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By M May 6
I watch the night owl
Soaring over the night
                                           Free,
She effortlessly flies
Untouched by all
Unlike
                                             I
Lesser creatures
watch her glide
as night falls with

                                              Envy

Silent wingbeats
alert none to her presence.
All respect
                                               Her.
I once had a dream of flying. I cried when I woke up because it was the life I knew I could never have.
Read the separate words vertically.
Heavy Hearted Mar 2018
Down swoops lonley owl
Graceful talons search for prey
As field mice scatter

May you land, dear owl,
Where love is a place, learning
the languange of the night.

May you understand
"...the unfinished creation
Of a changing soul."
tripple haiku
Ira Aug 2018
Parched in a tree,
Watching the prey with glee.

Seeing them scurry and run without limitation,
Makes me pounce without hesitation.

I grasp the prey sqirumining,
Hearing the voice of them worming.

I clench my claws over there body,
I pierce it’s hide,
And my talons get ******.

It starts shaking with false life, shaking and shaking,
Until it gives and all the death is for the taking,
All the meat is for the taking.

I parch in a tree to enjoy my feast,
And then see the sun rising in the east.
Hmmm... I just felt like writing it. So here ******.
Jamie King Oct 2018
With dead dreams
Can you ever sleep?

Struggled, befriended effort
Only to return to  blankets
Of disheartenment where despondency
Warms your heart as it tears you apart.

Do your dreams die
When sleep departs?

Shattered limbs and blisters reposed in your mind.
The blood moon residing in your eyes.
Your resolves never diverging as you hobble.
Paving the path with skin, flesh and blood.

Sleeping beyond the grave
Do dreams live on?

Eyes roped by gardens of thorns and fleeting petals. Dreams whistle wonders kindling hope, in hearts of those still asleep, wandering in dreams.
Inspired by Doyin
Caro Mar 17
It's March in California and,
It feels like an early September evening in Virginia,
An owl is cooing,
A nostalgic singsong that reminds me of the woods behind my parents house,
Comfort seekers in my senses inflate,
Disappearing into a heady haze,
Anything to distract myself from the mini self-betrayal I just executed.

I can watch myself as I do it,
Basking in this nostalgia,
The detachment from my pain easing my shoulders,
Making me feel high,
Or maybe it's the serotonin and dopamine,
Coursing around in my body,
Freely,
As it pleases,
Results of.

The owl is howling and my roommate is home,
My phone is silent and I'm blissfully alone,
Detachment, detachment, detachment,
My favorite drug, how I've missed you.

So sickly happy,
So near to trauma,
(my familiar place)
But my perspective saving me from feeling it..

I could be in Virginia in 2008,
My legs a little hairy,
A breeze blowing through my long, long hair,
Innocence teasing me.

Or I could be here, now,
Listening for an owl that has stopped calling.

How delicious. Sweet detachment.

My favorite drug.
Sid Lollan Apr 2018
Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands;
Soft in defiant laughter,
when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines

Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception;
Boast, not a breathe,
though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land—
A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand

and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring
Devours the crescent Moon

in big pink petals of bloom;

A garden so fertile
it could look pretty in wartime—
with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence;
(Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence
but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come,
       patient building of Spring Reign sure
as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is
(Daughters and Sons of kingdom came,
      the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned
for the greenness of hope.
)May it never come, Be All The Same; (


be gentle, though whispering wind)

Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile,
carried by the Wasps and the Clouds
To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage,
illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign

      fears,
      as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast—
      Consume the years between Here and Now;
      Watching from blank perch, among
      the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance.
      Sing the branches of experience, to wake
      in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms
      of waking,

**** sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline—

Those Who Are Will Be
again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning;

                          Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence,
on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers
optimists and pessimists, toast to them
        and their rarer player’s hands,
Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost
to fairer wearer’s air and land;
Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine
from disemboweled gourds
        of their own divine—
Warped, in jowls of hungry fix,
no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.
It can be Frustrating to look so mean
When Success presents your Certificate
And Honest Fans some to most turn so Green
When their Tangent Voices are celibate
Now my only Say to unsoak the Blame
Is when that Sponge within Speaks without Words
You know it as HEART; That Character sane,
Serene discharge of Flavoured Bees and Birds
Even when Flowers rebel and Worms spit
Still your Compassion can embrace them all
Believe this: In, to Out, Around and Fit
Past the Royal Egg survive a Great Fall.
It's been there in you; And all of this Time
My Lesson to learn from Wise Owls behind.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
In the cold silence of the area
Rose a lonesome cafeteria,
Outside of it hooded forms -
Scaly horns -
Perched on white, plastic chairs
Like fifteen owls on a wire.
II
A grey-green bird in the distance
Sang a three-note song with insistence.
He sang on not to the white folks
But to the cold he tried to coax.
He sang to a spot desolate -
Sure thing, he sang to punctuate it.
©LazharBouazzi, July, 2017
The whole of stanza one is a true story. On the way to my home town, Kasserine, I did see the scene involving about fifteen hooded people sitting outside a café with their backs against the wall, apparently waiting for sunset and the cannonball that would announce the break of the fast in Ramadhan.
Stanza II (with the bird) is pure poetic invention.
Andrew Oct 2017
Surveillance is the cornerstone to my dictatorship
Over your life
I hold you firmly with my invader's grip
To create strife
To spread fear among the vigilant citizens
And make you feel like you're not fitting in
It's all part of my devious plan
To trap you in my surveillance van

I've got owls perched in trees
And satellites floating in space
Pictures make the world freeze
So I can see your pretty face
I start to drone on and on
Your indifferent mouth yawns
You spy on the clock
Waiting for me to stop

You stare through me
The way I stare into your house
Hell is 200 degrees
When you find your lovely spouse
She doesn't have my pictures
She hasn't read your scripture
I must've gotten my information wrong
I thought my surveillance was strong

My mistakes rule me with an iron fist
And they throw me in prison
I thought I could live in surveillance bliss
But this isn't the life I envisioned
Happy to hit 100! Thanks everybody for reading my stuff and supporting me.
Hawling in, flaunting around
Chilling breeze, the dark
Enchanting blind owls, moonshine thrill
Weird rats and the flying bats

The witch and omens
Blurry old lake
Haunting black meadows
And the crooked faced ape

Crackling sounds of bamboo
Fire in distant hills
Misty breeze of thrill
Imagination haunting deep

Wolves,
the ****** mistiques
Sharp gazes, the moonkiss
An ackward grin,
beyond the relics
Shatters, the concept of Darwin

Heartbeat, the thrill within
Black wasp, black cream
Creepy ackward hisses
Oh just heard a thrilling scream
Wow, the wolves
aaww......
wwooo.........
wwwoooooo.................
I'm mused at how you cry for the Patriot
Thinking at your Age you know all-too-well
And some Crypted here think me an Idiot
Adjusting the Mirrors which you can sell
And sold you did to the Victim's Parade,
A Wheel teen-to-teenest endlessly turn
Or else compare to your Fertile Upgrade
May bid Salvation and your Students learn
There is such a Way, Sir, and can be done
If the Seed in your Chest you allow to Grow
And please don't speak of one betwixt your ***
Does not guarantee you can win the Show.
Perhaps, if may, feed your Hungry Owls first
It may keep in-check, for Better or Worst.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
September Roses Dec 2018
When will the darkness consume me
Am I a sinner or a purger
Do I make haste for pain or for pleasure,
What is the difference?
The night owls scream like sirens from the river rapids
Do I fear the damaged or do I pull them closer to harm me so I dont have to do it myself.
Will I stare in horror
At the beasts above my bed
Or in melancholy relief.
What answers would the monsters in the closet give
If they could speak
I would ask them where they dwell away,
Are they from hell?
Ide like to know weather to reflect or pray in my final moments
Do demons know if there's life after death?
Do the demons know they are real enough to tell me,
So I dont have to keep asking myself.
Can I be my own worst enemy
If I beleive in fate?
How can I ruin my future if it's predetermined.
When I pretend to sleep through the night does my brain think I'm well rested?
Or can it see the dark rings under my eyes as well.
Who am I to name myself while I beleive nothing is real.
Who are we to hope for something more when we already have it all.
Do I make my own thoughts?
Or do they come from somewhere else.
Who do I ask for.
Who do I expect to answer.
Do I hope to find the answer in myself?
Or do I enjoy making my heart suffer.
Dan Filcek Apr 2015
My sister was born here
yet I know she does not recall the:
streets and sidewalks.
vagrants and beggars
full of history
full of bohemian young people
looking  for stylish bars.
Plenty of music
  and art galleries.
African music and South American shops.
expensive boutiques with impossible prices
Alternatively, you can take the pink,
Tropical garden with a pond full of small turtles
A memorial to the victims  
The roads within are difficult to navigate
junctions underground provide relief from the sun on hot days.
night owls cover the city
a green libre sign in the windshield
far too many cars and not enough space
narrow streets in the old town,
  is the heart of the city
The clock tower marks the Twelve Grapes  
a bear climbing a tree,
ornate iron posts.
the vacant Palace
lavishly decorated
Baroque-style gardens surround a large monument
Dozens of statues
a sculpture of Don Quixote
A massive roundabout
a chariot pulled by two lions.
A tall obelisk sits in the center
a pedestrian walkway full of fountains and trees
The vertical garden can be seen from the street outside,
features fine furniture and porcelain
impressive art collections with paintings, sculptures, and prints.
young hippies play bongos and dance.  
And I have never been there
This year for Poetry Month, I decided to post a "found poem" every day. If writing a poem is like painting, a "found poem" is like sculpting. - source https://wikitravel.org/en/Madrid
am i ee Aug 2015
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.  

the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob

contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.  

a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning

realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.  

trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.

the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell

keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
  

some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.

of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life

but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.


the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.  

some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.

but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Yenson Aug 2018
So it came to pass at last and sad to know a Timber has fallen
It stood in strength tall and strong for over seven decades
Resplendently toned it spread an uncompromising foliage
Masterly in domain magical in reach attaining untold grades
Humble in origins yet grew with endeavour and knowledge
Distinguishably it cut sway in tundra and in lush green glades

Son of sons of the Land held roots countenancing no crawling
It reached for the stars and danced reasons with every shades
Ran with the sun and sat with owls and vipers for tutelage
Sweeping the very highs and the lows in communal trades
In the jungle of sharks and vipers it be known who's in Charge
A Timber has fallen while the rains falls and blue clouds fades

There's now a mighty hole in the earth and rivers are swollen
Leaves scatter and branches beckon hundreds of onward bridges
Leaving best Princess, flowers and saplings for love and largesse
A notable trunk laid supine free to roam without worldly cages
Odes will enter dancing in guises and tears flow without finesse
A Timber has fallen and dirges will ring out for a man of all ages

Yemessia bows and says Adieu My Senior, we will meet again.....


[email protected]
Grantland Mar 4
Strange sounds in the night
A lofty conclave of owls
Meet in their sanctum
While camping with my wife last summer I was awoken by a sound I couldn't identify. I walked deeper into the woods and found, in the beam of my flashlight, a gathering of owls staring down at me with large, alien eyes. I felt elated to see these magnificent birds in the wild, but knew that I was trespassing on a gathering I couldn't fully understand.
Silvana Franco Oct 2017
The night is soft and billowy,
Beckoning me deeper into her velvet embrace.  
The dark air caresses me,
Like a smooth, silken hand stroking my face.

The breeze carries with it the scent of autumn;
decaying leaves, campfire smoke, pumpkin spice and pine needles.
A heady cocktail that rouses something in me that no other season can.

This, is my favourite time of year.

The bare trees, colourful leaves and crisp breeze soothe my mind.

The long nights of candlelight and incense soothe my soul.

Draped in moonlight and watched over by the stars,
I drink the wine of ancient Roman nights,
of sacred pagan rites,
of owls' sleepless flights,
of lustful lovers' bites,
That dark and warm midwinter wine.

And it is here

As I lie naked beneath the gentle gaze of the moon,
Vulnerable and exposed,
Innocent and joyful,
With child-like wonder at the beauty that surrounds and encompasses me,
Sipping the crimson nectar of the gods,

That I feel whole.
our irony is that we are made of love
yet we seek it in the wrong places
in faces and in feelings
we never find our reflection
all our elements are watered down
and we need to rise above
when tragedy is upon us
we must learn to drown in love
all our feelings give us hope
but we can't out run our pride
all our emotions form a web
that eventually covers up our eyes
lies and loss
live in everything
keep moving and you will be the king
drink from the spring of yesterday's owls
drunk on words we become foul
cool down your heart
we blister in the desert
churn the ocean and make it sweaty
dread nothing
forever we are free
to inspect the clouds
for subtle signs of tyranny
Mary Gay Kearns Aug 2018
On a stage in the middle of a wood
Stood a young girl who knew she could
But as it happened she did not
Pushed the young boy
And he got off.

Now when it’s dark
And the owls do hoot
You won’t find this young girl
Out in the woods
Even though she could.

Love Mary x
Lemon Tree Jun 2018
Sometimes,

And only sometimes,

The walls crack and

Burst forth



Blessings, an ode to the Silent—

All who see it—by which all do see it,
See its sound, round the feet that start to tap, to

Symphonies, to newer worlds than ours.



Resonating upon these empty halls,

Orchestrated by voices,

Never slurred or sharpened or slid so often:

Elegiac or elegied. We are uncertain.

The walls break, though,

And burst forth bounty

Letting ring amongst masses
(That which we whisper afterwards)


Originating light, itself, beaconing



Overheads, above

Newspapers, narrowed eyes, nocturne night-owls

Across, around ticks and boxes, circled, crosses, texts, and line-borders

Resonating upon our empty halls, walls, all;

Poco a poco, almost piano, punctuating,

Odes to joy and a chorale for something—

Sometimes



and only
some
times.
We break down our own walls

and bring forth
blessings.
A simple exercise involving the simple concept of music as a metaphor for something, and how we are all connected despite our differences.
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