~The Dragon Flies' Lair Thread XI~

April 17, 2004 | bentfeather, and poets of the Dragon Flies' Lair

[Soaring Feather]

My Dragon Fly and Me

If I could be a Dragon Fly
and wing my way through the sky
I would never be shy
just me and my Dragon Fly!

By moonlight we ride the wind
chase the comets tail for fun
by day we would hide from the sun
our fragile wings would come undone

On darkest nights we would use
fireflies as our guides
we would dip and we would glide
through the heavens open wide
and scatter diamonds in the night sky
my Dragon Fly and I...

And we would wing past our lovers
silent in the night...
to kiss their face in our flight
much to their surprise and delight
my Dragon Fly and me in sight...

Such a view do we share
away up here in the air
of breezes soft through our hair
my Dragon Fly and me a pair...

bentfeather©

[StarCMC]

No - never seen the colors. When I was little I was terrified of lightning. My dad MADE me watch an entire storm one night from the bay window in our kitchen to prove it wouldn't hurt me if I was inside. After that I was cured.

We have a place in the country here with and incredible view over the hills. When a storm is moving in, it's so much fin to just sit and watch as it makes it's way towards us and you feel the change in the breeze and the temperatures....

[snippy_about_it]

Oh my goodness. I don't know this.

You never heard this feather? No kidding?

Two versions:

Lord willin' and the creek (pronounced crick) don't rise
and
Lord willin' and the saints don't rise.

Of course the first one and you'd drown, the second would be referencing the second coming. :-)

[snippy_about_it]

The Creek in question were Native Americans.

Now down in West Virginy we figured it meant we'd drown. I like your version too.

[Darksheare]

Well, I've seen lightning be green, yellow, blue, blue white, white, and oddly: pink.
No, don't know why it was that last color, probably junk in the air.

I was scared witless by the thunder, the lightning didn't bother me much.
Then I was older, and got stuck out in a storm because I forgot my house key.
*snicker*

[Soaring Feather]

Oh I have heard the adage, but not its source.

[StarCMC]

Ms. FEather, you amaze me. Beautiful!

[snippy_about_it]

Look here, Matt has translated the Polish poem Sam posted today. This is great, thanks Matt.

[Soaring Feather]

Yes, snippy isn't it a wonderful poem? I love it.

[snippy_about_it]

LOL. I couldn't imagine you not hearing it. I saw CG thoughts on the Creek, that would work too!

[Soaring Feather]

Thank you Star.

[snippy_about_it]

I just hope it likes you or maybe not. EEK.

[Darksheare]

Cool.
At first I thought while reading it that it was an older poem.
I got to the end and went, "COOL".

[SAMWolf]

Give back Friday! I need Snippy to post on Friday!!

[Soaring Feather]

~One Man's Dream~

[SAMWolf]

Thanks Matt. Sounds like a poem of a lost love.

If you have any poems you want to post this is the place to do it.

[Soaring Feather]

I wrote that this afternoon while sitting in my back yard - before the storm.

[Darksheare]

"I call the lightning and the thund*BOOM*"
Maybe not..

[SAMWolf]

AS long as Snippy can still post tomorrow, I can spare her for two hours. :-)

[Soaring Feather]

Oh Matthew, I would love to have your work here or any artist from Poland or anywhere.

[SAMWolf]

Stealing Time

You wait til you think
Every one is asleep- (is that REM sleep, stage 2, or stage 3?)

You have communed
with Netter and his nasties
most of the day

Erector spinae muscles are stiff; you
Sit on your last nerve

And in the darkness,
In the small, hollow hours (Do I know gastrulation well enough?!)
Biochemistry flowed through your brain

(Have I eaten today, or is gray matter switching to ketosis?
Is this profundity, or reactive hypoglycemia?)

You train your
focus for five minutes
on philosophy, raison d'être, raison du travail*

(some micrograph today looked like a raisin, steroid-associated mitochondria, you think)

You pause
In your writing,
Chuckling at having to resist
using abbreviations in
a poem.

This mottled madness is the meaning.
Dickens knew
this time.
You choose this
bridled schizophrenia
each day
and, each day, you
steal time.

Alison S. Hable