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Currents of wind

Currently grasping blue

From the sky

Mixing colors

Translucent white

Floating by

In puffs

Like smoke

But water

Cascading

Masquerading

As clouds and floating down

To rest upon the

Ocean’s top

Atop the undercurrents

Pulling dark and light

Together

In a haze

Under the phase

Of the moon

Where fullness

Steers the darkness

Away from the light.

 

 

At night the sense of

Flight

Alights

In dreams and hopes

A knotted rope

Hangs from the stars

And swings

As she sings

Like a bird

Whose song is sung

Carelessly

Without the thought

Of sharing she

Calls into the night

Fills it full

From empty

To bright

And falls into

The space where

Downwind caresses

Upwind drafts and

Buoyancy calls her

Higher still.

 

 

As hummingbirds swing

Creatures below

Sting

With venom trapped

Inside teeth

Bloody with ensnares

And repeats

Of stories told

Through dusty mold

Black with lies

Whispered inside by

Unscrupulous spies

Who feed on the souls

Who fill the roles

Like actors

Paid to play the part

Impotent to impart

Transparency

That could reach

The heart

And open—

No—

Unfold like an art.

 

 

The ones below

Whose wings are

Clipped

Hatched a scheme

Narrow as a

Tightrope or a

Balance beam

A trap

Set with bait

And they

Sat in wait

Inside a box

Designed to portray

The only way

Into hope

From hopelessness

To pull her down

To steal her crown

A crucible

Of fire

Inside cardboard folds

Where stories

Cease to be told.

 

 

She flapped her wings

Tilted her head

Toward the earth

Wondered and then

Wandered

Through the expanse

Where freedom

Takes its chance

On little birds

Such as she

She caught a breeze

Saw her reflection

In the sea

Caught a glimpse

Of her worth and

Floated down

To the cardboard flaps

Of the box

The dark ones

Formed

Like worms

The kind of worms

Eaten by birds.

 

 

It looked easy enough

Fold the second flap

Then the first

And follow the

Way

They had planned

To be banned

From the sky

From the “breeze”

Floating by

The warmth of the sun

The summertime fun

And the spring

That would

Enchant her

Like a lover

Enhance her

With colors

Vibrant

Breathing

Beating

With life to

Romance her.

 

 

“No,” she thought

And then

“No,” she spoke

The comfort of

That dark

Is stark

In comparison—

The safety of that

Space

Is waste

When adventures await

To elate

To resuscitate—

The quiet of that place

Is peace but for

An hour

Disguised as sweet

Filled with sour—

She was tempted

But rejected the dark

And she flew and

She flew.

 

copyright Jill Szoo Wilson

(Photo credit: This poem was inspired by German artist Boje Arndt Kiesiel’s piece, “The Flight.”  http://www.kiesiel.com)

 

 

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