Dreamlessness, Week #2 — A Truth

Though I try to assure retention, my dreamless state continues. It is as if I kneel at the water’s edge of dreams, shins and the tops of my feet pressed against damp and pebbled banks. Leaning forward, I peer into that fluid body to see what darting minnows, what tadpoles and frogs and crayfish might live and move within. Each flash of movement that draws my attention is quickly interrupted, disturbed — a shift in light alters reflections; waters’ surface ripples with wind; something stirs below to send up obscuring plumes of silt. And if I am fortunate enough to slip my hand into that reservoir — slowly — and close fingers about some small, mercurial thing — gently — it eludes my grasp. Withdrawing my hand, I find it has escaped as certainly as the water streaming from my spread fingers.

 

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“Dreamless Waters” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Wildflower Bouquet — An Image

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“Wildflower Bouquet” — C.Birde, 7/16

Yes. Let’s pause a bit,

and while you bow to inhale

the roses’ breath,

I’ll gather Fennel and Fleabane

and frothing Queen Anne’s Lace

to weave together  —

a Summer Crown

to set upon your brow.

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

Wren’s Realm — A Poem

Little Wren

builds a nest

outside the window’s frame

within a house

suspended,

pendant,

beneath the sheltering

azalea.

Industrious,

he stuffs it full,

a perfection

of twigs and sticks

collected and thrust

through a hole

cut just large enough

to permit his entry.

Bold creature,

far larger in spirit

than his diminutive frame

suggests,

he sings the yard’s

perimeter,

claims it as his own

with staccato notes

hurled upon the air

in rapid punctuation.

Little king —

I am an earthbound peasant,

well pleased to occupy

the earth beneath

your aerial

realm.

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

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“House Wren’s House” — C.Birde, 7/17

 

Dreamlessness — A Truth

 

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“Clouds of Dream” — C.Birde, 7/17

My dreams have taken on the aspect of clouds. I move within their certain uncertainty, the corner of my eye smudged with image, and emerge trailing vapors. Atoms of recall cling, but the whole vanishes, swallowed upon waking. And I am left to wonder and scrounge and rue the dream’s reabsorption.

A Moment — A Poem

For a moment,

let the words lie still

upon my tongue,

Allow my busy mind

to alter

this landscape of sound —

hum and wash of traffic

becomes the Ocean’s distant voice;

yawn of plane spells

the ache and groan of Summer —

that I might hear,

instead,

Her varied tongue

in the wind’s movement

through the trees

and over a landscape

that scatters and dashes with life;

that I might hear

the lap and memory

of water tasting its warmed banks,

and the downward spill

among smooth-skinned beeches

of Wood Thrush’ song;

that I might hear

Gray Catbird call my name.

Let my words spill away,

for a moment,

that when my voice

has stilled,

my silence

goes

unnoticed.

 

— C.Birde, 7/16

 

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“Tourne Reflection” — C.Birde, 7/16

 

Shift — A Dream

As far as the eye can see — water. As if the land itself has shifted its elemental nature, exchanged solid certainty for the mercurial, the mysterious. And he and I, adrift amidst it all.

Perched atop a dining room table, we float unmoored within a vast sea that stretches to all horizons. Wavelets slap the table, send small plumes and rivulets over its smooth surface. The formica top grows slick. I kneel within an ever-shrinking dry patch to one side of the table’s central seam. In contrast, he sits at the other edge, dangling his feet, with blue-edged water creeping over his knees.

Shins and knees squeaking on formica, I begin sliding down the dining table’s incline. Toward boundless water. Toward him, where he laughs and talks and splashes feet and hands, oblivious. But my incremental advance soon stops. Before my eyes, I see him shift, exchange his cumbersome human form for something sleeker, smoother, more well-suited to our surroundings. His clothes and shoes slip into the water, drift away on its currents as he glides off the table in his new form — a sea lion. Watching him dive and swim and roll, I laugh. This form suits him.  He suddenly makes complete sense to me.

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“Shift” — C.Birde, 7/16

Pursuit — A Poem

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“Wood Thrush’s Nest” — C.Birde, 6/16, Tourne Park

Not looking,

I discovered.

Returning,

I searched.

And now,

I wonder

what wonders

I missed

in my

deliberate

pursuit.

 

— C.Birde, 6/16

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“Wood Thrush’s Nest 2” — A.Schnitzler, 6/16, Tourne Park

 

Devolution — A Dream

Slowly back away, out of the darkened house. Step carefully, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel. Watch them skulk forward from the shadows. They advance with bellies low. Don’t break eye contact. Don’t trip as you move, don’t fall. They’ll pounce. They’ll tear and rend. They’re too far gone now — no calm words, no soft vocalizations will bring them back. They have devolved. No longer the sleek-coated creatures that, just yesterday, you ran your hands over, that lifted to receive your touch. They bristle. They hiss. Their ears and teeth and claws have elongated and begun to curl. Their jaws shift forward. Don’t look so closely. Don’t think about it. Ignore the rapid beat of your heart, the shallowness of your breath and sweat at your hairline. Continue your uncertain exit. Find the door at your back. Press into it. Feel the bite of wood, the chill handle beneath your groping hand. Hear the click of metal tongue, the creak and gasp of hinges. Back out — slowly, slowly — into the cool, heavy night. Quickly now, pull the door shut as they hurl themselves upon it. Hear them yowl and scream. Hear their talons gouge wood. Pause a moment to catch your breath, to collect yourself. You have escaped. Now, run.

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“Devolution” — C.Birde, 6/16