“Unfold your
origami
heart…
Call my name;
I will hear…”
She smiled
in cherry blossoms,
in rain-soaked,
attentive
air.
“Even if you
w h i s p e r.”
— C.Birde, 5/20
Whisper — An Image
Ophelia — A Dream
Awaken –
suddenly,
splashingly –
to that song
(despised),
that songster singing;
the alarm’s relentless
ringing
from the bedside as
(swiftly)
he departs
and addresses not
the wailing,
blaring
song.
Emerge.
Upward, surge
from watery warmth,
and rouse translucent
waves to tidal
lapping,
spilling,
slapping
over and past
the slipper tub’s
smooth sides
of porcelain
white.
Outward,
stretch;
extend one arm
(fingers streaming)
to reach and strike
(again!
again!)
the alarm’s
rigid,
buzzing,
boxlike
surface and silence
(at last!)
disharmony’s
jarring
blast.
Awake.
Fully wakened…
In blessed quiet,
become aware —
across the room —
of the calico’s cider
stare;
and —
beyond
the glistening rim
of the polished tub —
of the small dog
that deftly,
daintily dodged
the sluicing
flood pro-
duced.
— C.Birde, 4/20
Rain — An Image
“With patience,
I shall rain
on you,”
her voice swayed,
slantwise,
“like a thousand fingers,
gently drumming,
u n t i l
you
understand.”
— C.Birde, 4/20
Emblem — An Image
“I bring you flowers,
from tight buds
unfolding…”
softly,
she spoke,
in breath perfumed
with violet &
hyacinth.
“Reminder
that change
can be
sweet.”
— C.Birde, 4/20
Specific Grief — A Poem
For You…
Each time we meet,
that specific grief
and I,
in some unexpected
curl of psyche,
it is always,
ever,
and again,
as if for the first time.
Like the rasp of thorn
or briar on skin
presumed whole,
unmarred,
unbroken —
fresh surge of pain;
scarlet bright.
When we meet,
my grief and I,
old friends reunited,
we embrace –
awkwardly,
so carefully –
and, as one,
we weep.
— C.Birde, 4/20
The Key of Melancholy — A Truth
There are nights when I wake
with the Moon,
in one of Her many guises,
resting on my windowsill
singing in the very same
melancholy key
as the chords ringing
in my head,
constantly;
and I ask,
in sleep-soft speech,
“What key are we
singing,
ringing
in?”
— C.Birde, 4/20
A Me — A Dream
How,
in dream,
can I know you?
With your eyes,
concentric rings
of brown and
blue chasing
‘round a pupil
so clear and
dark?
In dream,
so clearly
I see you clad
in silver starlight;
platinum hair,
a cascade that waves
about your shoulders
in halo.
You,
of the High Tower,
so utterly familiar
as a part of his
life,
not mine
(though here, now,
he knows you
not at all)
while in my
wakened state,
I reflect that
I have never,
ever
set eyes
on anyone
remotely like
you.
Surely,
I would
remember…
— C.Birde, 4/20
Pink — An Image
She inclined
her towering head –
sweetly perfumed &
crowned in
pink –
to the sweeter
Pink Moon
&
with a rustle,
with a gesture,
murmured,
“After you…”
— C.Birde, 4/20
Trove — An Image
“I will,”
her declaration —
first soft —
soon rose,
“wear cloth-of-gold,
come mist,
come sun,
come storm,”
she paused…
“I will wear
a sunlit
t r o v e.”
— C.Birde, 4/20
In-grain(ed) — A Dream
Burdensome book,
made entirely of wood –
cover, binding, pages;
two inches thick,
maybe three.
A tome-ic weight
upon the lap,
the knees –
biting,
pressing,
depress-
ing.
Pages click
as readers flip
the rigid leaves,
select the word
that suits,
describes where,
in life, they find
themselves –
physically,
spiritually,
emotionally –
& slide aside
small wooden tabs
to reveal
the associated page &
turn as indicated.
Click,
slide,
flip;
click,
slide,
flip.
Fall behind taking time
to consider,
to deliberate;
volume of wood
spread wide
across the knees…
Search row and line
for the word
that properly describes
the core of prevailing
sentiment…
To no avail.
Of the many words carved
in those manifold
wooden pages,
neither “grief”,
nor “sorrow”,
nor “melancholy”
are found.
Observe –
the others all
depart,
move on,
while one
remains,
left
behind,
a-
lone.
— C.Birde, 3/20