Hate to wake up to disappointment,
Sleep was welcome appointment,
Now reality murders my consciousness,
Finding solace, again, in rusty restlessness.

The orangey sun would soon die,
Dipping in the warm open oceans
Black unfeathered birds would fly,
Accompanied with teeth of draconians

The blue sky would be painted black,
And rounded moon would be lighted up
Little suns would start to spark,
With the cricket sounds, abrupt

After 12 rounds of the shorter hand,
The ball of fire will start blazing back
And by the shore, I would stand
Still, wide smiles and plenty laughs I lack

Biggest, blackest vultures
perched above the headstones
Unbending sin collectors
sipping through the nectar

Ripping through the silver
Leave but ashes, purple
Bruises hot and breathing
unfeathered throats, excited

Talons drop like fountains
beaming bright and red as blood
Penny wishes sinking
under oath and God above

The meal is hot and ready
Can only vultures stomach

the melted shouts of children

the deadened eyes of mothers

the headless walking fathers

Biggest, blackest vultures
elegant as navy
Irony collectors
clean of human peeling

Of napkin trees, a shading
Their beaks are white and shining
Underneath the highest flag
of their tender country

Peacefully Prospero weeped
at the edge of these darkened seas.
Unfeathered flocks of fiery bones
flew above his heavy brow.
Giving not a moments notice
at the sorrowed actions of this beaten crowd.

Comfort-blanket memories sooth,
Ash tasting, soul eating, ending youth,
Fleeing tears streak, stain and bleed,
Aches unspoken, howls and screams,
Black and beaten, unclean iron,
Hollow heart, gnawed to the bone,
Ember under water's weight,
Sizzling into last embrace,
Wings unfeathered, snake-eyes close,
The unknown hurts, together we lose.

The sound of my fears,
choke out my dreams.
Throwing silence of the prism
in a burning city.
I want to stray
& uncover
the wrapped beauty of
the ocean.
And the garments of the moon
wearing silk roses.
& Capture
the soft, unfeathered sun
unchain orange butterflies,
and aqua sequins dancing
far out in the sea,
throwing rainbows
in the sky laid above me.





but for now,  
I will close my eyes
& pray for this  
memory
to paint.

And, then the gray of vessels vast
cruised stealthily amongst daybreak calm,
wistful winds, aridly
asleep, blue, stolid
waters holding  salty thirst
for the mermaids, and sip yellow hazes, with
the smells of dead fish.

Or boiled legs, weary, seemed
on boardwalks brown,
splintered, to never sting the sting
of sun baked grit, nor harbor a signal sheltered
or captain heresies light religions
weathered boil itch,
unfeathered, tethered here and now.

Go down these stairs with me
        In naked eyed imaginations
               A Briskly Grilled Unfeathered
                     Turkey Savoured in Hot honey

It is a world of randomness.
Photos play in
their digital displays.
Soft impression of
Of wet and salted sands
leave an imprint
of her sacred dance.

Another photo
catches her
soft features
strained in
fantastic effort.
Like a perfect sketch
her legs
are outstretched midair
in opposite directions.  

A gray cement cylinder
with open circles
cradles her soft body.
She is a changeling
that bends with
it’s hard contours.

Switching with
a finger’s flick,
finds two black ropes
that hold the hopes
of the young dancer
hanging down
unbound
as she is.

With the fierceness
Of Artemis
this bare foot goddess
sweeps her feet
across the
white winter grounds.
Her steps are
hot enough
to melt the snow.
Later she
enshrouds herself
in a transparent veil.
The melody does not stop.
She moves
like the figure in a  
faberge egg music box,
never allowed
to rest until
she breaks.

Beautiful and powerful,
she blooms like the flowers
her admirers plucked
to place pink petals
at her feet.

She is eloquence.
Arms outstretched
to open the doors
that lead to a
warm summer dreamland
which all her devotees
wish to explore.

Folds of blue fabric
fill her tiny hands,
rippling like water
hit by strange skipping stones.
She ***** the fabric forward
up, down, and back,
trying to soar  
with the fury of her dance.

One knee rises.
Unfeathered arms open,
flowing back, up, and away.
This long legged
blonde blue eyed child flys,
a canary in the coal mine
barely concealed
urging us to feel;
Frozen in time
on Instagram
to be seen
and soon sidecrolled away.
A queen like Titania,
fairy winged,
a thing of dreams.
Nature’s surroundings
obfuscate her
transient existence.

Her body bends and sways
with the wonders of
old orchestras and concertos.
Till, eve falls
and December takes the dancer.
The soft swimmer shimmers
in the soon to be frozen water.
Feathers fall from the Swan’s
long lost daughter,
and the well used
dance shoes
refuse to move.

What? Conscious mindtrick
Souls impassioned to each other
To hold
To drink wine
To whisper through the stillness of an evening
In talk so sacred only the ancient ancestors and unfeathered spirits can comprehend
    And pour a cup of their own to listen and laugh in joy
To love your life and see another's perfection as a full moon backdrop sunset dripping with the thickest ink with the most colorful pigment
Dear lovely
Dear sweet breaths
Your cheeks tell the story
Here I am not afraid

Wings clipped from edges of earth, dusted with flecks of golden triumph and darkened by the ashes from graves of opportunities missed but still tried for. I tried to break the cage that locked me in, the bars were welded tightly together and sometimes I saw no way out. But the mind, just like the powers of the heart, can compress the aches, the pains, the hurt into tiny boxes, only setting themselves (and you) free when open space to be us, appear.

I found a lot of open spaces lately despite the crowdedness of sub-urban life. I found spaces that encouraged me, that loved me, that even glorified me. It is nice to be so unconditionally loved even when sometimes misunderstood.

But the cage remains around certain parts of me. Around things I may not be able to let go of for some time–around the angst about the future, the worry around my potential, the uncertainty around everything amid chaos. I am still compartmentalizing. Emotional boxes are still bound tight with invisible tape, silencing my own words, own thoughts, and the chaos in the background.

The wings, albeit in disarray, still allow me to fly, sometimes to places I never thought I would go. And when they become so unfeathered, there is always another opportunity for transformation.

I resurrect the death
Through the words I wrote
I unfeathered an awaken spirit
into realms of immortality

Written by
Martin Ijir

THE SAVIOUR

How weak a child when his dear mum
Leaves him in garden and goes home.
He gets too frightened and too glum.
He can't stay there, and he can't roam.

He just becomes a chick of bird
With wings unfeathered and dumb tongue.
It falls from its nest to the ground,
With none to help, to beg too young.

No one can please him but that face;
She only can give words that soothe.
Only her soft hand and its grace
His ruffled hair can gently smooth.

He cries and shouts and does not want
Except her face of kindest smile.
If she comes all gets quite all right,
And he feels that life goes so well.
BY JOSEPH ZENIEH