"wingbeat" poems
the house was painted
a soft hue. an old tobacco trap;
discolored white where
pictures once hung.
in the kitchen, grease stains,
faded bluebird wallpaper —
long since ceased it's song,
and one cast-iron skillet off to the side.
pale and forgotten,
the fine china shrieks!
my barefoot innocence
is lost as the cold-colored
porcelain eats at the floor.
sometimes when I lay there covered in
turpentine, stars usually topple
out of the cabinet,
and my gas stove aspirations are botched.
the sink drain moans with the silent
invectives of an impure saint…
her rosary still atop the mantle.
just outside, a stone angel
that smells of lilies, —
savagely eats rosebuds over
an autumn bonfire.
from time to time
her face is one of lament…
it follows me from room to room,
and my hands shake for hours
while holding little antique figurines
in a basket full of milkweed…
they’d tuck at the curtain,
their little music box voices
complain about her eyes...
they'd scurry up the ivy on the side of
the house to avoid her
disappointed glance…
there was a sad wingbeat as
I stepped out on the balcony to collect
them one last time.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 8:51 AM UTC
I could hear the echo of a ****** closing in, but from which direction
I could not for the life of me tell.
The caws and cries soothed my soul
And my eyes were closed,
So that I could immerse myself in a Yorkshire breeze
That gently brushed itself past the timeless trees.
With my wake came the crows
-Of which restored my sanity-
And each wingbeat brought yet another colour to the dusky sky,
As if time were something that could be carried.
A magpie,
A reminder of home,
Perched itself upon a fallen post and rattled furiously at how temporarily tranquil
I had become.
Then a charming mist made its way across the valley
But this only enhanced the clarity of my current surroundings.
The clouds in front of me began to wisp and merge like cigarette smoke against an ever-dimming lightbulb-
That reminds me,
I still need to get that fixed.
I noticed that my neighbours were cows,
Which I saw as a treat and a rarity,
Not in any way as a delicacy to be consumed and exploited for the good of humankind-
I digress.
Not the cows that I see everyday at, say, sixth form or in
Human form.
No, the cows that I usually see in packs
On supermarket shelves;
On butchers' racks
Before the people that behold them with hungry, selfish eyes.
As I gazed in this melancholy daze I knew that I would begin to miss the sight of those unsuspecting beasts from the minute I got back to where I was from-
To where I was born to live,
Unlike those in the fields that are
Born to die.
So then I swore to myself that I would never again
Look outside.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 4:46 PM UTC
I traced the mountain skyline
Placed at rivers bend
Trying to recapture the beauty
That once made my heart a butterflies wingbeat.
The dullness filled that landscape in comparison
If in my lifetime
I were to capture a sight of you once
In a moment of time
I would praise the starry night sky
That cast a glimmer of light upon your face
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
You could have heard
The wingbeat of a wingless bird
I was frozen in place
Stiff, with a stone for a face
Legs heavy as mountain sized blocks of granite
Probably not a force on this planet
Could have moved me, at least I doubt it
After all the hate you’ve radiated
All the silence you’ve created
I am welded to the wall at my back
Not strong enough to
Take the two steps that it’d take to
Walk over and sit next to you
Tell you how many things
I wish that I could take back
But you do the thing I can’t
The last thing I think you’d want
You get up, walk, take two steps and stop
Sudden.
Sit facing me
A face I never thought I’d see
Look at me again
Especially not with that spark in your smile
It
It always told me when
Your smile was real
My eyes trace
Every inch of your face
In glances
Glances like the dances
Of shadows chased away by midnight
Broken by firelight
Yours trace mine
I take in the complex mix
Of tears hiding in your eyes
Shifting glances sliding by
Subtle smiles bursting I
Think I see a remnant of friendship
Hoping just a little bit
Hoping for a hope, that’s it
Think the (soft ,strong, wavy, weak)
Punctuation of our voices when we speak
Reveals it almost perfectly
I chew on every word I hear
With every word I speak
And the whole time we’ve been talking
My heartbeat has been shaking my rigid body loose
Stone skin sloughing off
As if I were a cement snake
(I feel like a snake)
(in the background)
(and in the background I think)
(this might be the feeling that makes)
(both our smiles sneak off our face)
We speak in broken sentences
And repeat ourselves
And speak in
Broken sentences
It sounds to me like
Words begging to be heard
Being heard again
Again
But for the first time
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
There’s something about late September
that makes me want to text people
I only miss when I’m too tired to lie.
There’s a moth in my mouth again.
I try to sing and it *****
Some nights I rehearse conversations
with people I haven’t forgiven.
Some of them are alive.
Some of them are me.
I keep a list of people
I swore I’d stop dreaming about.
I keep dreaming anyway.
I talk to no one
like they’ll answer differently this time.
I wake up with a wingbeat
pressed into the backs of my teeth.
I think I’m leaking
something no one taught me how to name.
It leaves stains on my straws
It fogs the mirror before I do.
It answers to my voice
but only when I’m not using it.
There’s something about late September
that makes everything feel returned,
but not forgiven.
I don’t text them.
I let the silence say maybe I meant to.
Apr 24, 2025
Apr 24, 2025 at 1:37 PM UTC
I passed by a lea while
walking in the prairie
grassy meadows sprinted
towards green horizons
bumpy hills
and rocky crags
clothed the verdant meadow
willows and gum trees
shaded the countryside
She was like an oasis
I fell in love with the lea
with her alluring grassy hair
and fertile aura
I sat down in her *****
and curled up in her supple
valley
Smooth sunlight trickled down
on us
watering the lea in a dandelion glow
The scent of apple cinnamon
and radiata pine wafted towards
me spicing the air with the lightness
and beauty of a butterly’s wingbeat
an ineffable sigh
escaped from secret chambers
of my heart
and leaped into the romantic air as
I wedded this lea
under the turquoise sky
with the sunlit trees
as witness
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 10:32 PM UTC
No more long, slow days
of pushing through
fatigue and boredom,
we've stagnated long enough
they say.
Now the wind kicks up a renewed warmth
that greets us in the morning over the white-capped mountains.
Now the sun sets and shrouds a cloudless sky in gold.
We hear voices, whispers
saying someday soon we'll go out
to ****
or be killed.
And it's scary how much it excites us
to fantasize about death;
about our role in catastrophe
and the empty glory.
Sometimes death hurtles through the beautiful
high, azure sky. And leaves
not a mark, not even a cool shadow on the ground
as it flutters harmlessly to the earth
bemusing us. underwhelming us.
Some weeks are so quiet
that we touch the nuts and bolts
of true nothing
too much.
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feel too little and lose sight
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of our purpose. Lose sight
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of the need
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00000000d000000000000000000000000000000
for one. Lose sight
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of memories of ******* by the fire.
Lose sight of what there is
to guard inside of us, to keep
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whole and untouched
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.
Lose sight
of why we're
guarding it, why
we're trying to, need to. Lose sight
of what the air tasted like back home.
We just lose.
Sandstorms kick up giant tornados
of dust, pebbles and sand
cutting silently across the burning concrete.
We stand
in their way,
constantly.
To keep busy
we tell
the same stories
so many times.
Now they dive out
of our mouths dropping weightlessly,
not even the strength to carry a wingbeat.
We barely believe ourselves anymore,
that's what we say.
Feb 26, 2016
Feb 26, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
The wind writes letters in the language of
fallen leaves, edges like burnt parchment.
The moon carves shadows of boughed arms,
a question mark deep in the soil’s throat.
Somewhere, she hesitates, the magpie:
one foot in the underbrush, one in the realm
of quicksilver and stolen syllables.
Her beak glints with the moon’s loose change.
What does she know of the weight
of a minute’s wingbeat? She tilts her head,
stitching the sky with a thief’s precision—
collects tarnished seconds.
The wind’s letters fray, unreadable now.
The magpie flies, trailing a cry that unravels
time’s hem.
May 25, 2025
May 25, 2025 at 8:57 AM UTC