He staggered.
The bees’ hummm…
The blooms’ slow sway
&
soft-tumbled scent
left
him
g i d d y.
— C.Birde, 8/19
Tumble — An Image
Crow’s Call — A Poem
Forlorn pulse
of sound,
two notes —
alone —
on repeat loop,
struck against
a summer sky,
gray and weighted
with rain
unshed.
I carry –
close,
close –
crescent slips
of your dark
new moon
song.
Oh,
lonesome crow,
I hear
you.
— C.Birde, 8/19
Pegasus — An Image
Hold tight
that singular steed’s
wind-swept,
wild mane,
and,
like Perseus,
r i d e.
— C.Birde, 8/19
Enervation — A Poem
Tempers
and thermals
and solar flares.
Blare of horns
and blacktop’s
creaking heat.
Painted lines
and lines of cars
comprise a gridlock
of intent –
steel and chrome,
flesh and bone;
dismissed,
ignored,
unseen.
Melting
curbside mirage,
dressed in heat-
stirred floral cotton,
she slowly bastes
and enervates
and waits
to cross
the street.
— C.Birde, 8/19
Stand — An Image
Drinking sunlight,
combing the wind
with hollow fingers,
they grew
tall & lean,
stretched &
stood &
prepared
to wander.
— C.Birde, 8/19
River — A Dream
To be a river,
must one be far-reaching in
length and breadth, depth and
strength?
and leap –
clear and cool and bright –
from glacial, mountainous
source to ocean’s salted
mouth?
or slowly cleave –
with swing and sway of hip,
in muddied brown gyration –
through lush, green riotous
jungle?
interrupt, perhaps,
yawning sands, borders, self –
blue, yellow, and white –
to quench a sighing desert’s
throat?
Or can a river unfold,
twisting and unbroken,
from distant blue horizon,
over curling sea of unshorn
grass;
a ribbon of pink and winking
tourmaline that ripples about
one’s toes and spills
down,
down,
down
past white-framed glare of hatch
deep-set into the hill’s upturned
cheek,
to fill the house enshrined below –
secret, tomblike –
its kitchens, corridors, occupants,
all…
A river of submerging,
of inevitable
drowning?
— C.Birde, 7/19
Thistle — An Image
She colored
her hair pink &
dressed herself
in thorns.
She welcomed;
she warned.
.
.
.
— C.Birde, 7/19
Cicadasong — A Poem
Tymbol roar in treetops’
tossing crowns…
Soloists joined in chorus,
cycles converging
– annual, periodic –
indifferent to expectation;
pausing only to sip
hot nectar of oak and ash,
willow and maple,
between careless verse of
antique songs
– skyward, tossed –
to the panting, radiant
dog star.
— C.Birde, 7/19
Queenly — An Image
She left her things —
cobweb handkerchiefs;
delicate garments
of lace —
strewn about
within hedges,
at roadsides,
in sweet cottage
garden
beds.
So it is
with
Queens.
— C.Birde, 7/19
Mirage — A Poem
Burdened
with the prophecy
of heat,
the week extends
its reach;
a dazzling blank
page,
a sheet refusing
thought,
breakthrough,
ink.
— C.Birde, 7/19