Gray sea, gray sky

Margins smudged

in all directions

Stretched & stretching

Unbroken & unchanged

but for the smooth fold

& roll of white-capped

wavelets…

Then, movement –

countless pale shapes

schooled & swimming

beneath the gray sea’s

surface in synchronicity

Arms flush to lean torsos,

legs at knees & ankles

clamped, pressed

as though fused…

Their bodies part water

with inhuman, ghostly

grace

No need to surface…

No trail of bubbles

to mark their silent

passage…

Blind & Deaf & Mute

They are the swimming

Dead…

My own eyes sting

     my tongue tastes salt

          my ears pulse, throb

And then, release…

Within their company,

freed from bodily limits

& swimming…

     swimming…

          swimming

endlessly…

— C.Birde, 6/21

The truck’s cab,

sparse, dark;

eighteen-wheeled,

manual efficiency,

parked

in a half-filled lot

of compact cars –

automotive giant

amongst

Lilliputians.

Seat,

adjusted.

Mirrors,

angled.

Seat belt,

clicked.

Wheel –

smooth & sleek –

firmly gripped.

When,

without warning,

she leans from

the passenger seat,

grabs the wheel,

stomps the gas…

With belch & roar,

the truck

l  u  r  c  h  e  s

left & forward.

Scrape

of plastic…

Screech

of metal…

The car below –

dwarfed,

overwhelmed –

buckles,

breaks.

Shake her free,

grab the wheel.

Release

the accelerator.

Correct course,

assert control,

& straighten.

Too late,

     too late.

The smaller car –

wrecked,

warped.

The damage,

done.

— C.Birde, 5/21

Evicted.

Expelled.

Dispossessed

of that old house

on the hill.

Three stories

of tilting timeworn

clapboard

& peeling paint

flaking over tired

green grass.

Seize it. Take it.

And welcome.

It matters not at all.

For in the moonless

night-spangled

dark,

I moved (removed),

like guileless wind,

all small & coveted

prized possessions –

a whole life’s worth

of work & soul

& pulsing wounded

heart –

to the small brown

bungalow nested

oh-so-sweetly

in the valley

below.

— C.Birde, 4/21

Sent out…

away from this

bright impersonal

space

with all its

glittering crosstalk

& hectic motion…

Cast out…

into umbrous night

& with an errand tasked:

return with cake…

Pavement,

heaved & crack’d & bound

around in encroaching,

tangled trees that bow

& rub together limbs

all but leafless…

And,

at the farthest end –

near swallowed up

in starless scrub –

a structure…

O, architectural wonder!

Entirely comprised

of swoops

     & swirls

          & curves

of hammered metal

sheets symmetrically

arranged to either side

of a single, central

door…

And,

above this fabulous

entry’s lintel –

nested amidst curls &

intersecting twines

of metal –

an enormous lemon,

all aglow in halo

of soft yellow

light…

Indeed,

the only light to move

or chase throughout

the whole benighted

place.

But,

nowhere,

anywhere at all,

a single frosted piece

of cake

in sight.

— C.Birde, 3/21

The boy has died.

One third

her not yet twenty

years.

     Intolerable.

     Unbearable.

Here:

within this rough

underground womb

of dull-winking

hematite,

through the crucible

of her direction,

the memorial

is constructed.

She oversees

the smooth stage’s

raising;

the steel frame’s

enclosure struck

with lights;

white screens,

like windless sails,

unfurled.

His image –

     luminous,

     aflare –

will transcend

the dark &

breach the void.

The boy has died.

She wears the burden

of his absence

with fury –

raw-edged &

     bristling.

— C.Birde, 3/21

World

of black & white

entirely comprised

of newspaper

torn to bits,

shredded & strewn

over the landscape,

covering trees &

earth & every little

growing thing

as far as the eye

can see.

An

earth-formed sea

of black & white –

delineated,

bisected,

by a raised ridge

of torn words &

images pressed

into a pastiche

spine.

Carefully

tread this crude

catwalk

gangplank

promenade

balance beam.

Follow one

behind the other

‘til from behind

a copse of print-

wrapped trees

a she moose looms,

protective of her

calf…

Veer off

the path & wade

through the swamp

of printed words

that tugs

at boot & stride.

See there,

within the shred

of black & white,

the doe at rest,

& tucked within

her body’s curve,

a solitary small

& spotted

fawn.

— C.Birde, 3/1

Solitary passenger

in the way, way back

of this long green

station wagon

Tailgate gaping

Sweet tabby cat

(alternating gray

& tea-with-cream)

for company

Far up front –

with select passengers –

the vehicle’s pilot

guides it backwards

along a curving road

as, to the left,

the great, gray sea

falls down, away,

& to the right

& overhead twists

a jungle-y clamor

of green

See?

Amongst those vines

& great broad leaves,

the Good Lord Bird!

And more –

Downy,

Red-Headed,

-Bellied…

Uncharacteristically

slipping sturdy beaks

into vibrant blooms

& sipping

Elating

Breathtaking

Calling out their names

& pointing

But to whom?

For they,

so far up front,

so far away,

can’t see.

— C.Birde, 2/21