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

By the Roadside

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #260  with much appreciation to Carrie & Shay & everyone. Just a reminder: if you have a poetry book, please drop a title in the comments. My TBR won't thank you, but I will. :)    I drive by the armadillos, dead where they fell. Sunlight is so heavy it folds into damp shimmers. All the roads are widening, dispersing the ditches, Grinding out parking lots, killing slow steps. I speed up; crisp winter in the passenger seat. We will arrive at the store soon; I will drag her Chill, into the store. Breathe for both of us. Brightness distorts the lots, now grown gigantic. Roads need blood, the state needs the kills. We will make it through barriers if we wear them: Dead armadillos, caliche dust, gunmetal sunshine.
8 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...
15 comments
Read more

The Soul and The Spine

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #195 . Come and share! When it blew out the candle, It began to speak, voice low,  eyes dimmer than flame. Jenn believed, once upon a childhood (she's still there... but it's waning), it inhaled fire. Spines, tonight. Gears ladder bones and metal and plastic, all that lived, rungs to heaven. Heaven is a level of space where you can't breathe  so they used to send the dead. When the flame goes, it takes our memories with it. But not bot files. Maybe it believes  she'll sleep easier if bots go breathless, too. It continues murmuring and she pretends she's hearing a confession in a box Like the song her mother plays when the dark stretches  between signals We can handle shocks. She can handle the dark, the small  not-flame of its eyes. It's finally winter!! Which means bitmapped frost on the roofs, cold mornings, and a table full of succulents that are pretty much glaring at me because the kitchen window isn't the same as full su...
14 comments
Read more