Offering other-wise

At night

I did not know love

in darkness,

as if sleep-walking and dream-

making could be seen

with a naked eye.

I remember warmth

on my bare skin,

raw at sunrise 

near the hibiscus

holding its dew 

until it too 

opened

when the suns first 

rising rays 

touched its clasped red buds.

The grey-brown finches, twenty-four

or more knew just when 

to join around the fire

of a new day,

swarming in sync

into the tangled branches 

consuming this light

that pried us open.

I remembered then,

when this dawn rose

with my presence long gone

a self perched 

outside

consuming the same sun

and sharing the infinite moment

of opening

to love. 

Artwork (woodblock) by Katsushika Hokusai (1760-1849), 'Hibiscus and sparrow" c. 1830 in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

feather weather

The awkward bird
arose from her branch
puffing up her breast
and shaking her head
discovering a burning
sensation
in her throat
which carried pangs
into her tiny talons.

She tried out
a few simple notes
to crack open the stale air
before asking
the question,

was there a moment,
a degree of light or altitude
a passing gale
ideal
for realization
for comprehension of wings,
to soar, to sore to try again
and again
when did it know
to sing in truth with only vowels

Where did the poet go
in verse?

The owl chimed in
wisely
turning nocturnal
eyes
with avian alibi,
refused to name names.


Painting by Friedrich Thurau, c.1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Buteo jamaicensis (red-tailed hawk)

Chickenhawk,

or common pigeon raptor,

an immigrant in suburbia,

your callused talons, prone to thievery

bone protruding shoulders, penetrate the blues

excess in feathers weighs one down.

Perch and peer,

wedged between a wishbone branch,

hurling her duck observations in high notes

as if swan songs were her only repertoire. 

Tenacious she, 

returns three days crooked, famished with

foresight, laser vision, and perspective-poised, 

she waits, she sees green, she feels envy.

The fluffy housecat chases his tail 

to satisfy his urges

the hawk launches

and draws his keen ellipse together.

Photo credit By U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Headquarters (Red-tailed hawk  Uploaded by Dolovis) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Muse-ack

The music spoke its secret ways
that day
the note
in the glass bottle was found
and magnified you-

Up high,
a troupe of black birds stream
through the pink zephyr in blushes
-it becomes clear
they know the song by
wingbeat
the chorus
in choreography-

Silvers of this
lay strewn
all about you-
once seen, became
blinded faith
setting eyes
on bald faces
the cloud mist-

Soul survival,
the score was more
than we can consume
in a low life
mock swallows
in moments made
intoned by bliss.


Painting by Pedro Américo (1884) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Gathering

flock of rounded songbirds fluttering against the lilac sky

become pixels that dance across the plane,

form-u-late, and swirl past

my subdued evening eyes

pulled up

and perusing across the orderly canopies,

whereby I try re-rasterizing cliques, filtering

And see those three floating dots, wee wrens

on the low sagging line-

they are people watching

while the one on the fence

sates himself to one side

where the beetles are bigger

And slower

in the sideways amber light that lays low

And even across the suburban grasses.

I am charmed by the snake that is swallowing its tail

in the blackberry bushes by the blushing day moon.

These two hands begin again. 



Image By D. Dibenski (images.fws.gov ([1])) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Outside cages

Why pink flamingos

and aged Scotch, all neat,

let me tell you.

So

-not listening to your Top 40,

tacky Top 10's of no clicking ends,

to slim-fit into one size

single best remedy for ADHD-Spanx-

lacy Ritalin and sucking it in and up.

Apps and crap.

No thanks to letters and breath,

there is never enough for famishing...

Though the wind chimes were hung inside

happy is not home.

Respiration. Sleep-a mystery. Love-

a labyrinth. Ex-hale kings and queens.

Keeping company in cupboards

and memories in the pantry

is conservation.

Cold storage for

Natural Disasters unanticipated calamities

to be consumed

best by poetry stocked up.

Wallpaper was a little library,

well, the glue was all edible

they became consumed this way.

And I, the bye

as a terrible host,

there are no chairs here to offer you,

shall I cut you some rug?

Sit. Stay. Spin.

It is breezy, yes.

The window is stuck wide open

so the birds can watch me

fly.

Painting By Daderot (Own work) [Public domain or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The people flocked

To see a bird in a dream
I looked it up and it seems to mean
something more than freedom, more
than reading Emily Dickinson before drowsing off...
It was not until I reached this peak
that I could see
the birds or Emily fully
from above.
Born again,
by seeing trees for the first time too
we are blessed by birds and nests
the air we share, the weight we don't...

and a wee spotted wood-pecker
that taps the fence post
by the rain gauge

Or the Orioles
befriended by our two brother crows
from when the ficus finally got cut

And that Cardinal
caught by the cat,
¡olé!

Yellow-bellied fly-catchers
curious about coming insde-
demanding even!

Hummingbirds in harems at the fountains
and in your face, buzzing your body
as though they own the sweet place.

A lion's lair
with four proud but lazy cats
on the prowl
Those falcon feathers we found
must have been provoked in part
by the mockingbirds.

Homey chaste egrets
cruise the coast
high and aloof
cool and superior.

Pet parrots, emancipated avians,
piss people off, like loud immigrants
simply because they cannot understand
the squawk, making crackers into crumbs.

Couples of doves,
whose coos irk none-
because we relate to love
and at some point read Emily-
observing migration
in a dream or wide awake
from up here
it symbolizes liberty
in limbs.


Image By Jerry Segraves (en:User:Jsegraves99) (http://www.fhwa.dot.gov/byways/photos/64091) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tying rainbows on Mt. Moody

Up there-
rolling in cumulus
open fields,
tumbling down with
empyrean echoes-
they sniffled
there
and heaved a last great sigh
before resting
as simply shaded shapes
or hanging
thunder clouds.
Where
they lay
their puffy heads atop
the solemn iron mountains,
they reflect
your steely glance in silver volumes
of sharp light.
And slice right through
grey matter
with gentle insistence
by ninth degrees.
Up there
the birds begin to
propose,
always asking
hopefully...
They then spun
a soothing song
across beryled acoustics
waving conductive wands.

That is where
the avians weave bows
in the rain,
seeking to tame
those tangled tresses
inherently
cast over cold
granite shoulders
where shale shawls
lie stoic
dark and morose
under the mercurial masonry,
They are
always adding color,
muffled and soft
unflappably
making rainbows
with nothing but stone and air
up there.

"I try to think about rainbows when it gets bad,  

You have to think about something to keep from going mad." 

-Gwen Stefani (In My Head, No Doubt)

Image of Mount Rainer in Washington state, US, By US National Park Service (http://www.nps.gov/media/photo/gallery.htm) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Audubons Avian Apology

Upon landing
on a jutting branch of discourse,
detailing drawn conclusions
about the man Audubon,
whose prayers for atonement
have been answered by History.
Poised on perches of frozen time,
not Alive
but trapped in the net of your aim, in-site-
full in vibrant colors, beyond the pale
page, he breathes Life back
as a meticulous Apology.
Focused in on the bird of your prey,
the hunters ring goes unanswered.
Only your breathe from breast
rises and falls,
occupying the empty space
where song climbed the trees
to view against the stoic creamy white
of fantasy, belief must be made,
making believe those shiny black beads
a birds eye view.
Can see you too, it doesn't fly away
choosing to pose and stay anyway-birdbrain;
choosing to fight or take flight-a man-of-kind.

It was proposed in some sacred text,
birds are the messengers of god(s),
while we're down here pushing,
bumping into each other, invading
our shrinking space, while up high
in the sky a letter forms
in the shape of peace.
V is for victory, not peace.
A thousand winged unit of velocity.
We are all going the same place-
says the pastoral preacher from his
High chair.
There-Those are our gifts to share,
in this righteous affair where
carrier pigeons take note-yet
the message was lost in translation.
We are just learning the sign of a circle,
showing us where water and meat reside,
hiding from hunters, take cover
the raptor hovers, screaming for you, Audubon,
to look up at the heavens,
blinded by the light, cocked-eyed
with a loaded gun.

Image of John James Audubon featured in The Popular Science Monthly, September 1887, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Feature Image (top) By James Audubon [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.