Feather Poetry Novels & Stories

Holding it in my hand is giving me a sense of peace, making me feel like everything is going to be all right. Dirty water drips from the tip, but I don’t care. I run my finger up the spine of the feather. If this were from a bird, the thing has to have wings that span at least six feet. I hold the feather up a little closer to the energy ball, needing to get a better look. It’s deep gray in color with flecks of iridescent silvers. Birds aren’t that color. Hell, nothing in nature is that color. It’s so beautiful, and I can’t stop staring.

I had to assume he was answering my question by reciting his poem, but I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, so I only stared at him, dumbfounded, until he lowered his book and arched an eyebrow at me. “The Raven?” he said. “Edgar Allan Poe?” “Right,” I said, recognizing the first line of the famous poem now. It seemed fitting. Big, black, ugly, mean bird. Not that our Raven was any of those things. I should’ve thought of it myself. Brice went back to his book, and I wondered if there were any ominous, dark poems written about flamingos. I doubted there were, but perhaps there should be.

I scream until my throat hurts and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see something flitting at the corner of the roof like the wind was spinning around in a little tornado stuck in that corner. Pieces of trash were flitting around as well, but I ignored those as I walk over to investigate. I bend down to pick up the small delicate feather that caught my attention. This feather is all too familiar as it matches the light blue, almost grey of Divina's wings. This can’t be a coincidence. I bring the feather up to my nose and smell it. It’s scent bringing me to my knees. It’s her. She’s alive. Goddess, she’s alive. I don’t care if anyone can see or he

Those in front of her let her words sink into them. They chewed on their meaning, even as their bodies slowly restored their energy. They felt her encouragement fill them, and empower them. “And besides,” she continued, “we First Feathers achieved where we are through years and months of constant practice. I was definitely like you in the beginning. Lungs empty and laid out all over the grass. So don’t give up and always keep going… “Speaking of which, let’s get back to it.”

My heart started to beat fast in my chest. How many times had she seen us at our worst? How much had we hurt her without even realizing it? Feeling overwhelmed, I turned to the next page and found a short poem scribbled in her neat handwriting. It was about stars, rivers, and memories. Reading her words, I felt a sense of peace and calm wash over me. It was as if Val was speaking to me through her poetry, reminding me of the beauty and wonder of life.

Falling Feather mumbled as he looked at her. “Does it hurt?” Willow asked. Falling Feather smiled at her, holding her close to him. “No, it is like magic takes my human body and gives me the animal form. I haven’t tried other animals yet, though. I wonder if I could take on the form of other animals.” Falling Feather told her with a smile.

Like tears of silver, the moonlight poured into the tiny cottage. As Fea lay sprawled on the floor, her body trembled, and her eyes glowed an unnatural, dangerous white. As if her soul had fallen out of her body, she breathed shallowly, almost nonexistent. Far from the cottage, her spirit drifted through a moonlit forest, weightless and silent. The leaves had a crystal-like sheen, and the air had a faint, almost forgotten flavor. She was standing on a small dirt path with tall trees that were whispering all around.

The golden feather vanished—right before their eyes. That night, Veyra couldn't sleep. Her body felt fragile, like glass pulled too thin, ready to shatter at the slightest touch. Her mind reeled from the image of the feather, the heavy silence of her mates, and the whisper of a dream clawing at the edges of her consciousness. She finally slipped into a restless slumber just before dawn. And she dreamed. Of fire.

PRESENT In the morning, some unknown birds stood on the swaying stalks, swaying their heads, shaking their wings, vying to show off the moving voices, and the sweet songs seemed to flow in the clouds, rolling on the green waves and running. In the fresh, moist air, the sound is lingering, the small sound is like a light breeze blowing. The powder is swaying, the yellow lotus leaves just off the petals. The fragrance is overflowing, and many red wings and blue-headed owls are on it. Feifei stopped and stopped, always reluctant to leave.

"I am going to recite it now. I have never really understood the meaning, so you should take an attempt. As I spread my wings to the widening chasm below With the crimson and maroon plumage scattering low, It burst forth, and molten gold opened the jaws wide And swallowed up its home, burning down its side. Looking at the broken shards, that broke, as I fell, It reflected my vessel, red, maroon, and well, it was a patchwork, of broken fragments of skin And feathers, not much, and not looking akin And bold hues, and shallow, I know not what to think I have no home, I did, it went down in a blink. It hurts no less than had I been in there It hurts, where I stand, it kills me over here. I feel