Longing — A Poem

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“Longing” — C.Birde, 6/18


With ladder, broom,

and twine,

we train —

the vines and I;

together climb

toward light,

extend and weave,

tendrils seeking,

inch by precious inch,

height and purchase,

something solid

on which to cling

in our abiding




— C.Birde, 6/18



Stone, Wood, & Paper — An Image

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“Kenmare Stone Circle” — C.Birde, 6/18


At the stone circle’s head,

amongst the strips and slips

and tags of paper


in the Hawthorn Tree,

I set my wish —

Words scrawled

on a lined sheet folded,

shaped and creased  —

A paper crane,

with a prayer for Peace

nested at its



— C.Birde, 6/18


Remember — An Image


“Remember” — C.Birde, 6/18



the shades of green.

Consider —

shifts of light,

and breeze-stirred


Count again.


Until birdsong fills

that over-muscled organ

secured beneath

protective ribs.

Until the memory

surfaces —



the way.


— C.Birde, 6/18




Releasing Magic — A Dream

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“Releasing Magic” — C.Birde, 6/18


All is dark. Claustrophobic. All but the unicorn.

Though caught in stone, the unicorn positively radiates — light and motion pulse through and over its rearing form. Its front legs churn the darkness, and its forelock, mane, and tail are caught and curled and tumbled by unseen currents. The tip of its scrolled horn reaches 10 feet high, and its dark eyes shine. Here and there, its paint is worn, burnished by the touch of admirers long forgotten. It is a magnificent creation, so extraordinarily lifelike, it must surely spring from the massive plinth on which it is mounted.

Few remember the unicorn. Fewer still see it — down here, so far below — and those lost souls that do, no longer bear witness. They have forgotten the unicorn’s splendor, have become immune to its beauty and magic. Clothed in their own tattered shadows, they shuffle past with the brims of their hats pulled down to shield against the unicorn’s light.

Work quickly. Wedge the pry bar beneath the broken stone floor and the plinth’s heavy base. Curl, bodily, over and grip the metal lever. Tight-fisted, teeth grit, sweating — lean fully against the bar’s length. Hear the gritty scrape and separation of stone and metal. Feel the dull-eyed gazes of shuffling passersby slew ‘round.

The statue shifts.

Heave again.

And again.

In full-bodied, sweat-inducing, gut-wrenching, necessary effortheave.

Break the statue free.

Restore the magic.

Release the unicorn.


— C.Birde, 6/18


Dream — A Poem


“Kenmare Lane” — C.Birde, 6/18


Ireland —

misted isle

of perpetual green,

slate-boned and


in moss and fern and

wild foxglove,


with sheep —

In Ireland,

I did not dream…



the dream.


— C. Birde, 6/18