(For Lena.)
Thirst or
hunger?
Confusion, pain, or
exhaustion?
The differences are
arguable;
secret, subtle;
mysterious.
Tell me the way.
My ear —
seeking answers,
guidance —
bends toward
silence.
— C.Birde, 8/18
Doubt — A Poem
Laden — An Image
The weight
of fevered air
bears
down —
each furred breath
of moisture
an
oppression.
— C.Birde, 8/18
Vacansopapurosophobia — A Poem
What if
the words won’t
come
the spark won’t
catch
the page remains
a complex
blank
of possibility —
unshaped,
unformed,
unsculpted.
What if the muse,
accepting of all
blame,
remains
on the periphery,
out of reach?
Beyond the barrier,
Gray Catbird sings
improvisation…
My hand,
cramps.
What if
What if
What
i
f
?
— C.Birde, 8/18
Iterations — A Dream
He stands just behind my right shoulder – a young man, so comfortable in his own skin, his presence adds inches to his height. And, in six-year-old guise, he clutches my left hand as tightly as his young strength allows. The nine-month-old him sprawls, arms and legs akimbo, in complete abandon on the bed’s rumpled sheets; while he-at-twelve sits on the edge of the same bed with arms defiantly crossed about his narrow torso – purposefully, he avoids my eye, assures himself that I know this. Finally, there, in a knot of sheet spilled upon the floor, is his smallest and youngest form – a red faced, yowling and inconsolable, thumb-sized infant whose continuous, shrill shriek drives all ability to think from my skull.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Clasp — An Image
Hands clasped,
she peers past
slender fingers
with the largest,
warmest,
brownest
eye.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Awake — A Poem
Patient night —
with winking, starless
eye and
half-moon smile —
She conducts
the crickets’ song,
distorted by the hum
from window fan,
by ceiling fan’s
arrhythmic tick…
And,
beneath it all,
the thought-loop whirs,
that well-oiled
Mobius strip of
shoulds &
woulds &
musts &
haven’ts.
Loop and whir.
Repeat.
Night’s darkness thins,
rinsed pale and
watered
by dawn’s soft steps.
Tomorrow —
surely —
sleep will
come.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Cats & Rabbits, Kittens & Kits — A Dream
As I descend the cellar steps
and pause but halfway down
to peek below…
a warm light flows
from windows
recessed high up
in smoothed cement walls
that peer out over
grass-green lawn.
This basement space –
large and open as it is,
its floor a level plane
of low-pile carpet –
lacks most namesake objects.
No furnace here,
nor workbench,
hot-water heater, or
storage shelves.
It is not, however,
empty.
A score of cardboard boxes
the area defines,
pushed against the walls,
and at its center cluster.
And each box —
by cat with kittens,
or a rabbit and her kits —
is occupied.
Each mother tends her litter –
grooming,
nursing,
nurturing –
in unworried fashion.
Paused upon the stairs,
I hear the unbroken,
contented
purr.
Back up those stairs
I creep so
I do not
disturb.
— C.Birde, 7/18
Lost — An Image
She is not lost,
locked away,
asleep in some rose-tangled
tower.
We have bartered
Her
for immediacy,
for convenience.
— C.Birde, 7/18
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