winged migration~strange birds indeed

[Ganesha]

http://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c55/RFlatley/Robyn-in-Faery-outfit-sm-co.jpghttp://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c55/RFlatley/Robyn-Red-glovesCropSm.jpghttp://i25.photobucket.com/albums/c55/RFlatley/Robyn-Red-glovesCropSm.jpg

[ddgryphon]

fragile things these fairy wings
easily crushed by careless hands
fragile dreams on which we fly
careless and we fall from sky

[metaltiger]

Wings of gossamer dreams,

they fly high into strange heavens

where the taste of sweet nectar

spurs them into a dance with the sun.

Burned to ash, they fall and die.

[Ganesha]

fluttering pink wings
fueled her moon fanny
round 'n round
the sun she orbited
red fingers configured a triangle
birth canal echo
fertile futile fugue

[HeronW]

I can so too fly if I want to.
Do these red gloves make it so?
Or the garish plastic wings?
Is it the blue netting skirt?
Or this black leotard that taunts
all you lousy earth dwellers?
Doesn't matter if you don't believe me
you didn't see how I arrived
just watch me fly away.

[Teena]

Tinkerbelle be damned
I am my own Pan's
wing'ed love
in spangled skirt
and ruby glove


---------------------------------------
“I hope ‘tis true that beauty can command wealth,” she said aloud. “Without fortune, beauty’s all I have." from THE FACE IN THE FLAMES (WIP)

[Appalachian Writer]

She wants to fly,
small child,
arms stretched across the air.
Her legs race
to catch the wind,
mouth praying
for fairy magic.
One moment,
legs spread,
ballet dancer
in the air,
she separates,
moves into the sky,
prayer answered,
fairy dancing.

[KTC]

All the glittery things,
we push to the front,
tramp the catwalks
in our desire to preen fantastica,
all the young dudes,
smug and electric,
they glam their motion,
plastic devotion,
with wings to lift them
into orbits higher
and minds alight
with the dreary sounds
of sharp young prancers
dancing fantastic
on stages spent
with glittery wings
clinging to the rubble
of songs unsung.

[Angelinity]

she saved all her words in a box
of magnolia wood with cherry tree handles,
buried at the river's tail, where
the northerly wind turns on itself
aware, at last, it has gone nowhere and
didn't matter
which way to turn in the absence of sound

Then she looked away, there'd been a flicker
of light over her shoulder, but had there?

her words, sifted to dirt, would mate,
her box sprout magnolia feathers,
cherry blossom wings, and lift
far above the storms that fringed her cloak
higher than the silence and further still.