For Lydia
When the day
has slipped,
and all its
burdens –
large,
small,
soul-expanding –
are set
aside;
when sleep
arrives –
calm or fitful,
dreamless or
dream-full;
when the new day
dawns and
the world
(having fulfilled
its obligations)
continues
its slow,
unbroken
revolution;
I will carry
your absence
forward,
always,
in my grief-
softened
heart.
— C.Birde, 2/20
Follow
the path,
through wood &
moonlit dark,
along
smooth-set stones
well worn
with age.
Climb
the steps –
long & shallow,
silver-limned –
to the well,
squarely centered
amidst the pour
of flat stones
beneath
the arbor with
its twist of aged,
dark-rust
vines.
But –
there —
curled around
the well
& draped
down the steps
in undulating
folds –
the snake
prevents
approach.
Mammoth
in proportions –
a hundred feet
in length;
three feet
in diameter –
it lies
like shadow;
near static,
but for
the stirring
of those caught
within it.
Three shapes
clearly identified –
FoX,
PumA,
Hound doG —
each living
& struggling
against confinement.
“Cut them free!
They’re still
alive!” –
frantic exhortation
flung against
the night’s
deaf ears.
The dog —
most recently
consumed —
wags its long
brush of tail,
parts its jaws
&
audibly,
barks.
Yes.
Oh, please.
While they
yet live,
cut them
f r e e.
– C.Birde, 2/20
Traffic bisected
the grassland’s
patchwork
in ceaseless tide.
“Only humans,”
she observed,
“will admire
a thing
to its
utter
unmaking.”
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Stop crying –”
O, tears,
disobedient .
“— or I’ll give you
a reason
to cry.”
O, reasons,
manifold,
variable,
unpredictable.
Action begets
reaction;
effect follows
cause.
The river –
dammed,
diverted,
disguised.
Feel
the tears’
slow prick
and glide…
Retreat.
Turn away,
turn
aside.
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Oh, my dear,”
— a caress
of voice;
tender,
sympathetic —
“when life most hurts,
it is imperative
to seek
j
o
y.”
— C.Birde, 2/20
We rode the air
on dark wings
glittering —
a hundred pair
(Once, we numbered
thousands)
tried,
with each beating
stroke
and the rust
of our throats
(“O, hear us,
O, listen…”)
We skirled
and soughed through
the bone-bare trees
and cried in a voice of
calamity:
“Beware!
Our cipher,
our patterns, heed.
Beware!”
Your heads
never
lifted.
— C.Birde, 2/20
She wore
her conscience
like a mist —
draped softly
about her,
touching all
she said
&
did.
— C.Birde, 2/20
“Is it meant,”
he frowned,
“to protect or confine?”
She met his eye,
expressionless;
did not immediately
respond.
“That depends…”
she observed,
“entirely
on expectation,
perspective,
on which side
one finds
one’s
s
e
l
f.“
— C.Birde, 1/20
Drawing eyes,
inviting the gaze
of others
to look,
to judge,
to measure;
to see through
(without fear)
to the essence
of Truth
tucked deep
within
the eyes’ “I”.
To be seen,
and so,
set
free.
— C.Birde, 1/20
Sketching
across the paper’s
width and length
in rows
of two, four, three;
sketching them stacked
like great scoops
of ice cream.
Eyes.
One atop another
piled.
Eyes
of melting,
cartoonish
grotesquerie.
Eyes,
staring –
wide and sightless –
from beneath lashes
curling,
spidery.
Eyes
of enlightenment;
of innocence and
judgment.
Eyes
of inner wisdom.
Eyes
of the ego’s “I”.
Those windows
of the soul.
Indeed,
indeed.
Sketching,
sketching
row upon row,
until she takes
the sheet of paper,
nods admiringly,
and,
wielding scissors –
silver,
shining –
slices through
the topmost row,
slices
right through
that row of eyes –
wide and sightless –
straight through
their unblinking
pupils and
irises.
— C.Birde, 1/20