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

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

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

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

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

    ReplyDelete
  8. 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. Love this, Chrissa! No white wings for you.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

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 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...

A Single (Terrible) Poem

 I did not buy the poetry book whose sample Was page after page of essay and praise. I'm not following the trumpets. Today I follow the ringers-- Huzzah and call out the streets! Lift your arm, swing the bell; Call out the quiet, call out the neat Call out the loud, call out the bold Call out the wrong, call out the wise We remember the bells We shiver the skies.    This isn't about...anything. It's not about nothing. It should go without saying that a poem shouldn't need an essay or a textbook to be what it is. And I'm not sure why, with a stack of poetry at hand to be read, one silly Kindle sample (and writer's block and anxiety and...) would push my buttons so badly. But seriously. Where is my parody book full of fake blurbs that runs for 50 pages and ends with a single (terrible) poem?  -- Chrissa