"flighted" poems
O formless one
naked are we and outstretched, unobstructed
we have smashed the dead symbols together
to try to make a few useful pieces of flighted existence
walking through charcoal ashes
Carbon
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 2:46 PM UTC
Unleashed
She is finally freed from her cage
Her flight feathers grew back
Her wingspan impressive like the dawn of a new day
Flighted, and ready
She takes to the sky
An eruption of beauty
Never to be seen again.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 1:59 AM UTC
i perch
like a mindful, tiny bird's spirit,
on the very cusp of the milkyway.
a mere wisp,
of an evocative thought,
a dreams first seed,
a speck of fairydust,
in the iris,
of tentative belief.
i have,
yet
to travel the spirals
of the windmill mind,
yet
to be fortified by conjecture,
ratified by trial of fire.
my inchoation began,
at the galaxies birth,
yes
i am a by-product of
the big bang.
and
yes i too,
have seen
how and why,
god made the heavens,
such an alluring shimmer
of blue,
and why
all things,
great and small.
need the spark,
the desire to accede,
to the wont,
to ascend to
something
higher and more profound.
i am,
external,
internal,
eternal,
grace,
i am
in the tears of
sad sorrow,
i am
in the magic of
unadultered joy
in
the laugh of a child,
the flight of a bee,
the glimpse of tommorrow
the purr of a cat,
the bark of a dog,
the roar of a lion,
the ribbet of a frog,
in an old womans glance,
the first kiss of new lovers,
in a babes first smile,
in the fragrance of flowers
left in memorium,
in each and every
spark
of flighted fireworks.
i am
to be found
for i am
hope
and
i abide eternally,
in all.
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 4:37 PM UTC
You articulate in swift flight, confidence soaring,
plenitude of words, justly convincing.
Floating on breathless wind between here and there.
Fumbling with sense, coherence of purpose
between twisted bed sheets, whispering pillows;
In the freeze frame static of moonless nights.
I feel the yearning burn towards hoping truth
in a splintering fire against which I warm;
crackling up all your feathers, and concord.
In the daylight you scatter ordinance together,
recklessly aspiring to repair undoing damage:
Wings stunted irrevocably through flailing flighted dreams.
Unknown weighted obstacles glide courageously in hurtled silence,
sideways across the cool air of this post-nested room;
Waiting for gold and diamonds to appear, glorified.
The slightest movement uttered punctures you,
a soggy blown balloon squirting off these walls-
dexterity lays useless on this love-laden floor.
I stare at you spewed inanimately,
like splattered spaghetti in a fitting rage,
across the boards of our echoing abode.
Depths of sightlessness reveal tentatively:
There exists no place for a soul
on the unstable face of the dead.
Oct 25, 2009
Oct 25, 2009 at 2:29 PM UTC
i perch like a mindful,
tiny bird's spirit,
on the very cusp of the milky
way.
a mere wisp of a thought,
a dreams first seed,
a speck of fairydust,
in the iris of tentative belief.
i have yet to travel the spirals
of the windmill mind,
yet to be fortified by conjecture,
ratified by trial of fire.
my inchoation began,
at the galaxies birth,
yes i am a by-product
of the big bang.
and yes i too,
have seen how and why,
god made the heavens,
such an alluring shimmer of blue,
and why all things, great and small.
need the spark,
the desire to accede,
to the wont,
to ascend to something...
higher and more profound.
i am external, internal grace,
i am in the tears of sad sorrow,
i am in the magic, of unadultered joy
in the laugh of a child,
the flight of a bee,
the glimpse of tommorrow
the purr of a cat,
the bark of a dog,
the roar of a lion,
the ribbet of a frog,
in an old womans glance,
the first kiss of new lovers,
in a babes first smile,
in each and every spark of
a flighted firework.
i am to be found
for i am hope
and i abide in all.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 1:43 AM UTC
In the velvet dark that holds all dreams,
A thousand hopes are given flighted chance.
Optimistic wishes waft through empty beams.
A gentle ashen pallor moonlight reams;
A billion shadowed niches seem to dance
Within the velvet dark that holds all dreams.
A bluish glow though leafy vellum seams
Can thread its way through thick and wooden lance.
Optimistic wishes waft through empty beams.
And oh! the silken light above that streams,
Dissolving all the hundred million "can't"s
Within the velvet dark that holds all dreams.
The night that's holding precious breath, it teems
With broken vows, inconsequential rants;
Optimistic wishes waft through empty beams.
The wish for what is come to be, it seems,
Envelopes friendships, hopeful romance.
Within the velvet dark that holds all dreams,
Optimistic wishes waft through empty beams.
Jul 31, 2012
Jul 31, 2012 at 11:56 PM UTC
Barbarians, and archers, and goblins oh my !
Restless in army camps for the raiding is nigh.
The builders are busy setting up my next plot,
Deciding where the mortar can pull off the best shot.
A chop and a cut, and voila ! More land to use,
Setting up decorations, all cast as a ruse.
I look to my shield, and the icon says “none”,
If I don’t request troops soon I’ll surely be done!
I prepare to attack, but don’t like what I see,
So “next” I press, and hope for a camp that’s easy !
Aha! I exclaim as I find a weak prey,
Gold walls or not, I’ll be claiming victory this day !
Giants come rumbling, to cause some destruction,
Followed by wall breakers to remove all obstruction.
With holes now aplenty, in come the rest of the crew,
To pilfer and plunder and do what they do.
100% !!! And 3 stars the finale,
Plus 35 more trophies to add to my tally.
Mission completed, I set back to my camp,
A smile on my face feeling like a real champ !
The day’s at an end so off goes the phone,
In the middle of the night I hear a familiar tone.
I reach for my ipad and what do I see,
****** ! I’ve been raided by PãRāß@pk !!!
With shields now up for the next 16 hours,
My resources are safe and I can upgrade my towers !
And thus ends the day’s tale of cast spells and flighted arrow,
Don’t worry Clash of clans, I’ll be back tomorrow !!!
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 9:13 AM UTC
A symphony
of harmonious flighted creatures
that sing
at the rising of the sun.
Ever changing
are the finite spirit forms,
gracefully gliding
through the sky and beyond.
In start
of every new beginning.
Clouded hues
segue into one another
as dawn
approaches the morning sky.
Eyes peer
through half opened lids
waking slowly
with the powerful stretch of
rejuvenated muscles
to honor the presence of another day.
Flighted creatures
make home in the tall
green bushes.
Together they greet the rising world.
Waving branches
bid 'good morning' to the passerby's,
in hope
that the earthlings below
take notice
of their majestic beauty.
Green hairs
blanket the moist earth
and intermingle
with fallen teardrops from nearby
tall bushes.
Forms without spirit dissolve into
chocolate sand,
that is food for the non-traveling
ground dwellers,
so the bushes may shade, house, and feed.
Deep breaths
are heard as the atmosphere exhales
fresh air
into the lungs of all nearby earthlings.
Tiny monsters
make home in the green covered
chocolate sand.
They crawl with many feet
through jungle
that is, to us, sprouting green hair.
Sky dwellers
have many feet, and many wings.
No feathers,
but tiny, contorted, aerodynamic bodies.
Wind gliding,
to travel far across the land
fulfilling destinies.
Sky dwellers
are food for the flighted creatures.
A cycle;
a synergistic food chain for all life.
Blissful beauty
in its absolute finest.
Formless spirits
serve as infinite energy for the finite
earthly masterpiece.
A world of divine forms,
living harmoniously
under the glee of the rising sun.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:26 PM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent.....
flicking tongues of
allitrative illustratation unsure
of present
improv packaging
puckers lips
to pout
and preen
..
grunge moth
in hoodie comes
to sauce the play
tounge twister fandango
...
paperlace lizards ...dreaming...
days streamin by
.
all the mouths
of ritual making
fourth wall breaking
....
accummulate the method
scribe to the write
formulate the figure
linguate the lyrical
....left.....
to the pintered flighted .....sighs.....
shake the speare
this night
.
with finger drumming colour rhythms
reveal the reasoned might
of the fledgling dramaturg
......
foot stomping
posse blighted brainstorms
...
burn limelight
burn, bright, burn
..
...throw your fleeting... searing glow
on these little
dramatic vacations
from life's realities
freeze frame moments
of luducrosity
and
humming,
allocentricity
.
egos pay homage
to floor door
and wall
drink
the life
the love
the moments glorious
of it
all.
........
the fear
pin *****
and bucket dance it
......come one......
come all.
learn the art of
the comic pratfall
here at the home
of drama 171 improv. .
by
the pants
of
your seat
and other
mellowed
dramatic
complexities and pratfalls
Sep 16, 2014
Sep 16, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC
I. Ain't. No. Square!
I am crustier than you.
I sleep in **** and emaciated jews.
I am more punk than you.
I beat my girlfriend when I'm supposed to.
I am more skin than him.
I shave my head exactly one fourth inch.
I am a hip ****
I *** on **** and **** on *****
All these pigeon holes and
Too many ******* birds.
This ************* a snake.
I eat and intake all false personalities that this bird-stench **** leads me to.
They all shall smelt together
And make one final ****
An **** of fake guts.
Society is an amalgam of all the worst species of flighted reptile
Squawking to be decapitated.
I wish originality
Had died while I was alive,
So I could vacuum all the breath,
From the mannequins to it's flesh.
I. Aint. No. Square!
Mar 27, 2013
Mar 27, 2013 at 2:09 PM UTC
Your name is Filbert.
I'd rather use you as Fill.
Fill, gods may have put you here
for a victimless chatter,
but I'll bring you up
with the nonsense charge to meet
false expectations. I know
we don't see heart-to-heart, that
parting shouldn't stop us
from connecting the pesky
dots of our pupils. Let's learn
to be adult about this
uncontrolled glowing.
Your flighted fancies
can't leave the tarmac
without making one feel bold,
another frightened,
and everyone is a skosh
confused in the end.
I hope it doesn't bound
too negative. I meant well.
Apr 5, 2010
Apr 5, 2010 at 2:51 PM UTC
Flighted wings spread wide,
Snapping on the downstroke,
Moving air, giving lift.
Scouring the land below,
Hunting hidden prey beneath,
Unaware it is being sought.
Heart pounding hard,
Rushing dive,
Crushing blow.
And so life cycles,
Eat or be eaten,
Live or die.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 29, 2011 at 5:32 AM UTC
bright ....butterfly.......talent
.....flicking tongues
of ......allitrative illustratation
unsure..... of present improv
packaging.....puckers lips to pout and preen....
........grunge moth in hoodie
comes to sauce the play....
tounge twister fandango
...... paperlace lizards ...dreaming...days streamin by....
all the mouths....... of ritual making.......
fourth wall breaking. ..
.....accummulate the method
scribe..... to the write
........formulate the figure...
linguate the lyrical....
left..... to the pintered flighted sighs.....
.....shake the speare this night
with finger drumming colour rhythms..... reveal the reasoned might ........of the fledgling dramaturg.....
foot stomping . ...posse blighted ....... brainstorms
. .burn limelight bright burn...
throw your fleeting..... searing glow....on these little dramatic vacations from lifes realities.....
freezeframe ......moments.....
......of luducrosity..... and. . humming allocentricity ......
....egos pay homage to floor
door and wall...
drink..... the life ....the love ........the fear
pinprick and bucket dance it ......come one ..... come all.
learn the art of the comic pratfall ...... here at the home
of drama 171 improv
. ....by the pants of your seat
and other mellowed..... dramatic.......completes
Mar 23, 2014
Mar 23, 2014 at 11:13 PM UTC
I wake up in an unknown room
With needles sticking out of both my hands and one in my arm
There is a tube down my throat and i cant figure out why im still breathing
I look around with blurry eyes
And here the beeps with foggy ears
I look up to see clear bags on poles connected to the needles
I feel like i can hear the slow drip drip drip of the liquid flowing through those tubes
I know it is impossible but i could feel those drips
They were like tiny earth quakes in my hands
That shook me to my coar
A smiling blonde nurse walks in and takes the tube out of my throat
Her name is McKenzie
McKenzie tells me how I was life flighted to spokane
How i have been in a coma for 4 days
How my heart rate was above 170
How my dog found me
laying on the concrete floor covered in my own ****
But all i can hear is the incessant beeping of machines
All i can hear is the sound of my own failure
I took so many pills i lost track after 150
I could still feel the steel knife against my skin
I was so careful
So sure
Well
They always say third times the charm.
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 10:29 PM UTC
"Get immersed in your writing process until the world is gone." -Stephen King
Writing starts out as an unforgiving act with a rude listener whose back is perpetually turned. You feel his disinterest as your unconfined mind spews ideas into warped silence, trying to capture airy words still wet with flighted feeling, to strip them down, distort them into a surreal collage of unrehearsed meaning.
It's a crusade against the self, really, where you push reality beyond the scope of eyes or ears until only your heart is listening. Then, and only then, do the words materialize in your head, rapidly filling the mind's empty stadium. You become the spectator, the speaker, and the space. Poetic lines are the paste as ideas collaborate; you learn to stand in the cyclone, feeling a poem's tremendous energy, permitting the words to dictate their own dignity.
They rush faster and faster as you press their loops and curves to the parchment witnessing their enchantment, the dizzying display of language tumbling under and over and through until you are left exhilarated, breathless, and undefeated again . . .
that is until tomorrow comes.
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 11:28 AM UTC
unbeknownst
to the human race,
every year the free trees,
those of the forest, the great gardens,
have an annual convocation, a solemn communion and a
delicate conversation
the gathering is attended by insects and avians,
for theirs is the heavy responsibility,
that which the trees cannot do,
they must do, i.e. move, be agents
of pollination
Trees gather, the sequoias officiate,
for they the elders, are wise in the
rings of history that tells of ritual,
sacred sayings, the reasoning,
the young ones don’t full comprehend
“Who shall give aid and comfort to the human dead?”
Who shall give of their seed
that will be carried by our friends,
they may be scattered planted,
in the graveyards where
those that tended and
sheltered us,
lie buried,
and the living
who tend to
their ancestral,
will adjoin, all
in need of shade and
comforting song?
there is great rustling of the wind,
the most honored,
query those attendees,
why must we choose?
let each of us contribute
according to their needs,
let the randomized
scattering by our winded
and flighted avian friends
best express our gratitude…
thus forests, parks, great gardens,
and yes, the cemeteries of mankind,
ALL
were seeded, deeded and refreshed,
and the world was cleansed,
commended, interdependented,
defended and extended…
Wed Aug 7 2024
Aug 7, 2024
Aug 7, 2024 at 10:48 AM UTC
the urge to Be compels
realization of landscape
in a soul
landscape made of
faith
lines on a graph made
natural by Love
moving those lines into
infinite
coherence
infinite
expansion
infinite
depth
an art beyond the known
a Love beyond the known
captured within the
landscape of the wing
and the dancing flight
of the butterfly
how is faith, Faith?
Faith is Constancy
from egg to worm to flighted
being
no matter the changes
Constancy abides within each
remarking the moment when
coherence meets Coherence
when
movement meets Movement
and the egg expands
into the infinite
inevitability --- its
ineluctable moment of Love
when love meets Love
and Is
how is love, Love?
Love is Knowing
from egg to worm to flighted
Being
it is knowing which flow
contains me
which flow is mine to express
and which expression ---
each minute expression ---
has precedence in any moment
and thus I eat
I fulfill myself
until the leaf has been
finished and I am full of
the Knowing to stop ---
to allow the expansion of faith
the expansion of Love
into another coherence
another flow
another containment within
Love
expanded beyond my present
into Presence
into a Being unknown
by any but Love
as Love
each coherence
carried on the wing
the landscape of the butterfly
painted on its wing
by Love
c. 2018 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 10:32 PM UTC
Andulan didn't want to, she,
Resisted at first, but the sight, the smells,
A color most divine, piqued her interest.
Sadistic joy given not chosen, caused her to laugh,
As vines wrapped around her choices, making decisions for her.
Prickling buds erupted from deep below, causing pain to pass over white skin,
Andulan clutched her arms together, left held right as both trembled.
She barred her teeth, felt them grind, heard them chatter.
As her ivy within, forced upon her by father.
Coiled around her person until she was replaced by a monster.
Bright green insults turned her mind ablaze as she realized her dress was now in tatters,
Torn apart by thorns sharp enough, to slice through flighted hides,
Bringing crash to tyranny,
Many Sharin's ago...
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 6:05 PM UTC
I am jealous of who
you think of at night
because I think of you
yet in my dreams
you are in constant flight.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 10:26 PM UTC
i might just be a catalyst,
a-change-your-life,
fucking-mindblow-you type,
but fear will keep you
steadfast like an inchworm,
slowly making his way.
you are a sunday morning.
we all love sunday mornings,
the car rides with nowhere
specific to go, but when the
salsa-colored sky fades,
we never regret what
we did on that sunny
or even snowy, day.
i am thursday, which is
my favorite day of the week
which is no surprise to those
know who know me well, best.
some people hate thursdays
because it's the cooler,
kissed-half-of-the-basketball-team squad,
older sister of
wednesday, but it's still not friday,
the prom queen, of the week days.
but for some of us,
thursday is the new friday,
and i hope that's how you see me
because even though i'm not sunday,
i will make my way.
i don't move inch-by-inch,
i wouldn't even say i walk,
or even swim at all.
quite frankly, i hate swimming;
i hold my nose with my fingers
after gasping for air because i'm
afraid i'll inhale water and obviously,
die.
i fly like a butterfly, or some
other flighted living thing.
and i'm not one of those black
and white butterflies, even though
i act like the world is black
and white sometimes.
i am colorful.
i am colorful in my words
and actions, which catalyzes,
because remember,
i might be a catalyst,
that fear that will keep you steadfast.
because right when you think
you figured me out,
i will flutter by you,
and you will be in utter shock
with fear or with love,
changing your life
and blowing your mind.
but maybe that's the problem.
maybe you're the one that sees
the world in black and white,
and although this colorful
butterfly is making her way
into your sunday mornings,
you, my inchworm,
are colorblind.
Feb 18, 2018
Feb 18, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
Wet pupil-ed gaze of pink
Petals of a peony stretch
the refraction of flighted insect: ***** dissolves to salt
lusting for maternity unrequited.
Soppy petals,
liquidly fall.
Jan 18, 2019
Jan 18, 2019 at 8:26 AM UTC
Red ants, black ants, yellow ones to. Some large some small. Building their own war.
Huge mounds with tunnels. Millions of you around. Watching how you change the ground.
What is your purpose? Only one we see is you eat the aphids that really annoy me. You are food for the flighted ones even the lizards with teeth.
But here you are beneath my feet. You bite me with no reason for sure.
If I stomp you many more will come look for you I am sure.
My land looks like tiny villages of mounds. With new property lines established by your armies you create.
Can you do me a favor and vacate.
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 12:06 PM UTC
Emotions avoiding me again
Calling out to all momories
My heart bleeds to feel anything
Heartless
I shakely pick up this pen
Ink rivers of anaesthesia
Singed to these healing pages
Emotions pouring
Like a Stormy winter rain on Sunday morning
Flighted words starting to soar
Cloaked in emotion
like dancing rivers flowing
from my heart it pours
All my heartache and darkness start to dissipate
These pages caging them
Sealing them with all of my hate
All wrapped up with the kiss of fate
Internal demons start to calm
They stopped rattling their cages
The relentless screaming has stopped
Now embedded in these pages.
I inhale the air of life
Rage dispersing
I let go of all the strife
Demons no longer fickle
Silently caged
Calmed to a trickle
Sep 24, 2019
Sep 24, 2019 at 9:50 AM UTC