The way
we address obstacles
reveals
— in degrees —
our Soul’s wisdom
or infancy.
— C.Birde, 3/19
Revelation — An Image
Insatiable — A Poem
Angry wind,
hungry wind –
wresting fealty
from trunk
and limb
and ragged
crown.
Inside,
ignore serrated
howls…
Count each
breath –
one in,
one out.
For each limb
sundered,
plucked, and
tossed —
in one,
out one,
outward and
unbounded.
Bless
the sheltering
trees.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Auspices — An Image
No one
marks Time
like
Nature.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Discord — A Poem
I have nothing.
I have nothing left.
I have nothing left to say.
My words,
a song of rust
brushed against
an ear
unhearing,
turned away.
Absorbed
in conflict and
distraction.
Take your ease
in your unease.
I have nothing.
I have nothing left.
I have nothing
left to say.
— C.Birde, 2/19
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
go
.
— C.Birde
Essence — An Image
Sow Love.
Love
so.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Pack — A Poem
We
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
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,
forever,
foreverglades.
— C.Birde, 2/19
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
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