creative writing – Page 43

Knife – A Dream

Drop the knife.

There, in the grass,

where the dirt path

crumbles away.

Eight-inches of steel –

sharp as tongues;

full tang clasped

between worn halves

of oiled mahogany.

Blade among blades.

It sings when drawn

over stone.

Old knife.

Older than you.

Knife of Dwayne Young.

Left in a drawer of the stone

house Dwayne built for his

wife. She never joined him

there – preferred the one-

room cottage at the back of

the property. In 1964, your

father married your mother,

bought Dwayne’s house.

Found the knife. In 1988, he

passed the knife along. To

you. A series of partings.

Forgettings. Accidental.

Intentional. Drop the

knife. They’re coming.

Don’t be implicated

Leave it there.

In the grass.

Walk away.

You’ve done

nothing

wrong.

Let

— C.Birde

dreams

Essence — An Image

Sow Love.

Love

so.

— C.Birde, 2/19

20190215_113349~2.jpg

Pack — A Poem

Screenshot_2019-02-13-08-33-04~2.png — “Pack” — C.Birde, 2/19

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

Array 2.jpg

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

dreams subconscious

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,

foreverglades.

— C.Birde, 2/19

Everglades Heron.jpg — “Everglades, Heron” — C.Birde, 2/19

Nature

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

Pink Book.jpg — “Written in Pink” — C.Birde, 1/19

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

dreams

Contradiction — Image & Truth

Self Portrait Refraction.png — “Contradiction” — C.Birde, 1/19

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

Wisdom in Whiskers.png — “Wisdom & Whiskers” — C.Birde, 1/19

“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

animals writing

Hamster Transport — A Dream

Street View.jpg — “Street View” — C.Birde, 1/19

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

dreams writing