Let Me Fly


Let me fly.

I’ll spread my feathers

and wait 

for the lift,

wait for lift off,

wait for the  moment

when I am above

you all.


Let me fly.

Some parts may be broken

but not all.

I raise my wings

high

and spread my tail

I’m buzzing now,

expectant

so believe in me

and I’ll fly

away.


https://dsmag.in/


 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  Now I Am Bald Now I am bald and a fashionista by default, as it was never my fashion before and no one followed me but now,   heads are shaved as if following in my footsteps, following my trail   of discarded hair now lost   with my identity.   Now I am bald, my head as naked as my fears fears I can’t lose,   fears unattached while my hair is un-attachable, filling the teeth of my comb, and lying on my pillow in tufts of terror. Chemo does that - forces me to hunger for my loss forces me to follow or face my fate bewigged   Now I am bald. https://uglywriters.com/2026/10/07/now-i-am-bald/?fbclid=IwY2xjawUy8thleHRuA2FlbQIxMQBwZG9mAXNydGMGYXBwX2lkEDIyMjAzOTE3ODgyMDA4OTIAAR78TnSz41FYCqV1spRCA1l06cwi0aYGvBDx0w9zzZPIBdEcoDr9oNatiVOInA_aem_OO4uDfNYUvFs2F5tf6A8wg
Read more
Image
  After All Once, in Ireland one million died, and one million more fled   for their lives, the equivalent of the population of Gaza before….. And no help came when the potato crop was blighted. Still potatoes were exported, the farmers betrayed whilst landlords did well. The colonialists did well. They always do. So, Ireland knows how betrayal feels in the depth of its turf, in the depth of its being, its rock, its stones,   its body filled bogs,   its bleached bones knows that   change comes only   with survival.   So Ireland leads its history shows its time to speak out to send Aid to make a stand un-welcomed   again by the most powerful. After all Ireland knows how lives are blighted.   https://dsmag.in/2026/09/27/lynn-whites-two-poems-7/
Read more
Image
  Stripy Jerseys There were a lot of ragwort plants around the library. Some were bare of leaves and covered with orange and black stripy jersey caterpillars. Others were lush and green with leaves and devoid of caterpillars. As usual the family planning strategy of the cinnabar moth left much to be desired. I began to transfer them carefully from the leafless to the lush. I stood back to admire my achievement, momentarily disconcerted when a rather stern looking stranger asked what I was doing. I explained. “Huh”, she said, “I’ve been doing the same over the other side. I though it was only me who does this.” It was a strange way to begin a friendship but it lasted all her life. I think maybe I should go to the grave in the woodland, where her body lies and scatter a few ragwort seeds. Maybe the moths will come each year and make   a living memorial. She would like that, I think. https://poetsespresso.weebly.com/uploads/1/2/1/6/121689046/volume_15_is._2_template_-_copy.pdf
Read more