Skip to main content

Feathers & Wings

 Sharing for The Sunday Muse #223. 


But the deconstruction comes at the chorus

It's not the same thing: wings aren't flight
The sky isn't the same day and night
I'll turn my back on angel's secrets
Because my wings were never white.

The only time the window rolls down
Your palm finally catches the slipstream
There's a lift that pushes back, shoves;
Flight doesn't float, it's always finding 
The hardest push.

-- Chrissa

Comments

  1. Sherry Blue SkyAugust 13, 2022 at 6:26 PM

    I love "Because my wings were never white". And "Flight doesnt float." Very cool poem.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Carrie BurttAugust 13, 2022 at 7:22 PM

    Some deep and lovely thoughts in these amazing lines Chrissa and that last line is one of the truest ones I have ever read! Beautiful writing!

    ReplyDelete
  3. TruedessaAugust 14, 2022 at 8:57 AM

    You have captured a bit of darkness and light - the owl is a harbinger of night but, it is wise as it sees through different eyes.

    ReplyDelete
  4. FireblossomAugust 14, 2022 at 11:00 AM

    That ending, and your poem's message, knocked me over. I think, then, that it must be true.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Marion HortonAugust 15, 2022 at 5:35 AM

    'Flight doesn't float, it's always finding
    The hardest push.' - fabulous!

    ReplyDelete
  6. HelenAugust 15, 2022 at 9:04 AM

    Your poetry pushes boundaries ... profound ... forcing a long read, a deep dive.

    ReplyDelete
  7. Susie ClevengerAugust 15, 2022 at 3:50 PM

    I love the whole poem. Your ending speaks right to me. Great Writing as always!!

    ReplyDelete
  8. hedgewitchAugust 16, 2022 at 6:38 AM

    Physics and poetry are a rather unholy combination, yet you make it work--this is striking, Chrissa, full of truth that is shown not stated, and images that fly on their own wings. Really excellent poem.

    ReplyDelete
  9. purplepeninportland.comAugust 17, 2022 at 5:21 PM

    Love this, Chrissa! No white wings for you.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Treacle Season

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #190 ,  hosted this week by Carrie. Keaton was great in that show—the one with wings— Where he was constantly a [man]child on a ledge  dreaming an angel who became a superhero.   She was a sarcastic (fake?) angel—it was the 80s— But always good, on time, her lessons easy, Easy as it would have been for him to fall.   The metaphor so obvious...but I didn't get it. Nor the easy and obvious good. (/s)   I watch the TV movie every other December Remembering believing in easy And crushing on this character, that city...   Angels should be sweet, sarcastic figures, knowing (like nurses and social workers) we prefer Sleeping on the ledge, reckless to call for "heroes." To clear up any confusion:  there is no Michael Keaton movie we watch every holiday season. Although, if there were...I'd probably watch it.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more

Turn Away

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse , for #193. Turn away, like the moon, listening... Listening to the planet that rumbles with a hundred million slaps. All the feet, all the rockets, all the  pistons in the cars on the asphalt over the chasm where the veins run deep, blue in sunlight, black at night. Running over the chasm.  Once or twice they ran to you. Once or twice they ran by. Greetings and salutations. The sky is an entertaining shade of concrete yellow as the rain promised earlier in the week makes good on its arrival. It's a disturbing bright sallow sky, the kind of sky that puts you in mind of old movies and degraded film stock and the pops and crackles incidental to the main story.  Several years ago I made a resolution to journal more and last year I came across a video that suggested I actually re-read those journals, at least those of the previous year, at the beginning of each new year. Technically, I have kept the journal resolution, making daily notes in the margins of
15 comments
Read more

Out of the Den

  For the Sunday Muse, #166. Deep in the rain, stand and drink. Water that rises carries the need, Remember the trail where it sinks; Deep in the rain, stand and drink. There is a rumble outside as I write. Arthur has come to check on me and has curled up beneath the desk--once James settles down, he'll probably find a more comfortable place to snooze or shiver through the rain. I am, this week, angry. You'd think a wolf would be a goad for finding words for it; not yet. I didn't expect to reemerge and be angry. I expected tears, the occasional panic attack, relief. Instead I am furious and couldn't say why.  -- Chrissa
16 comments
Read more