Sow Love.
Love
so.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Essence — An Image
Pack — A Poem
We
are a pack,
intimately formed,
with no clear
Alpha,
that role shifting
as easily as
want
need
demand
arises.
Each retains
full memory of arrival,
of introduction
to this flesh —
an ache,
a break,
a humbling of self
denied,
resisted,
at long length
accepted.
Inseparable.
Tippy and Horse;
twins Thumbelina
and Paige;
Daisy, Tippy’s heir.
A tangle of mortality,
we comfort each other,
lick our wounds
as one.
We are
a pack.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Flying Apart — A Dream
Escort asset — female, mid twenties, fresh-faced, attractive — through the building to safety by way of the escalator. Asset’s stress is palpable. Maintain composure.
Why?
Why must we do this?
So frightened…
Building identified — open, airy plaza; glass walls; floors, a hard light speckled tile; crowded. Approach with care. Stay alert.
So exposed.
So many people.
Enter through glass doors on the building’s north side. Bright sunlight reflects off multitudinous surfaces – tiles, windows, counters. Escalator identified — dead ahead; moves steadily toward upper level. No cover. Flank asset. Guide her. Toward the escalator. Through crowd.
NOT people… Doesn’t anyone see?
Their faces…shift from human to… insectoid…
Red-fleshed, huge iris-less eyes, proboscis-like mouths protrude
from bulbous heads…
Shift back…
Threat identified! Close ranks. Weapons ready. Pick up the pace. Press forward to the escalator. Move!
Dizzy… Nausea rising…
Spreading… Thinning…
Falling apart… Flying apart…
Hold! Hold! Fall back! Maintain perimeter! Asset… changing — whole, solid no longer… Becomes a sudden swell of light, brighter and brighter, blinding…
Someone… Anyone…
Asset, engulfed in light — is light — shifts out of register, seems to occupy multiple dimensions… Identifiable… streaming light, seems smeared over the surrounding area in great broad strokes from center.
* h e l p *
It’s over people! It’s over! Fall in! Fall in!
Feel the ‘snap’… the ‘returning’… like a blow.
Dizzyness remains. Nausea remains.
Weak limbed. Breathless.
Stay on target! Fall in! Threats at 10 o’clock… 2 o’clock… Close ranks! Move move move! To the escalator! Flank her! Ahead and behind! Not through yet! Look alive, people! We don’t know what’s up there!
Happening again… Too soon…
Can’t… hold…
together…
— C.Birde, 2/19
Foreverglades — An Image
We sang our way
to the everglades —
earth and water
unfolding,
enfolding;
lungs full of endless sky.
And the landscape
sang chorus —
forever,
forever,
foreverglades.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Hourglass Heart — A Poem
My hourglass heart
breaks
each day
with each grain
of sand –
a grief,
a fear,
a pain —
that sifts through
that narrow
passage,
scours its way —
down,
down, and
down.
A small drift
of bruises
collects.
Invert the glass –
me,
my heart –
and shoosh,
the process starts
again.
One chamber
empties,
the other fills;
a cycle
unabating.
— C.Birde, 2/6/19
Written in Pink — A Dream
A slight volume, not much larger than a deck of cards. Bound in soft, cotton-candy pink leather. Each page is of hand-made paper – thick and sturdy and flecked with pulp and petals. Binding stitched with waxed ivory thread. Corners cut into soft curves.
Gently. Open it. Cradle it within spread palms.
It lacks frontispiece, introduction, dedication. The book simply begins. Words — hand-written in pink ink — slant neatly across creamy pages, list the castle’s physical attributes in height, width, material. Page one reads:
“Lexington Arch”
“Center Gate”
“Lincoln Arch”
Thumb through the book. Glance at hand-inked illustrations, architectural drawings. So unique, so specific, so intimate. Precious. A singularly beautiful creation.
How could it have survived the unimaginative publishing process? Who was its champion?
— C.Birde, 1/19
Contradiction — Image & Truth
He Laughed
as she approached.
“You look so funny,” he said,
“you look so beautiful.”
One
can be
both
?
— C.Birde, 1/19
Wisdom & Whiskers — A Poem
“When the student
is ready,
the teacher will
appear”…
I am not yet seated
to accept
this instant,
this moment,
this now —
and the sage
arrives.
Paws correct
posture;
rough tongue
adjusts hands’
placement;
trace of whiskers
prickles,
challenges
focus.
Lap
full.
Heart
open.
Progress gauged
by tail’s tip;
critique delivered
in rumble and
purr.
— C.Birde, 1/19
Hamster Transport — A Dream
With the wind in her hair, she stands barefooted on the clipped, green lawn. Forlorn, despite her youth and utter beauty. “How will I get him home?” she asks. Curled asleep within her smooth, open palms, is a hamster.
Her question assumes a great deal. How to answer, when so much is obscure, unknown?
Fading sunlight gilds the park’s grassy knolls, burnishes its swells and swards. Beyond the lawn’s edges, over the sidewalk on the street’s far side, a clutch of little shops huddles, wall to wall. Their shadows lengthen, creep across the street. She chokes back a soft sob.
In the distance, a throaty rumble sounds, grows louder with approach. Hopeless and hopeful, she glances in the sound’s direction — toward the answer she seeks. Toward the improbable.
Gliding along the pavement, a pair of sleek motorcycles appears – all smoky chrome and gleaming steel. Snugged beneath the seat of each, suspended just in front of each machine’s purring engine, is a hollow sphere of translucent yellow plastic. And, scurrying about contentedly within each sphere…is a white and russet hamster…
— C.Birde, 1/19
Overture — An Image
Come.
We’ll distill tree shadow
and bird song
and slips of moonlight
to perfume our days,
our dreams.
— C.Birde, 1/19