Antidotes — A Poem

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“Lilac” — C.Birde, 4/17


Walk with me

beneath the bud-tipped spruce –

we’ll lift our hands to collect

the crows’ bewildered calls,

still hoarse

with the memory of

recent snow.

We’ll bend to sip sweet rain

from crocuses and watch

the ferns’ fronds slow unfurling.

Inhale, with me, the lilacs’ promise.

While Mourning Cloaks –

clad in lush dark velvet –

flit and glide about us,

we’ll decipher their

orphic patterns.

For a moment,

we’ll remember;

for a moment,

we’ll forget.


— C.Birde, 4/17


On the Dance Floor — A Dream

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“On the Dance Floor” — C.Birde, 4/17


Please — don’t ask me to dance. Don’t persist when, politely, I decline. Don’t approach me on this moonless night, in this quiet, wooded glade, and dismiss my protests, pull me onto the parquet dance floor.

You don’t understand. I don’t wish to be cajoled or encouraged. I have no desire to be shamed. I lack your surety, your confidence. Can you not see, how my left leg gives beneath me? How it cannot bear my weight? Do my hands not speak of desperation? Certainly, my fingers – stiff and rigid as they are – must bite at the tender flesh at your neck and shoulders, clinging, grasping?

But no – you don’t seem to notice. You weave over the dance floor. Your scarlet shoes brush the wooden, geometric patterns with your light step. You are ease of motion, liquid in style and confidence. You are unburdened by my gracelessness, my awkward gait and dragging, enfeebled limb.

And when, discomfited, I try to make light of the situation – of myself and my incompetence; when I call my efforts “flop-footed” — you dismiss my attempts at humor. Gravely, you pull me across the parquet floor.

On this moonless night.

In this wooded glade.

Beneath witness, speechless trees.


Awaken — A Poem

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“Awaken” — C.Birde, 4/17



listen –

don’t insist she

shout for your


You are one.

Her vast rivers flow

through your constricted veins;

Her mountains comprise

your bones,

grown porous;

Her forests guide

your too-shallow breath;

Those wild and untamed places

that reside in your



are hers.

Don’t make her shout —

when her mouth is full

of flowers

and her breath


when her touch is

a caress

of budding green.

Bend your ear to hear

her song issue

from the messenger

throats of birds.

Place your feet in her steps,

against her heart’s

steadying beat.

Cherish and protect her.

Remember yourself.

Revive and awaken.

Do not insist

she shout.


— C.Birde, 4/17


Hunger — A Dream


“Hunger” — C.Birde, 4/17


It stands, hoofs-deep, in a field of mud. A young black and white pig. Its hide stretched too-tightly over its scrawny frame. It fixes me with a beady eye, and I’m not the least bit surprised when it addresses me – in clear, succinct English. After all, mere moments ago, this very same pig had been a gargantuan earthworm, plowing through the muddy field like a subterranean marlin.

“Are you going to feed me?” the pig demands vexedly. Its voice swells to fill the cavern, gets caught against the shadow-filled ceiling overhead. Thick mud covers its large, flat snout, evidence that it has been rooting through the field in search of food.

But I’m not here to feed the pig – I didn’t even know there was a pig down here. I’ve come to feed the cats.

“Oh, of course. Can’t forget to feed the cats.” The pig hunches its bladed shoulders and snorts sarcastically. “Precious cats,” it mutters.

Skirting the edge of the furrowed and deeply rutted field, I edge toward a shabby green shack where the cat food is stored. The pig’s gaze follows me, his squinty stare vaguely unsettling. Uncertain how he’ll react, I offer to give him some of the cat food.

The pig grunts with indignation. “I suppose cat food is better than no food,” he remarks archly.

I ignore his tone, attribute his crankiness to hunger. After tossing several handfuls of cat food to him, I watch as, snout down in the mud, he devours every bit. Greedily, hungrily, completely.