Cockcrow of the crows and a cockatoo

There are city dwelling birds

that are not your common stool pigeons.

The ravens occupy the east

side of the tracks.

The gulls guard the windy west.

On garbage day they all rise early

not for worms in the green box holes-

they know the small fries

are at the bottom of paper bags.

We had a murder

before our pine tree was felled

from illness. Yet, like serial flyers,

they moved to another pine,

preferring needles and sap

to the plethora of palms;

mexican fan, kintia, canary, 

the King and Queen and the Phoenix.

The ravens also get dates,

taking them out to 

happening intersections

and drop them so they 

get cracked by cars,
rolling through

while the fair gulls glide along

bellies filled with stale soft bread-

And I remember good old Fred.

Taken in and taught by those

crows

how to

blend in seamlessly-though he's a cockatoo.

They fly as one flock

rise and cockcrow,

the gulls sneer and squawk.

The city birds are not blind

deaf or dumb, 

winged with wayward choice

The murder

doesn't mind

one more white bird

or a cock or two. 

Image By Liftarn (Traced from Image:Odin's ravens right.PNG) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Doomsday of Dionysus

If it were dreamt
by a brilliant mind
it would be, come
divine prophecy.
And genius was one
prophecy away from lunacy,
we would certainly
believe
in the phantasy.

Time,
we would learn
to stretch a point
into a limber line,
into an affinity
of likeness in light.

The expiration
and expectation
of the End, of our race
of the chase, over-
taken by night
led a long, long the way
by our own
four shadows.

We would cry,
caulk our eyes
and think again
of never
the same tomorrow,
while waking
through the day
four saking 
the dream, imagining control
over (coming) what may (come)
too tired of trying
to rise again.

Unwound
in the pendulums pause
exhausted
all ready
the urge to be done
with desire
hung over our heads.
It never dawned 

Up 

on us
We will
Be come
intoxicated
incinerated
in opta-mystic yellow
when the sun doesn't show.

The divine mind is “…the brilliant darkness of a hidden silence.”-Dionysus

Image from Splendor Solis c. 1582 (Germany), [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Flame thrower

The children were called Embers
The parents roaring Flames
and in old age they All
became Coals.

Consumers only content
and subdued when all fuel
has been spent, lying low
until rekindled
into reaction
by a taunting breeze.

Always reaching
Up
for more
while leeching all the colors
and converting it into
expendable heat.

Dancing on destruction,
memories bridging by a spark,
the arc spans its dire
detonation
as quick as a wick
lying
next to another already lit.

Together the family,
kindling flames,
carry their torches
and blames. Sterno
for their kindred Inferno.




Image flame match strike, full color spectrum [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

X Marks the Classism

The night people were quiet and blue.
The day humans fluttered, clashed and clanged.
They never crossed paths.

The winter ones were strong and leathery,
the summer selection was worn and weathered.
Spring would come around
and clear the scene.
Autumn arrived bearing gifts in gads
of epoch proportion.

Meanwhile-
Above, watched over want
Below, held forts in need
None ventured in between.

It had been seen once
long ago, a fleet
was shipped to second
check, the message never
sent to Here.

All told of a peek
over there
where
passers by
wave and meet
upon approaching
the vanishing middle
lies a broken chain
where it was said
Time told them
Everything is different
Now.





Image By Daderot  [Public domain], Astrononmical Calendar, Yunnan, China via Wikimedia Commons.

Ether Between (or a part)

The known is seen
when the pine cones breathe
even severed and separate,
opening in the sun as though
still
a flower.

And about the rainbow
trout, whose beating heart
placed in my hands
after it had been filleted
and gutted, throbbing
as though 

despite this piercing act
that still
held power.

The birds neck cranes
before it snaps
limp, little legs stiff
yet it is an act, to relax
the cat only to escape
still
prey
to become devoured.

While a chicken,
it is well known,
hurries for pecking order
placement though far
removed from body.
It runs frantically,
unable to keep its head
still
it cannot see.

The sudden shudder
a desperate gasp,
noticing the sky,
a place to ponder, a rest stop,
a moments notice pends
on eternity, the energy
still
suspended and supposing
nobody will notice
what you do not have.




Image by Valentine Cameron Prinsep c. 1897 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ben Thare II

Been there, have you?
Done that, did you?
Why (not) bother
Practice make (less than) perfect
pitch a no-hitter-you must
(pay) Play to win
dry runs and walk-throughs
for the Final (test only)
of Faith and aversion
to Failure who
(makes) grades
and Frames
nth degrees
Proudly
Been meaning
to askew
how it (all)
Went
Wrong all along
I thought We
were straight?



Image by Édouard Manet [Public domain], In the Conservatory, 1879 via Wikimedia Commons.

Weakday Wether

On a cool lilac late afternoon
high stratus pass over
aloof and sparse.
The sea shimmers silver
reflecting rosy cloud belly's,
bodies move slow and deliberate,
leaden legs with distant gazes
heavy under hanging haze
our orbit blurs the way
of Monday into grey Tuesday.
The way the moody matter may
flux and such and such a way.
January jumped on fragile February,
leaping on faith,
landing on elsewhere.
Doing days in oscillation
wether
weakly such as;
Mundayne,
Chooseway,
Mostnessday,
Hersday,
and fridaylie,
Why(not)play.
Alternately,
try,
calling each day
new instead of namely
what you always knew.




Image By Pseudopanax at en.wikipedia (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.