“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label feathers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feathers. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 21, 2020
Muerto de la Noche
A solitary soul stirs
this night around
its geared dial.
Icy on the rocks,
all that matters
bends the steel air
sparks subdue any singes
While other carbon bodies
lie in their nests
heaving gentle breaths
through resting rib cages
my feathers fall out
and the kitten chases them
under the couch.
Watching the speed of time
and loaded with momentum,
and anticipation
for the light that breaks
anything it touches,
it dawned over me,
(after all) an awareness
that all feathers fall
at the same speed coin wishes
sink
under the weight of water-
sometimes out of sight.
The brown widow and I weave
simultaneous gossamer threads
from what we have left
of the night that never
imposes its intimate knowledge
without our consent
and an entwined desire
to witness this place
we seem to not belong
but are required to prey in
for survival.
The kitten purrs in a ball,
the humans snore, fetal in their beds,
while I draw out long lines
the nocturnal pace
themselves
into the unforgivable light.
Artwork by Vilhelm Hammershøi (1864-1916), 'Figure reading at a table at night', medium-chalk, c. 1891 in Public Domain.
Monday, November 27, 2017
With the worms
Shaking off his jacket
spotted with purple dots of dew,
he unfurls his wings
and dashes off
to a new perch
higher up.
In the insistent rising sun
my head and shoulders form
an opposition,
casting shadows on
soft golden blades
rooted underfoot.
Stirring begins from the ground
where settled matters to-day
such as History and alternative pathways,
are made with each step one leg takes
at a time
to make movement or progression
of orbit
in order
to get there
only to see the selfsame shrinking
without feathers, but by a hair
and blunted nose not pointed beak.
This is sharp steel light
severing the warm body
from the sound mind.
A murmuration demonstrates
the reason
for gathering
our resources
but taking them
lightly.
Painting by Léon Bazille Perrault, 'The Bird Charmer' 1873 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, September 11, 2017
Cherubs cheering up
There were angels everywhere
like babies
carrying, your name,
like crows when carried by malicious wind.
Not real ones, with wings.
Figures, icons, folding feathers and prayers
soft shelter or guardians on their-
A game.
A game.
One should not believe in what one
cannot see, namely fairies or demons.
Good & Evil.
Good & Evil.
We should let these Be Both
(superstitious) (malicious) (separate)
fantasies! Alas, we gorge
over-sated with our sponge cake bellies,
porous and too accepting.
porous and too accepting.
Just a passing tickle
black flashes splash our eyes
making one look up
just to see what it could be...
Painting by Hugo Simberg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Friday, May 5, 2017
Sara Nade
Singing light purple notes alone and unashamed of his thin lilting echo
Pitched out and rolling down the quiet village lane over fences
and peeking in windows,
Disturbed
and proud I would be
if I had feathers to wear tomorrow…
There are no reasons or songs the avian knows
by heart, I listen, still interrupted
under the occasional bassos auto rumbling past,
the bird usually waits for the concrete to cool
back down
Before the night bird at the window
hops himself back up his perch to scale,
topping his previous arias and picking at
new notes
The world rises in mourning ovation,
the inevitable death of knights
or a little light disturbance,
I will get used to it.
Photo By USFWS Mountain-Prairie [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Photo By USFWS Mountain-Prairie [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Tres (trace)
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
This world is not for breath for feelings also come and go. As hard and light as Push and pull Go. Busy hands and bees-electricity, alter...
-
Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two. The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it. In California...