regret like its something I lost Like it wasn't torn from my chest and replaced with hammers and blades and chains and blood dripping in silence I see in her eyes a seed, something that grows in a land that hasn't seen green in a century And footsteps in the night herald our death, heed my words, a life of such misery and cruelty brings only misery and cruelty in return. We tear our skin on greedy grasping and groping thorns fleeing the howls another night again Black hair like the stars were plucked from the sky just to give something to liken it to Brown eyes that sound like chains rattling on stone, so I don't forget my promises. She speaks of hope, as if it's something tangible and abundant, enough for everyone. But like a stubborn candlelight in the winter night, fighting the wind for survival, it does warmy my heart. Perhaps the road does not have to end. Perhaps we have bled and fought and wept enough, and we have finally paid our dues. Perhaps we can find it in ourselves to find forgiveness for the wicked things we have done, and if not, at least we have found forgiveness in each other. Perhaps life without pain is possible. ... The night no longer screams silently, but speaks the hidden language of footsteps, of drawn daggers and ill intent. Years turned a child into the promise of a young woman. The promise of a life lived in peace. But as I know, the enemy of peace is the cutting midnight whistle of an arrow, and the earth itself opening up to swallow anything I hold dear. She sinks into a sea of dead leaves and tides of blood. It was not a ****** It was a theft. A theft of the last good thing in the world. The last star in the sky, snuffed out, to leave all in darkness. A theft of a promise, made to a naive child in early summer. Where once a promise stood, now a blade named Vengance. A theft of lives, not one. But regret was not something I lost. It was torn from me. The ones who gave me my hammers and blades are the ones who took my child. And now, I go to return my hammers and my blade. And to take back my regret.

0

Aug 6, 2019

Aug 6, 2019 at 4:30 PM UTC

clucko

Shatterbones

The night silence screams in my ears after I startle awake. Another nightmare. The crying whistle of iron, wood and fletching echoes in the night Memories of a dead mother sinking in a sea of vibrant autumn leaves dead eyes commanding me to run but I don't run The girl needs me. Tanya, child of chains, of blood, of regret, of sin, of... hope. She taught regret like its something I lost Like it wasn't torn from my chest and replaced with hammers and blades and chains and blood dripping in silence I see in her eyes a seed, something that grows in a land that hasn't seen green in a century And footsteps in the night herald our death, heed my words, a life of such misery and cruelty brings only misery and cruelty in return. We tear our skin on greedy grasping and groping thorns fleeing the howls another night again Black hair like the stars were plucked from the sky just to give something to liken it to Brown eyes that sound like chains rattling on stone, so I don't forget my promises. She speaks of hope, as if it's something tangible and abundant, enough for everyone. But like a stubborn candlelight in the winter night, fighting the wind for survival, it does warmy my heart. Perhaps the road does not have to end. Perhaps we have bled and fought and wept enough, and we have finally paid our dues. Perhaps we can find it in ourselves to find forgiveness for the wicked things we have done, and if not, at least we have found forgiveness in each other. Perhaps life without pain is possible. ... The night no longer screams silently, but speaks the hidden language of footsteps, of drawn daggers and ill intent. Years turned a child into the promise of a young woman. The promise of a life lived in peace. But as I know, the enemy of peace is the cutting midnight whistle of an arrow, and the earth itself opening up to swallow anything I hold dear. She sinks into a sea of dead leaves and tides of blood. It was not a ****** It was a theft. A theft of the last good thing in the world. The last star in the sky, snuffed out, to leave all in darkness. A theft of a promise, made to a naive child in early summer. Where once a promise stood, now a blade named Vengance. A theft of lives, not one. But regret was not something I lost. It was torn from me. The ones who gave me my hammers and blades are the ones who took my child. And now, I go to return my hammers and my blade. And to take back my regret.

38

we shared spaces as limping spectres with manifold directions looping ghost based conversations amidst ***** portholes and boxes of dust learning to bow to spirits in the dark reaffirming treaties on yet another trek through projection witness to recurrent episode arcs of radio subterfuge server rack haven stroll invoked as a heaven, often, flashes of weathered piano keys atop enemy remarks wraiths propping heathens into ornate frames should've been more careful with the strings expected effects dart fletching, inevitably dented, bent, stains from water specks waging war with hints splattering countless tints of humane intent constellations gesturing in the mirror flecked for the better riot gear graced in paint place to face, delayed stone ship sailing away similes rippling in the wakes faceless groves of streetlight cones choking albeit in the stakes it felt the same retreating, twin searching for testing doodled a giraffe without intending to and threw it away

0

Jul 2, 2022

Jul 2, 2022 at 11:07 PM UTC

david-mitchell

CLOSERS

we shared spaces as limping spectres with manifold directions looping ghost based conversations amidst ***** portholes and boxes of dust learning to bow to spirits in the dark reaffirming treaties on yet another trek through projection witness to recurrent episode arcs of radio subterfuge server rack haven stroll invoked as a heaven, often, flashes of weathered piano keys atop enemy remarks wraiths propping heathens into ornate frames should've been more careful with the strings expected effects dart fletching, inevitably dented, bent, stains from water specks waging war with hints splattering countless tints of humane intent constellations gesturing in the mirror flecked for the better riot gear graced in paint place to face, delayed stone ship sailing away similes rippling in the wakes faceless groves of streetlight cones choking albeit in the stakes it felt the same retreating, twin searching for testing doodled a giraffe without intending to and threw it away

27