Voice Cracks — A Dream

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“Cracks” — C.Birde, 11/19

 

Hear,

overhead,

his heels fall –

like iron mauls –

against the floor.

Hear him rage

and roar.

His fury –

unleashed,

unfocused,

unfettered –

tumbles headlong

down the stairs,

bruised,

concussed,

wounded.

How long

can this continue?

can he maintain such

fiery wrath?

How does the ceiling

not crack?

his feet not break through

both plaster and

lath?

“Tell him.”

She speaks from across

the kitchen’s tiles,

from the safety

of self-imposed exile,

where,

with studied care,

she avoids your eye.

“Tell him how

he makes you feel.”

In a breath,

in a beat

he is there.

Toe to your toes,

towering and tall,

from roiling anger,

looming;

and all words have

vanished,

swallowed up

in a gasp,

in a gulp.

Wounded,

concussed,

bruised.

Tell him.

 Tell him.

What she could not

and never would.

That his anger –

unfettered,

unfocused,

unleashed –

returns you

to fearful daze

of childhood;

that his roar blinds

and numbs and

strips away all

thought.

Choose

your words with care

and, while so choosing,

realize, of a sudden,

the surrounding,

enveloping

silence.

Realize

you have found,

at last, your voice,

and have already

spoken.

 

 

— C.Birde, 11/19

 

 

Abloom — A Dream

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“Abloom” — C.Birde, 11/19

 

Apart.

Afloat.

Untethered.

A gleaming white

rectangle of steel

girders

bolts

beams

enclosed in sheet-rock,

resurfaced in smooth plaster.

(suspended mid-air

betwixt and between

heaven and earth)

Large windows –

dark and glossy,

unblinking as the eyes

of Argus –

peer out from

four impassive

faces;

an alignment

of rows and columns

arranged in subliminal

drumbeat.

(suspended mid-air

betwixt and between

heaven and earth)

Static.

Patient.

Impersonal.

Until

until

from all seams and

edges describing

roofline

windows

quoins

large curls

of crinkly white paper

sprout

uncoil

uncurl

like tongues

of honeysuckle flowers,

each a brilliant hue –

red, yellow, green,

pink, purple, blue.

The building entire

(suspended mid-air

betwixt and between

heaven and earth)

unexpectedly transformed

in whimsical riot

of motion and color.

Afloat and

abloom.

 

— C.Birde, 11/19

 

 

 

 

Impression — An Image

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“Impression” — C.Birde, 11/19

 

She had had

the impression,

she realized —

with the chill wind

against her

cheek

&

the leaves’

trembling refusal

to let go —

that it all

should last

l

o

n

g

e

r.

 

 

— C.Birde, 11/19

 

 

Avian Noir — A Dream

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“Avian Noir” — C.Birde, 10/19

 

Yes.

Yes, I saw.

I witnessed

the whole sordid affair.

Long hours

he must have waited

there with all the patience

of saints and thieves,

and when, at last,

identified his mark,

he burst from crisp green

turning shadow

forward,

toward her

and –

with the clever curve

of yellow blades and

piercing efficiency –

gripped her about

the throat,

cradled her —

almost tenderly —

within his grasp, and

swept her

up

across the street.

The gathered crowd –

those self-appointed

constabularies,

feathered blue and

white and black –

screamed alarm

Too late

too late!

(Ask them why

they hesitated!)

Gone.

She was gone.

Carried off

aloft.

Her dove-gray

breast pierced through,

her head –

unsupported –

lolling from

her slender neck.

Yes, I saw.

I saw it

all.

 

— C.Birde, 10/19

Passions — A Dream

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“Anger” — C.Birde, 10/19

 

“Where

has anger led?”

Her query

was demand.

“That shimmering

red-veil firestorm

kindled and fed

the flux and

transmission

of broken light,

the fiery collision

of past

present

future,

devouring and

insatiable.”

Flushed,

she paused

for breath.

“I will wear grief

instead,”

she began again,

“Those blunt

bruised shades

of blue-gray

melancholy…

I will wear grief,”

she affirmed.

In the mirror,

our eyes met.

“until our

collective heart

is restored

and polished,

and its calloused

ache – at last –

is shed.”

 

 

— C.Birde, 8/30/19

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“Grief” — C.Birde, 10/19

 

 

 

 

Norma — A Dream

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“Norma” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

 

Take them,

these static representations

of antique women,

clothed in robes

of polished marble,

their faces benign &

caught forever

between expressions.

Take them

from this darkened,

cloistered room

with its museum air,

sterile and scentless;

from these venerated

pedestals arranged

in self-reflective semi-circle,

carved over with thorned and

vining roses.

Take them

out into the beating

heart of the deeply

wooded night

where they might stir

anew with memory of the life

that once swept through them –

body

blood &

bone –

a tidal force of soul

that inspired

poets

artists

naturalists

philosophers

to capture, trap & tame them –

honorably,

in respectful aspect –

for all perpetuity.

Take them

out into the holy wash

of ferns and moonlight

intending fully to return them —

unmissed and

undisturbed —

to their safe sanctum;

but one plinth,

one single solitary

gilded cage –

edges dusted well

with age –

will remain forever

empty of its prize,

at long last freed

to breathe &

laugh &

run. Un-

leashed.

Re-

leased.

Re-

born.

 

— C.Birde, 7/19