She is not lost,
locked away,
asleep in some rose-tangled
tower.
We have bartered
Her
for immediacy,
for convenience.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Lost — An Image
Words of Rust — A Poem
Words —
tossed,
hurled,
let slip
in the deep, dark, pre-dawn
night;
cold,
hard,
twisted
to self-serving purpose —
toll
like a rusted bell,
like a heart hollowed
out.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Sky Writing — A Dream
Broad and blue as water, the sky floats above a lush green meadow tossed with wind-stirred wildflowers. Calm. Lovely. Pastoral. On the horizon, beyond hill and grass and flowers, a low line of white vapor forms — lifts and drifts, expands.
A word, born of white cloud; mist-edged yet distinct. Gently, it wafts upward, pushed higher by another word. Then another. Until the words stretch and elongate in height, and the sky is inscribed in pale, loose-formed text. A second line follows, then a third and a fourth. The lines scroll upward, and soon, the sky — from horizon to vault — is filled with perfectly-formed cloud words.
Over there, amongst the sky-written page, floats the word: “Flowering”.
Below that: “in and beyond”.
And there, adrift together: “peace” and “time”.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Fringe — An Image
Benefits,
elements,
lunatics,
& surreys –
all improved
with a touch
of fringe.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Summer Fiction — A Poem
Promises –
measured in fireflies,
rising mercury,
night’s contraction;
Illusion –
heartfelt,
collective,
persistent;
There will be more
time.
Causal & corollary,
the tasks increase –
with each coveted inch
of light,
each slow-tracking bead
of sweat.
Mirage.
Fever dream.
Summer fiction.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Brood — An Image
The gray and brooding sky
beguiles and
— at long last —
softens
the Summer day star’s
brutal,
blinding eye.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Fireflies — A Poem
Fire flies…
Embers borne on
the tails of winged insects
etch our Fate on the night’s bowed back.
Fireflies.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Burden — A Dream
The room is too small, the ceiling too low. A living room – beige walls, soil-brown carpet; cramped and crowded with worn, shabby brown plaid furniture. A room too small for comfort, too small for living. Yet, a young woman sits on the floor, pulling at the carpet’s fibers; and a large, elderly woman sits, at the room’s center, astride…
…a horse.
An enormous horse. Beyond Draft or Belgian or Clydesdale dimensions. Beyond the room’s capacity to contain it. A horse so large the arch of its bowed neck approaches the ceiling’s cracked plane; so large, the round, fleshy woman it bears must hunker forward over its withers or strike her head.
The horse paces a slow circle with heavy, dragging hooves, wears away the carpet, step by step, thread by thread.
The woman astride the horse dismounts, hands over the reins. Scale the great creature’s side…try to maintain a seat…slide, forward and down, along the horse’s bent neck. Catch knotted handfuls of mane; clamp knees to prevent inexorable decent.
The horse flattens its ears against its skull, peels back its whiskered lips to reveal large, yellow teeth. It rolls great dark eyes backward to survey — unkindly, impatiently — its new and unwieldy burden.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Falling — An Image
Each
single
separate
solitary
drop
slips
slides
surrenders
as one to
f
a
l
l
i
n
g.
— C.Birde, 6/18
Longing — A Poem
With ladder, broom,
and twine,
we train —
the vines and I;
together climb
toward light,
extend and weave,
tendrils seeking,
inch by precious inch,
height and purchase,
something solid
on which to cling
in our abiding
search.
— C.Birde, 6/18