Powdery wings upon the ground

[Atehequa]

Words fluttering wildly into the night
Lost in assumption, a precarious flight
Well honed words slashing like weapons of war
Flitting through tangled brush never to soar
Hopping about branches like frightened sparrows
Let fly without aim, your barbed point arrows
Another fluttering moth falling prey to a bat
Nothing like the play between mouse and housecat
Short lived flight, quick passionate thrill
Inspiration enough to move the quill
From mind to mouth onto pages, words leap
Never heard by those far away and fast asleep
Neither heard, scented or seen by the watchful hound
Powdery wings slowly falling to the ground
Words misread, a bad morning’s seething mind
Swiftly assuming them to be detrimentally unkind
More metaphoric rinds for you to carefully peel
Not too hard upon paper so as to foul the quill
Scabbard tapping threats playing upon fear
Strike at the nerve with your barbed spear
Never venturing very far above the forest floor
Well concealed by shadows, yet never able to soar
Brandishing spears at another day’s ending
Another savage night of attacking and defending
Never a thought of soaring high, wild and free
While jabbing in darkness at what you can’t see
Beautiful words penned atop a lofty ridge
Or contemptuous prose from under a bridge
Poetry hunting on the wing without a sound
Powdery wings bitten off, fall to the ground
The butterfly and moth, where ever they’re at
Always easy prey for both kestrel and bat
Never to disturb any high roosting birds
With too many loud and un-thoughtful words
Blinded by hate and filled with fright
Jab your barbed spears into the night
Hopelessly lost in the dark, what can you do ?
A feeble attempt to bag what’s hunting you
The next day all that could be found
Were powdery wings upon the ground

[saw]

this is an amazing poem.....the love and care for it is apparent to me.....and I would suggest to future readers to read this aloud......the rhymes create the necessary pause for me to reflect a split second before moving on.....rhyming is difficult to without sacrificing power and focus, but this piece keeps its momentum and direction......enjoyed reading this.....the "powderly wings upon the ground"
is a super line and title for this......thanx as well for the pic.....

[Atehequa]

My thanks, saw for your kind comment


Artguy wrote about poetry killing ‘pain’ I agree.

To me poetry is a path in or out, a greeting, a message of love, a tale or farewell,
a battle song, or dirge.
I think all living things experience pain either naturally occurring, accidental or dealt by something or someone else living, breathing, thinking, malevolent, lusting and hungry. A rutting buck or a love-sick blue jay’s pain as they violently compete for a suitable mate. Gored, kicked, pecked and clawed or maybe the pain of being struck full in the face, the victim of a successful sucker punch. Certainly such pain has and will continue to be celebrated in verse. Emotional or physical , inflicted or otherwise, poets suffer pain. Could it be poets are penning poems to kill the pain ? Certainly, but for how long ?
Physical pain can be temporarily stilled or helped to be healed by poetry. Poetry is a traveling companion for some journeying to a life’s painful end I suspect having read poems written by those who were days if not hours away from passing. Dignity enough mustered to see their listeners and readers have a view of passing and memorable farewell.

Those who inflict any pain or deal death upon poets, a harsh and ever available muse.
Allowed or contested. To succumb, withstand or overcome and the poems penned creatively covering all aspects of such.
I think the most sad are from beaten down poets who have willed themselves to succumb.
The most angry and dark, are from those who have long withstood pain inflicted upon them and will continue to do so.
The most inspirational are poems of those who withstood and overcame such inflicted pain. Healing, yet often scarred and toughened up all the better.

Well honed words cannot lop off restraining arms or striking hands.
Well honed words cannot cut out an evil heart, but they can be incorporated into a battle song.

Poets who pen poems as to withstand or kill the pain should know that those inflicting such just may well try to kill one’s poetry. A sad demise succumbing to such a fate. Could such pain follow a poet’s soul into the spirit world ?

Withstanding or overcoming, those stilling or killing the pain will surely succumb if they allow their poetry to be killed.