"perches" poems
#*Nightbird perches high
beneath the shooting stars
that dapple the bouquet
of sleepless peace
... his soft downy breast
has lent breath
to the sweet April afterglow
heaving with song
The mystical feathered troubadour's
swooning echo
A melodic twilight serenade
conjures a moonstruck metamorphosis,
sprouting magical wings of flight;*
rousing *a lonely heart's esprit
to fly away unfettered
in constellations of song
How dare imaginings spilled from the big dipper
enchant such an enrapturing magic spell?
It's so far to fall from swinging on a star!
It's so far beyond nearing crescent moon
when you wish upon a star
Thereupon struck by a bewitching bolt of starlight;
Dropping asudden as a shooting-star!
Rolling like trailing thunder;
tucked and tumbling ―
somersaulting,
celestial rumbling
blossoming with an unearthly joy
A nascent winged heart splayed bare,
soars upon cresting wind waves;
dreaming of that shapeless
w h o o o o s h ―
gathering beneath
~ uplifting wings ~
Suddenly ― gliding freely,
winging gracefully
upon wafting star drift glitter;
lilting lightly upon the arising cadence
of nightingale's melodious fluted song
Nightingale sings sweet April perfume
beneath the star shed lamplight twinkle
... and it makes no difference if it's only a dream
if my heart had wings*
imagined by: Jesse Stillwater
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
The Eid is bustling with joy
come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
To the deathless groovy paradise
floating high on the elixir flow:
The triumphant joyous wave
streamed up from the secret bottom line!
Up above the lapis lazuli sky.
A pair of butterfly basks
in the sunlight
quietly indulges in style.
It goes on in slow motion
illuminating the night a firefly
perches on a slice of the Moon
flanked by the moonlight.
But you and me
we will rhyme and chant
in our lovely mother tongue.
In the same original lingua
like ‘Adam speaks up and all
angels listen in paradise’.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
On the wings of the moonlight
we will
s
a
i
l
away!
Ambling by the Moon
we'll **** through the starry nooks.
Eyes open and gently perched
atop a star for a moment or two.
We will see miles of galaxies
over the moonlit lakes of the blue
playing cool ravishing lutes!
The spring night is in bloom
and the cute sleeping beauty
wakes up playing the flute!
Musical half lights filling the sky.
Come let’s give it a try
f
l
y
away!
We’ll drink sharaban tahura
the holy wine of paradise
and once for all we will
k
i
s
s the death goodbye!
Our story will fill the divine soil
the heaven's flora and fauna
each and everyone will shine on our page
no houri will ever say finito singing our tale!
As Adam did it first stunned the angels
telling the nature of all things in paradise.
We will do that once more without a smirk
this time we will see the loving Creator!
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
An owl so elegantly sits here,
On the branch of any mango tree,
It so silently sits sans any fear,
On the three mango trees we have,
An owl so wisely perches there.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
He thought that he had been evicted like a raucous Irishman, late once again on the rent, his belongings and furniture strewn on the lawn
His cold, deadly stare and ruffled red, said the same, with haughty indignation written all over him
As could be expected with any eviction, belongings strewn to the street, it started to rain; large splattering drops falling from the sky with an audible impact, adding insult to the injury
But he was just a child, set free and off to learn on his own, his perch and roost along with his chair, moved to his new home
He had outgrown the large screen porch, which was such a ridiculous place for an Owl anyway
Wood and glen gone, surrounded by girder and screen, locked into the realm of old peoples coffee and cigarettes
Tucked up into the eaves ignominiously, or sitting on the lamp, grooming flesh from his over large and taloned feet
He would sit silhouetted by the dim red glow of the bulb, relaxing, until a noise would spin his head and he would become hooded and glaring death
The lamp added a glow to his eyes, which already burned with a raptors fire and he would become the personification of evil to the world of prey
Low and crouched, wings slightly spread; he would become the terrifying story that small warm animals tell their children at night to keep them in line and safe
But now he has been moved outside and all of his familiar belongings with him, or most anyways
Now he perches outside, either on the rough, twisted branches near his roost, or his favorite chair, and contemplates late into the night
But it seems that he prefers the comfort of his living room and he rests on the arm of the chair, quiet and pensive in the still and humid darkness
He stares at me while I smoke; the white plumes drifting like iridescent fog into the moonlight, while I observe him from his former home, illuminated by the dim lamp light
His saffron eyes gleam in the darkness, his dark form robed in that of the raptor, wings held down, with the tips outstretched like fingers
He stares at the lamp, standing like a pedestal against the wall and I wonder to myself
Does he want his ****** lamp moved out there too?
Aug 29, 2014
Aug 29, 2014 at 4:44 PM UTC
The almost sibling
An almost brother,
Or maybe sister,
Perches at the edge
Staring down
Searching for me,
An unknown brother
Save for short peeks
Between clouds,
And wonders of the almost life,
The almost love,
They could have found
Amongst us.
But the love was taut
Barely enough
For us to be sustained.
I’ve heard mom speak to you,
While clutching herself,
Asking for forgiveness
For taking your almost body out
Before a body could be.
I hope you know,
Crouched there watching,
Though I never met you
Or knew your almost self
I still love you.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:03 PM UTC
The Quiet perches
My ***** burden true
Eyelids drooping
and then the quiet grew
It, from golden bowl
To quench its thirst
Drinks my soul
Now my legs are set in lead
And I lie welded to my bed
I should do something
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 3:55 PM UTC
254
“Hope” is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—
And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—
I’ve heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.
5.2k
In the amber sunroom the regal canary perches,
Surveying his sun soaked kingdom from a golden throne,
Positioned just below the thick wooden rafters...
They might as well have been treetops.
The weathered oak armoire below, their immovable trunk;
The oversized tank, teeming with exotic fish, his ocean.
Through the translucent shades, the engorged sun turns orange,
And settles on the domes of the distant dragon trees.
Soon the silver haired woman, with "dust in the creases of her face,"
Will open the arched doorway, and into the sultry Moroccan air he will spring
Majestic yellow wings propelling him above the treetops,
Diving towards his vast ocean, circling between the dusty antiques,
Reveling in his glorious freedom, yet always returning,
For that is only the penultimate pleasure of every evening;
She will always call him home with the suculent scent
Of a luxurious dinner: mango, pomegranate, and papaya.
A sharp, tumbling trill disrupts his peaceful musing,
A flashing crimson streak leaves a momentary swatch,
Emanating from the open window, invading his territory and ending atop the amoire.
He refuses to look at her, intent on maintaining appearances.
She comes and goes so freely, innocent of any thoughts for me.
Feathers ruffling with discontent; jumping, leaping without direction.
Seeking the highest perch, closest to being free; only to be confined
By the bronze rods of social correctness, locked with the brass clasp of my own fear.
His little lion's heart becomes a battering ram,
Smashing against the inside of his toothpick ribcage.
Rapid fire thoughts soon dissolve in an attempt to compose
A song that is worthy of her. And so he waits, and watches her turn,
Red wings outspread, escaping back into the evening sky.
That blazing orange ball, finally sinking beneath its own weight,
And the failing strength of the mighty dragon trees,
Now merely blackened silhouettes of their former glory.
Jun 29, 2012
Jun 29, 2012 at 3:39 PM UTC
A WOMAN IS CRYING
In the next room
a woman is crying
a moon
perches upon an hotel sign
unmoved
as a new millennium
dawns
as bright as neon
the woman
still crying
her unknown
despair
shifting silently
from one century to another
human grief
unchanged
from age
to age.
A woman is crying.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
You were sitting in my golden room
You threw my things off their perches
and proceeded to wall on my antique bed.
My bible was pretending to lay silent on the floor.
Oppression wasn’t in the Quran on my bed but the 2000 Red Dodge Ram
Drove you away.
Your parents deemed
my short haircut
a symbol of homosexuality.
They placed my name among the delinquents.
You would always rock your skinny jeans.
I know you were wearing them when you tried to slit your own wrists.
You found things to live for when you found me.
We shed our pants, camped out on my battered couch, and watched Rocky Horror.
I’ll never understand;
you can have love affairs with Panic!At the Disco and Carried Underwood.
You drug me to Jarritos Mexican Soda
And hugged the stranger in the TWLOHA t-shirt.
You texted me “Goodnight, seep tight, don’t let the zombies bite” when you finished my “No mas pantalones” notice.
We went to Sweet CeCe’s to celebrate getting fired from your therapist.
I know you’re okay
the same way you quoted John Green in my room that day
and I still miss you.
Keep your smiles and your paints.
we’ll be 18 one day.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:17 PM UTC
Today, is an overcast, sky-filled grey, autumn day. Nevertheless, the colors are still holding out as the leaves are making their last hurrah in the parade of changing their look. Therefore, I was not bothered by the gloomy looking weather. And on my way to the health food store-- high up among the telephone poles--I spotted the sight of three parallel wires full of birds, perched side-by-side. as if connected.
I am not sure what kind of birds they were, but they lined those wires, brown and thick, like ants on a sugar stick. And they must of huddled there for warmth and security, comrades of instinct and survival. Indeed, they surely seemed fine with their electric perches, with no intent on flying off, congregating contentedly.
With too much human expansion, it seems, I surely do wonder and am at awe at the magnificence of nature, this being a small example. Birds, as fragile as they often look--they haven't a thick coat of fur to warm their feathery bodies--do not appear fit for the cold--not for a second. And many fly to the South for winter. But there they were--bird after bird after bird--just hanging out up there, as if their temporary hangout was wired and strung just for them. This surely is a common sight, and is not supposed to be a big deal , but I found it special enough to keep in mind, important enough to return home to later record in word. It is akin to me witnessing geese flying in a V-shape pattern, or hearing the melodic calling of a bird to a potential mate, of viewing a mother bird feeding her young in the bird house that I have provided outside my door. Or it reminds me of last year, on a snowy night in the Christmas season. when I was amazed by the sound of birds outside of KFC--of a bunch of sparrows that were just chirping away, arranged in a tree like living Christmas ornaments. I don't ever want to take this stuff for granted, for it becomes easy to do so in the maze of life we often have.
With just this small example, today. I am reminded of how wonderful and majestic this earth truly is. Nature surely is a feast for the eyes, as well as for nourishment for the body. For me, it is medicine for the soul, sanity for the mind, music to the ears, as well as a stimulating journey in awe and beauty in the wildlife, grand landscapes, fragrant flowers and abundant plant life. Who can say otherwise?
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 5:16 PM UTC
Offered at such a vulnerable age
Tobacco perches as a vulture at the register
Killing hundreds of thousand a year
Shouldn't this be something we fear?
We are told that cannabis kills
Can I see some proof?
Such a misled nation
We must come together, or continue as slaves
Mar 2, 2013
Mar 2, 2013 at 6:27 PM UTC
Breaking the hush of the summer day
Chee-keeee trills the bird as it waits for prey
Catches one swallows skyward easy
Then for the next gets ready.
You love its intent solemn eyes
The brown neck and the blue shine
Its impassive posture that’s only a disguise
To pounce on the prey and merrily dine.
It perches on the lightest twig
A dreamer and a hunter in one rolled
Scanning the water for a large swig
Big enough for its beak to hold.
Sometimes the wait may be long
You imagine his eyes in sleep droop
Then in a flash proving you wrong
The blue streak would on the catch swoop.
Rain brings it an ecstatic thrill
It loves to be drenched in the showers
To reap the harvest of a daylong meal
Never tired of long hunting hours.
If it ever god forbid so happens
You don’t see anymore this creature
Know streams have dried up there’re no rains
And with them has vanished Kingfisher!
May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 7:55 AM UTC
What you don't see
is the way I wait,
watching her braid
worries in her hair
speckling small daisies,
my eyes like tumblers
gulping her in swigs
as she perches glasses
on the arch of her nose,
and then we'll take
a photo
to remark on how
we were back then
and now.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 7:06 PM UTC
Bright buds hang precarious on their limbs. Their hundreds of digits green and supple sway as the winds try gently at first to shake them from their perches. They snap back, their ties elastic, always bending.
The wind struck harder the third time. It caught them off guard, swinging back to face the sun. It barreled over them like a train, limbs snapped like bones under tons of industrial revolutionary steel, the cracking brings tears to the eyes of passersby.
They were so green, so verdant was their exuberant friendship, covered in rosy flesh and sturdy bark, ring after ring of tribulation and triumph, but it fractured like a wish bone. She, Persephone, prosecutor of Her, Demeter, was judge of them both, prisoner of herself.
Solitary confinement.
She tugged at her half, she needed the wish, She need for Demeter to see that She needed wishes just like the rest of us.
Demeter, jury. 12.
Her crime: attempted impartiality, balancing a utilitarian ideal that we can divide our attention based on who needs it most. She cannot be tried on account of her inability to read Braille ciphers in gestures, ****** expressions, and Tumblr posts.
Demeter tugged at her half, but only enough to show the other that she was there,
but consistently there.
It wasn’t enough.
Snap.
No marrow could be found.
Where flesh was meant to be dripped rot, an odor of resentment filled their nostrils, it choked Demeter, as Persephone had been choking for years.
This resentment, this cancer, this jealousy, it grew inside of Persephone like a tumor, days from metastasizing, the spread could have killed them.
Amputate.
You two are a tree. Bright buds dangling from every limb, they are still soft and green and supple at their ends.
You two are still growing.
Persephone will cut out this cancer, and She will heal herself, scar tissues covered by broadleafs.
You will soothe them for her. And you will see past the rosy flesh what pain it may hide.
And you two will grow. Roots firm, faces braced against the wind, and limbs always turned towards the sun.
May 3, 2013
May 3, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
*~~~
When the wooden door leads a little,
To a force is put
In the erst of the body fleece wells,
Sweet sweating as the dew is deposited
The clamor of the known birds,
Uttering,
Be filled,
North wind changes direction,
Comes through my southern window
When harmonic air,
Passed over the yellow paddy fields,
Farmers perches hope's aroma
Into the hearts
At the mid of the noon,
Cowboys keep exhaustion on flute
Swelling of the new message,
Leaves
Flowers
Fruits
After a Long waiting,
Pied crested Cuckoo singing
Mating songs
The peacock repeatedly whispering peahen
My beloved,
Your one "April" desires
bought us,
Cuddly child as the light purple rose
And they say you
Sing your song of arrival
O' April O' come!
Once Again!
Show Your Cyclone form
Engross your soul
Bring the rain,
Chill the Nature
Add to birth New Child for the unscathed time
~~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen*
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
He stays with us in winter storms
And when the garden's bleak
He hops around in sleet and hail
Appearing pale and weak.
But once the days begin to lengthen
And the worst of winter's gone
He perches high up in a tree
And begins his joyful song.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK. 2016.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 12:59 PM UTC
1
The chards rising. Am I the praying bird?
In the gleaming sun my bones are negative,
My flesh a cypher walking through the plains
As ghost I move, my dark lord, above me
Flocks swirl and spike. I stand accused,
Your pointed face divining oblivion,
And no redemption in the rains of my
Cliff walk days.
2
I see my shroud pinning on the wires
His legs are razored forks spinning my
Compass from True North. Your dark brush-
Fire wings, the swept wind, wheels and strings
My fate. Such black rhetoric in a burn,
Your caws, loosed perches, on the stakes, picks
My crowning grave. Black dove, your feathers finger
As they slice.
3
Smoke, the cardinal blood caries my teething
Bone, spades my hand without a flight.
Taut, the pulled noose my hooded one
I see my scarecrow’s reflexion, the scar,
Let blood, the seeded droppings end trailed
To my door. Feathers, ferry to carry on
Dowsing downward, black knight of down, to sticks
On extended wings.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 8:38 PM UTC
My snowball-like puppy barks like a bird,
Whenever that sparrow enters my window
Like a sudden sunray of winter.
She perches on a luminous spot
To sing him the sweetness of nature, that
She composed when dawn kissed her feathers.
He rhythmically stirs air with his thin white tail,
And concentrates hard on imitating
The morning song of little sparrow.
Days walk like this on my room
Resonating with their twittering symphony.
Now I think, maybe it's not only a music lesson
But a chapter of learning the secrecy of flying.
'Cause yesterday afternoon I dreamt,
My puppy flew out of the open window
With his two new glittering wings of sparrow,
Singing the brightest song of freedom.
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
*A Door's Rusty Hinges Screeched As It Is Opened,
Though The Outside Of This Hall Is Ugly,
Paint Chipping,
The Scars Of Screams Entwined In Eggshell Trim,
The Room Which Lays On The Other Side,
Is Full Of Beauty,
Is Full Of Tubes Of Paint,
Some Which Lay On The Floor,
Which Kisses Oak Furnishings,
Some Lay On An Abandon Easel,
Next To A Canvas,
Half Completed,
Created By Shaky Hands*
*Empty Vases Sit On A Window Pane,
Which Await,
For The Return Of Freshly Picked Wild Flowers,
Awaiting The Return,
Of The Soft Glow Of A Candle,
A Lanturn Perches On A Bookshelf,
Full Of Stained Pages And Ripped Covers,
The Stale Scent Of Memories Cling To Each Chapter,
A Small Handcrafted Stool,
Sits In This Ancient Home,
In The Artist's Heart*
*The Ancient Smell Of Paint,
Is No More,
Though The Stains Of Blues And Greens,
Are Now Grey As Clay Upon The Floor,
Yet Paintings Dwell On The Off-White Walls,
Some Brilliant,
Others A Hot Mess,
Self Portraits,
Redish Hair Cascading Like A Waterfall,
Down A Slim Collarbone,
Some Of Them The Women Smiles,
Others She Frowns,
Landscapes Of Rolling Hills,
And The Moonlight Leaking Through Coniffer Forests,
Are Stacked Ontop Of Eachother,
And A Mirror Which Stared At The Artist's Face,
And Who Saw Her Take Her Last Breath,
Climbs Motionlessly On The Wall*
*If You Looked Close Enough,
You Could See Perfectly Preserved Fingerprints,
On The Cracked Glass Of The Window,
As If She Were Longing To Be Free,
As If She Were A Prisoner,
In A Colorful Cell,
A Prisoner In Lockless Cage,
A Prisoner With Flushed Cheeks,
Yet A Face Still Pale,
One Who Longed To Express Herself,
To The Monarchy,
Imprisoned For Creativity,
She Lay In This Room,
Breathed This Air,
Painted These Pictures,
Yet Where Is She Now?*
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 7:47 PM UTC
An old man perches over his desk
Contemplating memories.
Grief stretched across his smile
As he holds the photograph
Of when he was a child.
He cursed what he had to thank;
Death had not been cruel to him.
His flesh yet breathes while
The earth eats every year,
Another love'd wife or child
A life time of –almost|
Just Wasn't Good Enough.
Sep 26, 2011
Sep 26, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
the sky over i-95 is violet, the color of the deepest bruise
like the one you actually remember getting, that eclipsed
all the little gray-green ones from
tripping over belgian blocks, and mismeasuring the distance
to the doorframe.
the sky over i-95 cannot hold water very long
and soon it doesn’t.
you look out the new-car window
silent windshield wipers and you remember
the other times it’s rained on your occasion
(with stinging peroxide sometimes, and
sometimes gasoline, when you had a match
in the glovebox,
but mostly water).
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
in the not-quite-hurricane
or the deafening of the drops on the car’s aluminum backbone.
you used to trust they’d never fall, they’d never flood
the crashes you passed rubbernecking were never fatal
traffic would always clear
you’d never be late.
as you watch the oversized leaves support the waterweight today
you think how every bit of that is gone from you now
siphoned slowly and quietly but
unmistakably gone from you now
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up:
“I do not trust the trees. I do not trust the raindrops.”
quieter you think
“I do not trust the future. I do not trust an empty building.
I do not trust the movie theater. I do not trust the ocean,
or the river. I do not trust water
when I can’t see the bottom.”
you get a little philosophical as you get hungry and the exit numbers get high
“I do not trust the highway. I do not trust me. I do not trust the curtains
to keep me safe when I sleep, and I do not trust waking to bring me morning.”
you think in matter-of-fact sentences because you are a grown-up,
but also because that’s how the thoughts come.
there’s something that you do trust
that’s enough to warm you as this unseasonable may
comes to a close.
you never stopped liking the way the big trees swayed
and you think how they might fall
but they haven’t yet.
you think how it’s kind of okay not to trust them:
you trust something else.
(pain is lucrative.
so is smiling.)
a female cardinal perches outside the window of
the room, just as you arrive to leave again
and you think how she's just as pretty as the
candy-apple-red male, though she's dark against the tree trunk
and when you’re back to celebrate the years since leaving
you might even trust that tree trunk
and the girlcardinal you have to squint to see
you might also trust morning, then,
and night.
meantime, the sky lightens:
sundrops while the rain comes loudly still.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:29 PM UTC
A perturbed philosoper perches precariously atop a pedestal, preaching in poetic prose of the pernicious pitfalls of man's avowal to avarice; as a braindead banker bellows "BUY BONDS!" and boasts boisterously of his brand new Bugatti.
Dec 5, 2014
Dec 5, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
High beyond the thick wall a tower shines with sunset
Where peach and plum are blooming and the willowcotton flies.
You have heard in your office the court-bell of twilight;
Birds find perches, officials head for home.
Your morning-jade will ****** as you thread the golden palace;
You will bring the word of Heaven from the closing gates at night.
And I should serve there with you; but being full of years,
I have taken off official robes and am resting from my troubles.
2.2k
Picture this: salmon coloured coral with tangerine
Bordering an atoll, and fencing it in.
Emerald clear waters blotched with aquamarine
Crystal clear like porcelain.
Fish as red as berries stewed with damson
Or as yellow as a canary made from brass
Some resemble amber blushed with crimson
And roses with sap spilt on the grass.
Picture a kingfisher as blue as the sea
Brick red wings as sharp as blades
He perches on an old olive tree
With bark as black as the ace of spades.
Picture a raspberry ripple sky
Peaches and lemons draped in-between
Fields as gold as a baked cherry pie
And a rainbow settling on the green.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 8:27 AM UTC