Wishing you all the best for this season! Take care and stay safe! Today, years later, this poem resonates with me because of what we are all going through, and who we have lost, and our resilience. The tone is hushed, but strong and fast, as we encourage the bird to fight to fly and to finally sleep after all its endeavours to survive. Just, as I imagine, like us all.
Sing little bird, fly overhead, rest in the trees’ wavering breeze.
Lift the curtain high at dawn let the flickering candles yawn.
Tall trees aglow, clouds full of snow, laden with light, sing black on white, snow flurry sneeze small feathers freeze.
Fly little bird lift up and fight, go little bird circle the light, sleep little bird, a peaceful goodnight.
Try little bird, lift your wings while you’re still singing soon the night will warm your dreaming.
Fly little bird reach for the night, go little bird, shy winter’s light.
Warm your body, melt the snow for the daylight crisp below.
Go little bird, sleep little bird, find the songs you sweetly sing, nestle there ’til winter’s still.
Go little bird, up to the night, fly little bird soundly tonight.
See the moon she’s smiling for you shivering stars their arms are open too,
so go little bird, fly little bird, high little bird, hush little bird,
soon will come the voices of the morn joyous little creature of our dawn.
Go little bird, fly little bird, sleep little bird, twilight is heard. Go little bird… go.
Rejigged this a bit. Hope you are all well and coping.
We are more than breath and bones, or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds our pale faces with heavenly alchemy; we are combined essences swirling underneath complex skin with all of love’s triumphant splendour placed on our brows.
We are more than breath and bones with no more taught sinew to soothe since all mapped outreaches tethered by distance and timid pasts have been conquered, and before intruders, unseen, steal west with their disgrace. We stay low and soft within this warm, diaphanous wrap; it is no fair costume this skin of faux silk.
We are more than breath and bones, as within each of us lies such vast continents yet to be stroked, to align with us under our blue skies. Synapses crawl to make us, messaged and volatile, their eager grip might conquer us still… we are more than breath and bones, and we will not be torn asunder.
We are more than breath and bones, or the thousands of strange shadows that tend us; each have all but one shade, and poor imitations lend counterfeit images, all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss of your cheek, and there I see us in every shape and shadow we know.
A flicker, a stare, fires the column, bled bare, by the pale yellow, violet flame as
its gliding wax grips and its rhythmic drip sets fast, and not unlike our game. The Slowness of time runs with our thoughts down this vine as I tease the quick with scorched fingers. And, as is your want, you navigate me, and like moths, we self destruct when we linger. A stolid breath of air soon releases our stares, and we flinch in the flame’s parting sigh; its sulphuric stench from the quickening wrench, reminds me of that stark light – as sleeping birds hum and a candlelit morn draws nigh.
I have been here at WordPress for five years apparently. Thanks to everyone who has supported my efforts, and those in passing, who have stopped a while. Be safe out there until this surreal period of our lives is over. Take care.
With every sound of each word uttered there is pause, a silence – as if waiting for the touch of a lover – distant still, but out there.
Until such time, words float as poetry, lightly wrought on cool staves, only now just stirring; no tone is forced, just harsh and breathy –
they wait, and would wait forever, as every song, like love, is incomplete until it hears its heart echo.
I found this and turns out it was one of the first posts I made here back in November 2015, but I think I had written it around 2006 or so. A bit bleak, but hey ho. Anyway, I hope you are all doing well, and staying safe! Take care.
It’s been such a long time; it could be ten thousand years. Time passes much faster when you cry all your tears. Last time I looked back, I could only see my feet. I never saw the sky, I missed a treat, and I miss my old life. I can only look back and cry. I miss my future, but it is too late, I say. And, I cry for the passing of time, all of the day.
‘There are blue skies and a cold yearning face. Catching the breeze with eyes closed in embrace. Swirled on tip toes, hearts lift in the air; wind cool on the fingertips is chilled in the stare. Longing and heartache kept warm all the while, and never a dry eye let down by goodbye. She holds it all in still after many have cared, but don’t tell her you’re leaving, don’t stroke her there.’
I take off my robe in ankles held deep. My hands fill the water with each step of my feet. The waves fully clothe me until I’m replete. I disappear from view to drown in this pain; and I miss my future, fresh and anew, but, I can see the stars now, over and over and over again.
I am a poem that roams, sprawls and meanders, but can also be still a while – enough to heal a dying a heart, a heart in need of nurture – a living, pounding thing deserving of meaningful blood, a blood that would keep the soul alive, that would will the vessel to breath; they, in part, belong to me. So, I roam and thrive and pump my life’s air into another, so that I will not die.
I am a heart that flounders, and with open wounds, but can still be revived with love, even when the daylight has gone from its shell. Still a living thing, desperate for the richest ebony, I keep his pulse vital – a pulse that throbs in my own veins. So, I knead and revive, and breath life into those tired chambers, lest I die.
I am one half of one thing, drinking the necessary fluids that course through our minds and truths. We are never separated from each other like a lie from a consequence devoid of honesty. Morbid collections of everyday fodder clog and wither the youth of a valve – I am constantly reborn as a testament to love in case it should not survive..