"wingy" poems
Under the honeycrisp branches
I'm watching the dusk die.
The ore *******
of a glassy sphinx
are silvering the fall,
her wingy myth
is mounting the sky,
is smiling at me
as she passes by.
And I look at her, look at her
scanning her magical waltz
with desperate eyes,
while thinking, in a nocturne,
how unreachable
it's her tide.
High in the pearly tree
a crimson robin
is waving good bye.
~Hildegarda Ares
Oct 11, 2012
Oct 11, 2012 at 4:40 PM UTC
Time and I don't sit together
at the end of day readings
where the old head of god bobs very slightly as he peacefully writes
and reads at the same time
remembering everything in a log
talking so slowly for the words to kiss me and time.
We avoid the eyes in our faces though while
We explore our bond collecting in our foreheads
A straight line binds us across the wind in the air
Across the papers of words
between us
He doesn't like the clock hands stuck in me, off such wingy arms
that don't have enough room in my chest to click around
My clock is always waiting for a bigger wall, for its arms to spread
and the energy cycle of the little go in there is like a skirt that doesn't twist when you turn
no color splashing the air at each little movement
My wing arms need me to lift out most of the feathers and turn
And then it'd be a better clock than time
I don't like his viscious breathing, and the colors on his wall only dark grey and blue
At least my wall is red
But I want to be friends
I want to take his hand and let the minutes come, behind us
I don't want to push the future far away with my eyes on the rug
my shoulders fallen without feathers to be free
Please don't shred my slow dance rolling towards god's arms for him to make it lighter
I wheel in pain while I bend my broken knees to turn, of all your torture
It's a weighty golden skirt from all the fire
Love me first, then tell me something wise
And lighter than the heavy turning to the sides you've designed
Sit next to me in the middle of the story Grandfather clock
Then we will both be looking forward
Listening to the book of the long
Opening the folded air of today, tomorrow, and the ones that made them
Writing with a clock hand, and an eternity pen
Giving to us what we wait for
Lifting our names to move and make a turn
Me and time making the parting between the pages and the hill of them,
for several walls of clocks
several scars
several backs of life
a central spine strong enough to dance to the beat of so many more pages
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
Loving
the hearts of angels breathe with yours
and it pulses with softness
made of their thrills
Loving
the wings of angles touch your mind
and it forgets all
flying into hopes
made of wingy illusion
Loving
the lips of angles kiss yours
and they don't rule themselves more
adored with the flavor
made in heaven
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 6:09 AM UTC