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Shofi Ahmed Nov 2017
Sometimes the day smiles
shows me its colour.
No, then the wild blue yonder
doesn’t look to be far
I feel like I got the wings to fly.

But who would sway away
when the rose under the nose
floating on a sea of colour?

The luminary punter too
drops down from the sky.
Paints the broad daylight
as it sails down on its silky way.

Ah, the southern breeze
bends with the rose of the day
peeps in the colour before my eyes.
I could only see missing my butterfly.
SøułSurvivør Mar 2015
and gargoyles


v  v  v
>     an     <
> angel <
###          down          ###
######          from         ######
########/heaven sat on########
#######/a gargoyle's wing#######
#####/said she, "too bad youre#####
###/hideous! such an **** thing!###
###\the gargoyle said nothing/###
so the angel said, nonplussed
"too bad you have to
stay on earth and
cannot fly with us"
the gargoyle just sat
there. The angel left
alone. the gargoyle
shed not one tear
for he was made of
///////
stone*\\\\\\\
////////////////\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
///////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
/////////////////////////\\\\\\\\\\\
V               V
Hirondelle Aug 11
Promise-born on a canvas stroked with dun,
Looks a man for hues, hence shadows to shun.
Hidden's a day's dye backwoods a child's eye.
Only some walk nigh where true wonders lie.

Tints turn from raven birth to dovy death.
Far cry colors bout in a vision's breath.
'Tis in mind's eye to remove woe from blue
Then, giant ants move beady mountains of rue.

Pick all vibrant hues, eschew the tethered.
Dyes of default-assent beget hatred.
Thoughts and sentiments behind barred casements
Bide dawn's brightest in gold shod regiments.

When sentinels descry where bluebirds fly.
Merriness is nigh as blue will not cry.

©️Hirondelle (11/08/2018)
We live in a world conceived almost differently by each one of us, which is wondrous. While a man would be bored to death, some other -right in the same setting- would be carried away in a rush of sentiments by what wonders they believe that they see in exactly the same setting. I'm not questioning what makes what we see real. It's only what it boils down to: how perspectives or colors gratify our lives.

Like whether it is the egg or the chicken first, it's a conundrum whether sentiments breed thoughts or thoughts bring out sentiments. I'm more on the latter side, though. The poem maintains a man has to find the true colors himself. Falling in step with others and adopting default values and thoughts will only bar him into a dark chamber. To an extent though, this message echoes Plato's Allegory of the Cave.

Given the rampant demands of the competitive mass production industry from the mere individual, such as the imposed customer identity on him, exposure to education aiming goals aligned with the industrial objectives of a country but not with those that exalt individual identity, exposure to the commonness of cheap bloodshed in the Middle East and the sinister engineering of almost calloused indifference to it almost worldwide or the ambition for power in a big city to the cost of forgetting the child inside, I feel that our rainbow is changing into Bifrost, the bridge where Nordic gods of Asgard are waiting for frost giants start their assault and bring complete ruin to the world: Ragnarok.

The bottom line is where true identity is, there is meaning, meaning is color and the rainbow is so so beautiful. We have to choose them colors well.
writerReader Feb 2015
Fly
I wish you would trust me
and I could walk
breathe without dying
and
pleading

I wish I could fly.
jane taylor Jun 2016
fly
born in illusory chains
gnarled metal
encrusted in my broken skin
the copper colored dust
of rusted steel
infectiously envelopes

shaving off antiquated layers
of fundamentalist religion
encrusted for generations
unpeeled until raw
an unsophisticated method
unveiling
ancient lodged glass shards
colored with deceit

brought before their court
interrogated
unfathomably skewered
an eerie salem witch trial
in modern times

barbarically they shun me
banished
i wander aimlessly
smelling the rotten decay of deceased community
as splinters pierce my feet
from the crooked wooden plank
i walk alone now

an unfathomable inner ache
kindled a residue within
igniting a wildfire from the darkest shadows
uncontainably erupting
i dance savagely
***** in the orange moonlight
and in every shaded edge
lit my soul ablaze

i am a nomad sheep
‘tho not one of their color
no pasture to contain me
no shepherd i can follow
theological safety nets
no longer there to catch me
bohemian-like
i plunge

free falling
plummeting
stripped wide open
magically
fearlessness
reverses gravitation

floating
untethered
i soar amongst
apricot tinged clouds
my skin still wet from rebirth
and rise with the flaming coral sun

you cannot destroy me
i twisted in your decrepit pencil sharpener
and with fresh mettle
cut through the chains that bound

you can have my ego
but you cannot have my soul

dismantling domestication
transcending limitation
wildly untamed
i fly

©2016janetaylor
my husband and i left the mormon church and lost many friends, family, and community
jane taylor Jun 2016
this time is dark and dreary
why do i live it out?
i’m in the dirt and dusty road
what’s this life all about?

i look up and it seems like miles
‘till i could reach the sky
someone told me that i could go
but i know it’s a lie

but somethin’ says
fly high butterfly
come on, you won’t die
fly high butterfly
come on reach for the sky
fly high butterfly
come on butterfly fly

fly high butterfly

i feel that i can’t do it
i wanna stay the same
though this is hard and rough terrain
to me it’s home i say

then groundhog day it is again
please stop it i implore
the wounds need healin’ i am hurt
can’t take it anymore

but somethin’ says
fly high butterfly
come on, you won’t die
fly high butterfly
come on reach for the sky
fly high butterfly
come on butterfly fly

fly high butterfly

i crawl up to my empty shell
i curl up inside
i wait, i’m frightened, what to do?
i feel like i will die

i melt down into nothingness
i cannot take the pain
but something’s changin’ i wake up
to see life once again

cuz somethin’ said
fly high butterfly
come on, you won’t die
fly high butterfly
fly on up to the sky
fly high butterfly
come on butterfly fly

i flew and saw the light
i’m alive butterfly
now i know that this is the life
have the courage fly

fly high butterfly

©2016janetaylor
this is a song i wrote the music and lyrics to
https://youtu.be/idWIrkCVKPw
You feel depressed and lost
For all the pain and the cost.
Your efforts have gone in vain,
You are struggling to stay sane.

It is so hard to remain in the light
When you have already lost the fight.
You are watching the curtains closing,
While the world is sleeping.

Your life has been a bumpy ride
Always changing with tide.
And as the sequence continues,
You are scared that you will lose.

Yet, here you stand with the will to try.
Yet, here you stand prepared to fly.









Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018. All Rights Reserved.
Just another one from my lab. So, far it has been just easy lyrics from me and this one is no different. I am trying to keep my poems very simple and humble. I really hope that you are enjoying them.
Khoi-San Jul 24
Oh architects of concrete
How you have stolen my plains
And dredged my soul
The Falcon hovers in vain
And the Hare has no hope
While you swing you clubs
For glory and embrace the
Walls filled with accolades
All at nature's dire expence
The plague that drives deforestation
G Rog Rogers Aug 2017
Fly with me to Paris
and We will climb
the Eiffel Tower
We'll see the Louvre
And walk along
the Avenue des
Champs Elysees

We will walk
alone together
along the great
Seine River
And latch
a lovers lock
upon the bridge
above the water

We can picnic
on the grass
in the grandest
park in Paris

Then embrace
within the shadows
of Notre Dame
Cathedral
Where there
We'll swear
Our love
forever sure

We will seal it
with a kiss
And know We
never missed
The times
and places
that make
A life
worthwhile.

-R.

8.26.17

-LA
-4S
©ASGP
Hirondelle Sep 24
Oh, how I love that wall!
My wall, your wall, his wall, our wall...
Solid before many a starry-eyed soul.

Tossing square into a granite fortress,
The ashen stoniness denying access,
Ouch! Got your head in a mangled mess?

It was all there yet you didn’t see.
That grim jester of far-gone fantasy.
Next comes the swat without courtesy.

That proud wall, high and tall,
Didn’t even think you were a sore,
When you burst and lost in ghastly gore.

No dirge to the swatted little fly,
No litany for a crushed buzzing lie,
No reason even for a sad little cry.

That wise wall, high and nigh,
Didn’t bat an eye or even sigh,
While pranking your sad foolish try.

Small like a fly before big delusions,
**** like a fly in alluring confusions,
Such a wasted lie on a wall’s exclusions.

Realism will always soar,
And never notice that vapid gore,
On that proud wise wall.

©️Hirondelle (24/09/2018)
Sometimes you hear a knock on your door when that little voice of reality eventually winds its way back to you through the hubbub and turmoil of your delusion-spurred emotions. Yet, you realize, over time it has grown so big and your eidolons are suddenly micrified to the reality of a mere fly. And the swat... how sovereign... how overbearing reality is! The swat may even come by the hands of the kindest person you have known. Reality busts the dark fly, the Kafkaesque metamorphosis of an otherwise rational man, in order to let him reincarnate into a being with a realistic orientation so that he can soar over the trammelling confines of his delusions... So not all blows are meant to obliterate, some really do liberate. And what better hand to deliver the blow than that of a kind, merciful person? The fly, with his gibberish, make-believe buzz should not encroach upon the righteous order of reality. And there rises the wall and checks the fly until the swat comes with efficient finality.

Ouch!

Now, this mashed up fly-man has to break loose from that crushed, sticky paste of his delusions and leave it on the wall. Not easy enough a labour for all! But realism is only for the strong with which to soar.

So how does the man end up being a fly?

Delusion besodden though a man is, he is nevertheless faintly aware of that feeble call of reality. No one can shut their ears fast to that child. And this call of reality betrays all false hues of our delusional sandcastles. The bigger our delusions, the smaller our self esteem when we realise that we have veered far into that world of delusions. The more beautiful the delusion, the uglier the fly. And the wall... Every starry-eyed fool needs that wall. Somebody has to stop that fly.
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