I wish I were an Eagle
Soaring high in God’s blue sky.
Effortlessly flapping its wings
Taking it ever high.

Surveying the earth beneath
Sharp eyes taking all in
Searching a likely prey
A tasty meal for him.

Swooping swift as a bullet
Feathers fluttering in the wind
A hare, a fish, a bird
His talons soon will win.

Back to the aerie
Three hungry chicks to feed
With mouths wide open
Ingesting nourishment they need.

His daily chore completed.
His family will survive.
Then back to Gods vast range
To swoop, and soar, and dive.

Oh, for the life of an Eagle
What freedom that must be?
Oh, for the life of an Eagle
Knowing you are free.

Tom Fenning
7/22/2005

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Soaring High.

I wish I were an Eagle

Soaring high in God’s blue sky.

Effortlessly flapping its wings

Taking it ever high.

Surveying the earth beneath 

Sharp eyes taking all in

Searching a likely prey

A tasty meal for him.

Swooping swift as a bullet

Feathers fluttering in the wind

A hare, a fish, a bird

His talons soon will win.

Back to the aerie

Three hungry chicks to feed

With mouths wide open

Ingesting nourishment they need.

His daily chore completed.

His family will survive.

Then back to Gods vast range

To swoop, and soar, and dive.

Oh, for the life of an Eagle

What freedom that must be?

Oh, for the life of an Eagle

Knowing you are free.

Tom Fenning

7/22/2005

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Flying high.

He left California and charged straight ahead,
To Lower Manhattan is where he was lead,
But ere he was granted his first interview,
Producers were tipped-off and everyone knew,
His act was so silly and really bizarre,
They wouldn’t audition the young Lochinvar.

Yet boldly he walked into Carnegie Hall,
And tried to astound them and tried to enthrall,
He made armpit noises and tried to impress,
(The day was quite sunny, but here I digress),
They dropped him in feathers and rolled him in tar,
‘Twas nearly the end of the young Lochinvar.

“I won’t be discouraged”, he told them that day,
And then made his mark as he waddled away,
With sticky black footprints of feathers and tar,
He walked to the corner and bought a guitar,
Thinking, “I will be wonderful, I will go far”,
But life would get worse for the young Lochinvar.

He took a few lessons, the Chet Atkins way,
With that and his armpit he started to play,
The audience booed him and tossed him outside,
He fell on his ass and it injured his pride,
And Lochinvar whispered, “Twere better by far,
Had I stayed with the armpit and scrapped the guitar.”

He went to a bar and he drank a few beer,
He thought it would help him and give him some cheer,
But all it did give him was heartburn and pain,
And from that day onward, was never the same,
He’d never be famous and never a star,
‘Twas the end of the line for the young Lochinvar.

He moved back to ‘Frisco and rented a room,
Was the height of the Hippies, with flowers in bloom,
At Ashbury Avenue, corner of Haight,
They thought he was wonderful, thought he was great,
Now people throw dollar bills into a jar,
It’s life in the ’60′s for young Lochinvar.

by David Ronald Bruce Pekrul

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Young Lochinvar (A parody of the classic).