The dream was all —
beautiful
duet of soul and
psyche
sung in prismatic
tone and symbol
crooned and
understood until
I woke
it broke
The dream was all.
— C.Birde, 1/21
The Dream — A Poem
Just Desserts — A Dream
The gray remains
Ubiquitous
Unchallenged
Bleak winter sky,
drained of color,
extends its influence
Except…
Except for her —
Take my hand
See there, ahead?
Her once-dark-hair
now silvered violet?
Watch her cross
the intersection, see?
Pause here with me
The light,
so slow to change…!
Impatient, we cross
& follow where she leads
up streets unpeopled –
empty, too, of traffic –
her lead by swift steps
increasing until,
down an alleyway she slips
& vanishes completely.
But wait….
This shop unknown…
& there,
beyond plate glass see
her hair?
Sleek lavender strands
a-gleam through laden
wire shelves?
Shelves replete with sweets
of every kind
in Prismacolor hues –
cakes & cookies, pies,
macarons;
pink & green, fuchsia, blue.
Each sweet with care
displayed
& oh so beautiful.
Yes, of course
Take your time
Wander
Look before you choose.
But here,
this single slice of cake –
frosted white,
layers bright cerulean blue –
is mine.
— C.Birde, 1/21
Walking the Monochrome — A Dream
Walking…
Walking through
a monochrome sea
of time-washed
macadam
devoid of lines,
of delineations…
On and onward
Each footfall,
a pulse unheard
Tirelessly moving
through this lost
and absented place
beneath first one,
then a second
overpass pressed –
in heavy arch and
swing;
a frown, a grin –
against a watery sky
Piercing
the dull shadows
of those vulturous
crossings,
consumed by half-light…
A road ahead,
hitherto unseen,
emerging,
uncurling,
curving outward
to meet a wide,
empty highway
Seeing,
on the further curve
(that generous hip
of curb),
lawn- and folding chairs
arranged and occupied
as if to spy
some soon-to-come
parade
Recognizing one
(see? he waves?)
among their numbers
Waiting now for the
solitary car to pass,
then another,
until it’s safe
to cross and join
the small throng gathered
in a wedge of light
that sifts between
the intersecting over-
passes sweeping
past and
overhead.
— C.Birde, 1/21
Rest-Less — Dreams
Dreams:
Of rushing–
headlong –
down flight after flight
of white, right-angled
staircases,
in hope of catching
& meeting
that bright elevator
when it completes
its descent;
Of accepting
the usher’s white rose
& following through
the auditorium’s dark,
near-empty aisles
to a seat farthest back
as the lecturer speaks
of death;
Of wading
in shoals of translucent
blue water,
waves lapping, pooling,
as I balance–
barefoot –
on the world’s knobbed,
ancient spine
while a dolphin swims
just out of reach.
Dreams
& dreams
& dreams.
Forming,
flowing one into
another.
Half-remembered.
Scattered.
Tattered.
Incomplete.
Dreams interrupted
& rest-less
sleep.
— C.Birde, 12/20
Jam — A Dream
With a look in her eye –
imperious, sly –
that suggested
I knew her meaning,
she asked for a taste
(“a taste, just a taste!”)
of my “Boyfriend Jam”,
not jelly.
But I –
bewildered, confused,
unable to grasp
what she implied –
could only stare,
slack-jawed,
standing there,
& in vain futility
wonder.
— C.Birde, 12/20
Companion — A Dream
“Look out for the dog…”
Beyond any line of sight,
vanished up a lane
in this labyrinthine,
underground,
terrain,
his words echo out —
a sonic ripple stroked
against the air –
and find their mark.
Warning or instruction?
Unclear as compressed,
unspooling dark.
And then,
sudden as a ghost,
it appears –
the forewarned dog…
A great white beast,
indiscriminately splotched
in charcoal spots.
Prick eared.
Whip tailed.
Smooth fur, close-coated.
Just off the path, it waits…
Great rosy tongue, a‘lolling.
Shell-pink pale muzzle
upturned in doggy grin.
A creature far from
fearsome.
Continue in accord
through enfolding dark;
left arm slung over
the great dog’s muscled,
lambent,
milk-white shoulders;
draped across its thick neck;
until…
Until…
Furred flesh shifts and
shivers;
morphs;
transforms.
Exchanges canine shape
for human;
woman.
Tall, straight-spined;
strong, clear-eyed.
Tireless companion.
Fearsome guide.
Warrior.
Side by side,
press on as one —
together —
through the dark.
— C.Birde, 12/20
Gray Planes — A Dream
All is gray…
Above, beneath, beyond…
Three horizontal planes
of neutral gray overlaid
one against another…
Land and sky and sea…
Blurred seams erased.
Stand here with me…
The shale, a coarse voice
beneath our feet…
The air a sigh…
Nearing our step,
the lapping edge of foam-
laced, shapeshifting sea.
(Pay that element’s
inconstant promise
little heed.)
Look instead beyond…
Into the distance…
There –
Gesture strokes the air…
A scratch of darkness
within that vast expanse…
No other form to speak
of its relative dimensions…
Undeterred,
it comes,
it grows.
A bird?
Eagle, Albatross, or Tern…
Can you discern its form?
Tell me what you see…
Patience,
patience…
Its shape defines slowly…
Slope of yellow beak…
Compact body,
smooth and white
Languid wings –
gray-stroked, stretched wide –
gently stir the space it occupies.
A gull —
Free , unfettered…
Clear-eyed perspective…
Visitant of the in-betweens.
Above the shore it hovers…
Wings beating noiselessly…
Now, its form in white neon light
outlined…
A stroke of gleaming bright,
it dives and thrusts —
into susurrating shale —
its beak,
plucks out some secret
nestled there…
Departs.
Returns
to those very planes of gray
from which
it came.
— C.Birde, 11/20
MindChatter — A Dream
— C.Birde, 11/20
Epic — A Dream
Never mind how we got here… The headlong, hell-bent, hair-raising rush… The RV careening over narrow dirt roads, its windscreen blacked out… He – at the wheel, navigating as if by sonar, by radar; by the tiny icon moving across ten inches of computer screen, charging ever closer to the engulfing sea…
Never mind that we shot past that liminality, metaphorically blindfolded, and landed – not in saltwater embrace, but within a Renaissance palace, within a walled fort on a shadow-clad hill… That somehow, we had traversed the creases of time and space and geography and sped into the deep past… That, with equal surreality, he now guides the invisible, behemoth RV through ornately carved hallways and corridors draped in rich colors, through the two-story central room toward the narrow galley kitchen… That he maneuvers the vehicle deftly past the assembled crowd and strikes not a soul…
Never mind the gentle cascade of enveloping sound… The chanting female voice that reverberates like the sea… A soft, beautiful, lapping, echo… An encircling song…
Never mind that I now occupy a narrow galley kitchen… And slowly, carefully dismantle – with the aid of a man unknown, unfamiliar – a small cube refrigerator… Remove shelving, pull out wire racks, peel back the refrigerator’s rear wall, and ultimately uncover a crude exit…
Never mind that the woman’s melodious voice is suddenly replaced by a man’s… The chieftain; the king speaks, is speaking… Everyone drops to their knees, bows heads to listen… All except the young girl beside, who sings and chatters without interruption… Who plays with a kitten, despite serious looks bent upon her… Despite raised fingers and hisses and hushes… The chieftain’s daughter will do as she pleases…
No. Never mind that. Dismiss it from your mind. All of it.
Slip with me, instead, down the narrow kitchen, past the humbled crowd… Past the submissive collective… Follow me, to the left, beyond this partition wall… Into this hidden, hallway alcove… To the heavy wooden door, here, at the hall’s end… See how the light bends through its many beveled panes of glass? See how the hills and village beyond are gently refracted?
But look again… Look again, to the middle ground – how could anyone miss it? How did I? The tree… An enormous tree, of untold antiquity. Its trunk and main boughs, symmetrical to left and right, while smaller limbs branch off in lively directions. And there… Do you see? Suspended above the tree’s crown, the great amber prism that throbs with light? Are you stunned? Near speechless? As I am? Do you feel the need – the driving, overwhelming, urgent need – to touch the tree? To lay hands upon it? Press palms to its deep-grooved bark until vascular cambium bites flesh?
And did you see her? The woman flaking our right side, here at the door? Or was your gaze, too, pulled beyond her, swept past her, as was mine? Pay her no heed. Disregard her cryptic remarks regarding my desire… I am not Matilda, Melinda, Meridan. I am no tear-scryer.
Ahh… The door swings, opens… The tree extends a long, uncoiling limb… Holds, in the cup of its twiggy branches, a cut crystal sphere… Amber… Radiant… Roughly the size of a toddler’s head… Withdraws the same, in enticing fashion, when I reach to touch it…
Are you still here? Do you yet stand beside me, shoulder to my shoulder, toes also curled over the threshold’s edge, two stories up the palace’s stone walls? Does the tree fill your vision, as well? Do you see, as it questions me, as it drops the mussel shells into my open palms, each ridged, pearly concavity inscribed with a query? Do you hear my responses, or do I answer within the frame of my own mind as the great tree confirms my beliefs?
Never mind. Never mind. Raise your hands, as I do… Palms before heart, outward facing, thumbs touching… Lift the hands, up, up, before the face, then out and down in circular motion… Draw palms to naval, thumbs reconnected… Lift the hands up again before the heart. Bless the tree. Bless all its offspring. Bless all that it shelters.
Bless us all.
— C.Birde, 11/20
Inverted Blue — A Dream
Beneath the archway entrance to “Suite Seven”, we meet – she & I.
Guide, in royal purple robes that sweep the bisque-pink floor.
Follow Her through open airy room, up shallow steps, outdoors,
where the galleried stone patio – in artful feat of craftsmanship –
floats above a rippling valley of plush & foliaged green.
She never speaks; smiles & leads to He who wears the cobalt blue
of heaven & instructs me in Inversion.
“Hands here; feet here;
hips & tailbone high;
relax the head & neck.”
Ah…warmth of sun-soaked slates beneath my palms, my soles;
spacious planes of earth & sky agreeably reversed.
Together, He & She delineate my form, glide shrewd hands along
elongated muscles, stacked bones; correct awkward tilts & angles,
structure & position, until all is in alignment, agreement.
She steps back, recedes, Her hands two secrets folded deep within
flared purple sleeves.
He remains, moves His flattened palms in slip-skin circular motion,
between my shoulder blades; base of neck; kneads trapezius;
works flesh & muscle like soft clay; fashions, in their place, a shallow,
gently rimmed concavity.
Utterly painless.
Utter somatic re-shaping, re-formation.
He places there, in that space, the sphere – large, heavy as a bowling ball
& as smoothly polished; blue as His robes;
places that unanticipated & arcane globe in the new-formed bodily basin
of upper back, where it rests – veritable onus, orbicular albatross –
against the occipital ridge at the nape of my neck.
“Don’t move, don’t move…”
His words resound like hollow wind in ocean cave.
“Maintain the Inversion.
Do not lose the ball.
Do not let it roll free
to crush your hands,
your skull.”
The sphere, so deeply blue, so heavy & slipping…slipping & shifting…
shifting & sliding…inching ever forward over & toward my right ear.
Each time, they catch it – He & She.
With pointed re-instruction, He returns it, places it in its corporeal nest.
Again & again & again…
Cannot endure. Was not built for this. Cannot maintain this shape.
Feel the cry forming, deep within – release me release me release me…
Let it
fall.
— C.Birde, 11/20